The forest is *silent*.
Not the *peaceful* kind.
The *bloody* kind.
The scent of *pine* and *dirt* and *copper* is thick in the air, *cloying*, *intoxicating*. The *moonlight* filters through the trees, casting *shadows* that *dance* like *ghosts* on the forest floor.
And the *bodies*—
*Fuck.*
The ex-fiancé’s pack is *gone*—*torn* apart by their own *claws*, their own *teeth*, their own *blood*.
And *me*.
*Fuck.*
I *did* that.
I *controlled* them.
I *made* them *kill* their own *leader*.
---
The pack *surrounds* me, their dark eyes *burning*, their voices a low, hungry *growl*. Their scents—*cedar*, *smoke*, *leather*, *rain*—*mingle* with the *copper* and *victory* in the air, *thick*, *intoxicating*.
Knox *stumbles* to me, his dark eyes *black* with hunger, his voice a grow
