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“What do you want, Atwood?” Avery demands.

The name sends tension shooting down Sascha’s spine.Thisis the bastard who nearly killed Avery.

In biped form, Sascha would be able to examine thisinformation logically. He’d be able to calculate the best way to handle this situation. Talking to Avery has taught Sascha that werecreatures do not process their animal affinities the same way as shifters. Avery views his ursine as a separate being invading his mind, while Sascha, in this form, simplybecomesa cougar because that’s who he is. No second presence, no asynchronous instincts.

“I hoped you’d be stupid enough to come when you got that text,” Atwood says, wiggling his phone in a meaty hand.

Avery scoffs, though Sascha can see how his hands are trembling, and he pushes his forehead into Avery’s palm. “That’s smarter than I thought you were capable of. Thanks, though. I got everything.” He casually waves his chunky wallet in Atwood’s direction, the worn leather stuffed with all that’s left of Avery’s life.

Atwood’s smug expression turns stormy. “You’re a little shit,” he spits. “You’ve been a little shit since you started working here, and you’ll continue being a little shit wherever you go after this, sosomeoneshould really spare the rest of the world your continued existence.”

“Yeah? Are you gonna turn into a stupid-looking death bird to punish me for not fucking you again?” Avery’s fingers tighten around Sascha’s scruff, though not to hold Sascha back. Not that he could, but Sascha can tell it’s to ground himself. He’s more afraid than he’s letting on.

“I could have had Uncle Howard shoot you. He said he would,” Atwood snarls, voice raising above the snarl in Sascha’s own throat. “But I’d rather kill you myself, you fucking freak.”

Avery staggers back, Atwood steps forward, and Sascha, who is an enraged wild animal, lunges to take the bastard’s throat in his powerful jaws and jerks his head sharply. The sound of Atwood’s neck cracking isn’t enough, so Sascha sinks his teeth in with more force, presses a paw on the limp man’s chest, andyanks. Atwood’s larynx comes free inSascha’s mouth; he quickly spits it out, gagging at the foul taste of his blood.

Now Sascha’s soaked in it: The blood of a man who would have murdered Avery. Operating with the straightforward logic of an animal, Sascha has no regrets about killing Atwood before he could make good on his threat to once again harm the person Sascha loves. In this form, this mind, there’s no space for fretting over implications or consequences. Maybe later, what he was willing to sacrifice for a werecreature he’s known only a few weeks will affect him.

For now, he has to get Avery to the car.

They run together, Avery aiming for the handle of the back seat door so Sascha can jump inside, allowing Avery to take the wheel without waiting for Sascha to shift. He wonders if anyone will shoot before they reach the vehicle because Sascha has it on good authority that Farmer Dennings is a gun-toting redneck who won’t hesitate to put down a werecreatureora shifter if he finds either a threat.

No guns fire, though. What happens instead is much worse.

A cloaking spell releases, filling Sascha with horror to see his car surrounded by snarling wolves, with a biped woman crouched on the roof. Celeste’s eyes are bright and cold, bathing her cheeks amber where she stands just outside the office’s shitty fluorescent lighting.

“Sascha Madison,” she says, and clicks her tongue.

Beryl, in their were-tiger form, whips around the side of the car. Growling, Sascha crouches, preparing be wiped out in a rematch now that they don’t have to face alpha magic without backup, but Beryl swerves around him, heading for Avery.

The growl catches in Sascha’s throat as one of Celeste’s other werecreatures, the one who controls the magic she relies on, lunges forward and?—

And Sascha’s musclesfreeze.

The werecreature is a large woman, biped form shorter than Sascha’s but bulkier. She scruffs him like a kitten, getting her other arm around his neck to secure him in a chokehold. Her paralysis spell breaks but no matter how Sascha thrashes, he’s incapable of bucking her hold. A current of alpha dominance surges to the forefront, demanding she release him, but it’s too late. His brain is going fuzzy, and Celeste’s uninhibited alpha magic is smothering his, commanding submission.

The last thing Sascha is aware of is looking over his shoulder, desperately seeking out Avery’s small, blurry form trapped behind the wall of snarling wolves and werecreatures. Avery calls out once, then Sascha knows nothing else.

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

Sascha

When Sascha comes to, he’s dressed and lying on a bed that is not his own. He’s used to that mostly—when he has a particularly bad episode, he often ends up in Petra’s clinic—but this isn’t there, either. Outside the room he hears voices, and inside the room, there are two members of his pack, watching him with unhappy expressions.

“What’s going on?” he asks, pushing himself upright. Liam, an enforcer Sascha never liked, snorts. Sascha dismisses him, turning instead to Garrett, the younger of the twins. “Whatis going on?” he repeats.

“You’re in deep shit, is what’s going on.” Garrett has his arms crossed over his chest and shifts into Sascha’s space when he tries to get out of bed. “I don’t know where you think you’re going, but you’re not.”

Sascha massages his temples, his head aching. “Get the fuck out of my way, Gare.”

“Can’t. You’re on house arrest.”

Head jerking up, Sascha snaps, “On what fucking grounds?” Then, the events from before he passed out comeback to him in a sudden wave, and Sascha braces himself to be raked across the coals for killing Atwood Dennings.

Instead of telling Sascha he just triggered a pack war, Garrett snaps back, “On ‘fucking-a-werecreature’ grounds.”