EMMA
I don’t remember standing.
One moment I’m on the forest floor, palms pressed into damp earth, lungs burning as if I’ve run for miles. The next, I’m upright—unsteady, swaying—surrounded by wolves and the aftermath of violence. Blood stains the leaves. The air tastes like iron and ozone and something older than fear.
The pack holds its distance.
They don’t crowd me. They don’t touch me. They just watch—heads lowered, bodies tense, eyes flicking between me and Gabriel like they’re bracing for an earthquake.
Gabriel is still kneeling.
He hasn’t shifted fully back. His shoulders are bare, streaked with blood that isn’t all his. A thin line cuts across his ribs, already knitting itself together in a way that makes my stomach flip. His breathing is harsh, controlled, like he’s holding
