The rogue lunged.
And I still couldn’t move.
Not even to scream.
Its weight collided with me like a truck. Claws tearing through the night, jaws snapping with bloodlust. I hit the ground hard, the air punched clean out of my lungs as pain bloomed across my back and shoulder.
I rolled, or maybe I was thrown, spun across the forest floor like a broken doll.
Branches tore at my skin. Stones bit into my palms. And still, I didn’t shift.
Couldn’t.
My wolf stayed buried somewhere deep, curled up in terror.
I heard the snarl before I saw it. Then the rogue’s hot breath was in my face again, rank and wet and suffocating. It loomed above me, teeth slick with blood, eyes wild.
It didn’t look rabid.
It looked hungry.
Not just for flesh. For destruction.
I tried to scramble back, legs kick
