Page 5

The drive into Silverville is picturesque. There are a lot of things to complain about when it comes to this place—its current leader one of the primary ones—but the beauty of the place is not one of them.

Nestled in the Rocky Mountains, the drive up is just next to Silverville Creek, which trickles merrily outside my window. Sometimes on the left, and sometimes crossing over to the right side.

The air still carries that hint of daemon fire—unidentifiable to humans, but pungent to shifters and other supernaturals who possess a strong sense of smell.

According to the newspaper I picked up on the way here, the fire happened several days ago.

But the reek lingers, and occasionally I catch a charred branch or log floating in the creek.

Halfway up the mountain, I stop at a little diner that practically hangs off the cliff for a sandwich. I catch a couple of guys in the back eyeing me, the scowls on their faces only deepening the longer I stay.

When they leave, I catch Declan’s scent on them.

Of course. Not even in town yet, and I’m already worried about my damn uncle. Those goons are definitely running straight to him. They’ll cook up some story about how I’m back to take his spot, and I’ll have to diffuse things.

Sure enough, the second I pull into a spot at the only gas station in town forty minutes later, the lot fills with the roaring, echoing sound of engine growls.

I turn around and watch as a large black SUV, two motorcycles, and a sleek black car pull into the lot. Dallas and Tanner are on the bikes, Farris flies out of the car, and a moment later, the SUV’s door opens. Declan steps out, his arms outstretched like he’s going to come in for a hug.

I glance backward at my truck, a 1978 Chevy C10 Silverado.

I bought it a breath away from the junkyard and restored it on my days off from the station.

It’s a burnt red color—as close to the original paint as I could get it—and it glitters in the sun.

Our vehicle choices couldn’t be further apart, and only a small section of my brain wants to laugh at the fact that they’ve chosen all black like they’re escorting the president or something.

Dallas swings his leg to stand up and get off his bike. It’s some sort of classic Harley, the kind I’ve always thought makes the rider look a little silly with its handles up so high, like a massive trike.

Tanner doesn’t even bother to get off his crotch rocket, surely something Japanese and likely ordered from a limited-edition batch. Instead, he just stands there, straddled over it, his gaze going unfocused in the distance.

“Xer- an ,” Declan says, a wide, fake smile plastered over his face like a plastic surgeon remodeled him that way. He presses the tips of his fingers together like a cult leader, eyes focused on me. “My nephew.”

“Calm the fuck down, Declan,” I say, turning and crossing my arms, leaning against my truck. Everything in me—more specifically, my wolf —bucks against the sight of him.

When I think back to the way he looked at Seraphina, the way he talked to her, I want to rip his fucking throat from his neck. I want to scatter his parts over this lot and grind his guts into the gravel with the sole of my boot.

My vitriol for my brothers is less intense, but still there, simmering.

It’s impossible for me to look at them and not remember the day our father died.

The August after my senior year of high school. Back then, my friends and I were fighting fires daily, and only just figuring out how to deal with the daemon flames. One of the bad ones got up near the family house.

And when I stumbled through a clearing, I saw Declan crouching over my father’s body. I knew then, in the curve of his back, in the expression on his face when he turned to face me—what happened wasn’t an accident.

But I had no proof. And my brothers—maybe power-hungry, maybe just not wanting to believe it possible—sided with Declan over me. The betrayal of that was enough to put a bad taste in my mouth for this town, this pack.

My father spent his entire life serving them dutifully, and his own sons wouldn’t even put a thoughtful effort into examining his murder. And when Declan declared his intention to take over as Supreme—apparently something my father wanted—my brothers didn’t see a problem with that, either.

I could have challenged my uncle, and I would have beaten him. But we’ve been a pack of peaceful transfer since my grandfather became the Supreme. And to tarnish that streak would be to tarnish my father’s legacy.

Now, I cut my eyes to my brothers, feeling the unique sting of disloyalty from each.

They may just be Declan’s little followers, but I won’t underestimate their presence here.

“Calm down?” Declan laughs, stopping and holding his palms up toward me.

“I’m calm, nephew. I’m just here to welcome you back to town. ”

“I’m here for the house.” I turn, grab the nozzle, plug it into the truck, then lean against it and fix my gaze on them again.

First Farris, then Tanner, then Dallas, and finally Declan.

Going in the opposite order of their natural hierarchy, youngest to oldest, and I can see the way it rattles them.

We really are just dumb animals at the end of the day, driven by the beasts inside us to adhere to pack organization, natural hierarchy.

Crossing my arms again, I continue, “I’m not here to challenge you. I don’t give a fuck about this place or this pack—and I’m not here to stay. But it’ll be over my dead body that you take my father’s house and the family home.”

“ Our father,” Farris cuts, and when I look at him, I see him at every stage of his life. Pudgy toddler, loud kid on a hobby horse, arrogant teenager flashing his wealth every chance he got. He clearly hasn’t grown out of that phase. “In case you forgot, X.”

“Well, our father left me the house,” I mutter, turning back to take the nozzle out when it clicks, signaling a full tank of gas. More under my breath, I add, “Wonder why that is?”

Maybe he saw something in his other sons before I ever could.

“Nobody here was worried about a challenge,” Declan laughs in an unintentionally nervous way that tells me he was very concerned about the prospect of a challenge.

Of course he would be—I could kill him with my muzzle wired shut. It was never a question of whether I would win a challenge, just whether I would issue one in the first place.

I remind myself that I won’t be doing that right now, no matter how my wolf growls at me to take him right here and now. I’m only in town for the house.

And, if I’m honest with myself, to chase that tug inside me. Like everyone else here, I’m an animal in the way I’ve followed my instincts toward a woman I’m sure wants nothing to do with me.

“That’s why you gathered up the brigade,” I say, snatching my receipt and rolling my eyes. “And intercepted me on my way into town. Because you are so unconcerned.”

Declan growls from the back of his throat, and I glance up at him, slightly surprised at the provocation. It would be dishonorable for him and my brothers to gang up on me, for an alpha supreme to kill a potential challenger in anything but a one-on-one situation.

But maybe I shouldn’t put it past Declan to do something dishonorable. After all, it’s how he’s been operating since the day he was born. Since the day he took over as the supreme.

If he did, would my brothers really fight with him? Would they really aid him in taking out their own kin?

When I meet their eyes, I find I genuinely can’t find the answer to that question.

“Listen, Xeran,” Declan says, getting control of himself.

He lets out a little laugh and runs his hands over his dark, greased hair.

When his eyes meet mine again, they’re glinting, shifty, and I realize he just might be hopped up on something.

“I was under the impression that there might be some hard feelings between us. And that’s why I organized to present you with a little… coming-home gift.”

I feel my walls fly up immediately at the idea of this gift . Other than my father and Kalen, we’re not a family of gift-givers. Farris laughs crudely, and Dallas glances at the SUV, giving me a clue as to where the gift might be coming from.

What the hell could Declan possibly have in the back of that SUV?

For a heart-stopping second, I realize I haven’t gotten a text back from Kalen. I’d shot him a message when I was at the base of the mountain and assumed poor reception was the reason the usually prompt texter hadn’t said anything back.

“What—” I start, stepping forward, but then Dallas steps forward and reaches into the SUV, grabbing something roughly and pulling it forward. Considering the weight of the thing, I fully expect him to pull Kalen’s body from the truck. As an example to be made.

There are a lot of things I’ve thought about my brothers in the years since I left this town, but being capable of hurting Kalen wasn’t one of them.

I track their expressions—Farris’s giddy, sick excitement, the look of near apathy around Tanner’s eyes—and wonder if it’s possible.

If they could really kill their own kin like that, despite the wolf’s every instinct not to.

If that’s the case—if they’ve killed my brother—I’ll murder every person standing in this gravel lot.

I’ll start with Declan and work my way down the line, burying my teeth in their flesh and tasting their misery.

I’ll unravel their intestines like phone cords, line them up like Christmas lights before getting strung up—

Then, the strangest thing happens.

When Dallas finally rights himself, stepping back from the door, I’m expecting to see Kalen’s head of dark brown curls, wild and mussed from the fight, his body so much like mine but shorter and slighter. A graphic tee and a random flannel, his signature outfit. A pair of scuffed Vans.

But it’s not Kalen that Dallas pulls from the car.

It’s a woman, gagged and bound and struggling against him in a feral, desperate way, her blond hair wild and tangled around her face.

And not just any woman. It’s Seraphina Winward.