Xander was barely recognizable. If it weren’t for the familiar hateful look in his eyes, I never would have recognized him beneath the torn clothes smeared with grime, the cuts marring his arms and face, and the greasy hair matted with blood. His skin was pale, almost sickly, and his eyes, once cold and mocking, were bloodshot and wild. A feral hunger gleamed in them, the kind that made weaker werewolves cower away.
“H-h-how are you here?” My voice shook despite my best attempts not to show my fear.
He staggered forward, limping slightly, and the grin that split his face was practically feral.
“Oh, you know,” he said, voice hoarse but venomous. “I attacked my guards on the way—damn idiots couldn’t tell poison from wine—and headed back here to kill you. Nothing too crazy.”
He had escap
