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A roar shatters the haze—raw, primal, unmistakably wild. It tears through the smoke like a war cry, deep and resonant, vibrating in my bones. Not human. Wolves. They’re here—close. Their presence thrums through the chaos, unseen but unmistakable. The Rangers are fighting, and the monsters they’re tearing into won’t live to regret it.

The ground shakes again. Not an explosion this time—something heavier. Something closer. A shed collapses near the rear fence, and I flinch as debris pelts the ground around me. I duck into the burned-out frame of the mechanic’s garage and crouch.

This is war—chaotic, brutal, and closing in. I can't stay here, crouched in the burned-out skeleton of a garage like a rabbit in a snare. The acrid stink of smoke chokes the air, stinging my eyes, and every nerve screams for motion. I force my aching limbs to move, rising into a crouch as debris rains down around me, gun clenched in my grip. My breath saws in and out, every inhale coated with ash and fear, but I push forward, teeth gritted. Somewhere out there, Deacon’s fighting—and so am I.

I break into a run, heart pounding a violent rhythm as I sprint toward the compound’s center. Toward the lodge—if it’s even still standing. Smoke coils thick through the air, swallowing shapes and turning the world into a swirling gray nightmare. My lungs burn with every breath, and my boots slide overloose gravel and shattered debris. I dodge a crumpled section of fencing, leap over a fallen beam, and push through the acrid haze, praying I’m not too late.

Voices shout. Gunfire lights up the air like lightning. A scream cuts through the chaos—high, sharp, female. Maggie? Kari?

I pivot.

Another blast rips the ground in front of me, fire licking the edges of the crater that erupts with a deafening roar. I’m thrown off my feet, air punched from my lungs as I hit the ground hard enough to rattle my teeth. Dirt fills my mouth. Stones scrape across my skin as I roll, landing behind the twisted wreck of a Ranger truck. My elbow takes the brunt of the fall—pain blossoms sharp and white-hot. Blood trickles down my arm, warm and wet. I don’t have time to assess. Doesn’t matter. I bite back a cry, crawl forward on hands and knees, dragging myself to the nearest cover as the next explosion thunders nearby, rattling the frame of the truck like a death knell.

I call Deacon’s name into the wind, my voice hoarse and ragged from smoke. There’s no answer, the groan of twisted metal and the distant stutter of gunfire. A sharp ache coils low in my stomach. I’m alone, cut off, but the silence doesn’t last. The ground shivers beneath my boots, and I sense it—movement coming fast, deliberate. I square my stance, blood pounding in my ears. They’re not done with me yet.

A shadow moves in the smoke—broad shoulders, long stride, purposeful. He’s not one of ours. Doesn’t move like a wolf. I know that now. I can feel the difference.

He steps into view. Clean-shaven jaw, cruel mouth. Dark eyes that don’t blink. Not the Reaper—I’d remember that face. But this one… he works for him.

I aim.

He ducks out of sight.

I pivot fast, spine pressed tight against the rough bark, heart thundering in my ears. My weapon tracks left, then right—nothing but smoke and shadows.

Then it comes—a whisper of breath against my neck, unnervingly close, followed by the faint crunch of a footstep behind me.

I spin, pulse detonating in my chest.

He lunges, all brute speed and predatory force, his arms outstretched like he means to take me down and keep me down.

We go down in a tangle of limbs and fury. I slam my knee into his side, jabbing for his throat. He catches my wrist and grins. Bastard likes it. I twist, fight, scream. He slams me down again.

And I go still... just for a second. Just long enough to make him cocky.

Then I grab the knife from my boot and bury it in his thigh.

He howls. I scramble free. He grabs for my ankle. I kick hard, and his nose breaks with a satisfying crunch. I roll, snatch up my sidearm, and fire.

He drops, a dead weight thudding against the dirt, but there’s no time to savor the moment.

The ground shudders beneath me like it’s trying to throw me off, a living thing convulsing with rage. Another explosion rattles the compound, followed by the dull thump of collapsing debris and the sharp bark of gunfire.

Voices rise—shouts, commands, cries of pain—but they’re disjointed, overlapping, swallowed by the roar of chaos. I strain to pick out any one voice—Deacon’s voice—but nothing cuts through the storm.

I whip around, breath burning in my lungs, heart racing too fast. Smoke rolls in thick curtains, devouring visibility, turning every shape into a threat. My boots skid over gravel slick with ash and blood as I push forward. But I still can’t find him. Nosign of his towering frame, no glint of that ruthless focus in his dark eyes.

Fear grips my throat like a vise, choking off logic. The thought of Deacon down—bleeding, broken, or worse—sends panic crashing through me like another detonation. But I can’t afford to unravel.

Not now.

I brace against the nearest pillar, scanning the fractured battlefield, muscles locked and ready. My gun is steady in my hands, but it’s not enough to stop the quaking in my chest.

They’ve breached us. We’re overrun. And I am not going down—not here, not like this, not without taking as many of them with me as I can.

CHAPTER 17

DEACON