Page 41

The echo of Deacon's warning is still hot against my skin when I step outside, the charged air licking across my arms like static. My breath catches. The courtyard stretches before me, hushed and shadowed, but it’s not peace that settles over the compound—it’s something else. The kind of quiet that makes your skin prickle and your instincts scream. I take one step forward, and the sense of wrongness blooms—sharp and certain, like a thread pulled tight across the back of my neck.

I needed air. A minute. A breath not steeped in dominance, pheromones, or the suffocating feeling that I’m being watched by five lethal male wolf-shifters who can sense weakness long before it manifests itself.

The compound is quiet—eerily so. Too quiet. The kind of silence that isn’t peace, but a warning. My skin prickles, every hair on my arms rising in alert. My breath catches, shallow and quick, as if my lungs know before I do that something is wrong. I pause mid-step, senses straining. The stillness presses in, thick and unnatural, and the wind carries the sharp tang of charged air—metallic and biting, like the snap of a live wire inches from skin.

It's the kind of hush that wraps too tightly around your senses, crawling along your skin like a warning whispered too close. My pulse ticks faster, and a cold whisper crawls down my spine. Something's wrong. I don't know what yet, but my body feels it before my brain catches up—a sharp inhale, a tightening in my chest, a subtle shiver that has nothing to do with the weather.

The wind seems to have teeth. Dry and restless, it cuts across the compound, carrying smoke and static. My arms prick with goosebumps I can’t blame on the weather. Something’s off. I don’t know how I know, but I do. Like that prickle on the back of your neck when someone’s staring, or the hush that falls over a room when death walks through the door.

I walk along the edge of the inner fence, gravel crunching under my boots with each deliberate step. I’m not wandering—at least that’s what I tell myself. This is calculated. Intentional. My gut hums with a low, relentless alarm I can’t ignore. Every footfall feels too loud, like I’m echoing through someone else’s crosshairs. Deacon told me not to leave the compound. Technically, I haven’t.

Yet.

But the wind tugs at me like it knows something I don’t, a whispering force that slips under my skin and sets my nerves on edge. My instincts dig in like claws, pulling me forward, dragging me toward the truth whether I’m ready to face it or not. The air feels thick, charged, as if it’s holding its breath—waiting for the moment everything breaks.

Yet.

There’s a line of trees along the back, stretching like shadows, beyond the training yard. That’s where the sensation spikes. My gaze lands on a patch of earth by the base of the fence. The soil’s disturbed—damp, scuffed—and smack in the center of it is a boot print. Deep. Wrong size for any of the Rangers.

Unfamiliar tread.

I crouch, fingertips brushing the edge of the print. The soil is still damp, the impression crisp—undisturbed by wind or time. A sharp sting of adrenaline shoots through me. Someone’s been here. Not long ago. Close enough to touch the inner fence. Close enough to watch us. I glance toward the trees, my pulse drumming in my ears. Every instinct flares. Whoever left this print could still be watching. Still be close.

My stomach flips.

The boom cracks through the air, hitting me like a freight train. The impact vibrates through my bones, my ears ringing with the force of it as the blast slices through my ribs and hollows out my lungs. For a heartbeat, the world goes still—then chaos roars in to take its place.

Another detonation erupts behind me—raw and vicious—splitting the air with a deafening roar. The blast slams into my senses like a wrecking ball, sending a shockwave of heat and sound that rattles my bones and steals the breath from my lungs.

The ground bucks under my feet, and I hit the dirt as fireball heat scorches the sky behind me. A second blast follows, closer this time, shaking the fence and raining down splinters and smoke. I scramble up, coughing, heart jackhammering. The comms in my pocket erupt with overlapping voices.

"Breach!"

"Multiple contacts!"

"West wall compromised!"

Gunfire stutters in the distance.

I sprint, gravel flying beneath my boots, lungs burning, panic clawing up my throat. My eyes sting from smoke, and my muscles scream with every stride. I don’t know where I’m running to—only what I’m running from. The echo of Deacon’s warning drums in my ears. My breath comes in gasps, each one sharper than the last, and there’s a rawness in my chest that isn’tjust from exertion. It’s fear. Cold, electric fear. every beat of my heart thudding like a war drum in my chest.

Every instinct screams for Deacon, but I don’t know where he is. My last sight of him was back inside—jaw clenched, eyes sharp with lethal focus, already anticipating danger. He’s out here now, in the thick of it. Fighting. Bleeding, maybe. That thought slams into me with a force that nearly steals my breath, tightening my chest until it aches with the need to see him, to know he’s still breathing.

Another blast throws me sideways, shrapnel tearing past in a hot gust. I duck behind the outer wall of the storage barn, lungs seizing with smoke. Around the corner, shadows move—fast, precise. Not panicked. Trained. Not ours.

Shit.

I pull my gun from its holster at the small of my back and bolt in the opposite direction, keeping low. I round the edge of the mess hall, heart hammering against my ribcage like it's trying to break free, each pulse a deafening drumbeat in my ears. A body hits the ground yards away with a wet crunch. Not one of ours. Not Deacon. I don't stop.

The east paddock's gates gape open, hinges twisted and smoking. I sprint toward the covered walkway—its steel roof pitted with shrapnel, sandbag wall scorched black—and throw myself behind it just as another volley of gunfire tears through the air. Bullets punch into the metal with a series of metallic screams, and I press flat against it, lungs heaving, ears ringing. I edge forward, peering around the side, and spot movement through the smoke.

Three of them emerge through the haze—clad in tactical gear, faces blacked out, movements sharp and efficient. Two grip automatic rifles, their fingers tight on the triggers. The third is prowling forward, scanning the surroundings with the unnerving grace of a predator closing in on prey. Every step iscalculated, deliberate, his head on a swivel as if he can feel me even without seeing me.

I breathe. One beat. Two. Then I move.

I fire twice, dropping the first one. The second swings around but I’m already ducking, rolling to the side, scrambling through the brush. Rounds slam into the dirt behind me. I crawl through the mud, heart in my throat, then pop up and fire again. The third man drops. The second is gone.

Gone—or repositioning.