The moon hung dirty-white over pack territory, a cosmic spotlight catching every shadow wrong. Christian stood at the ridge edge, senses dialed to eleven, scanning the dense forest spread out like a black ocean. The quiet felt fake as hell—too thick, too deliberate.
*Something's out there watching us*, he thought, jaw muscles bunching. *Something that reeks of death.*
These killings weren't some random psycho's hobby—they hit different. Each scene stank of ancient magic, the kind that clings to your clothes for days after, making you want to burn them. The energy signature felt calculated, patient, like each dead woman was just another brushstroke in some f****d-up masterpiece he couldn't see yet. These weren't ordinary wolves doing the killing. This was something that knew exactly what
