Page 33 of His Claim

“Karmic vengeance,” Rafe snorted. “Like the world finally sent us wolf shifters a bill and it’s time to pay up.”

Gareth, quieter: “Or maybe it’s a curse.”

A low, unhappy ripple went through the hall from somewhere behind us. I caught fragments of conversation as another squad moved past.

“They say she smiled—Cartwright swears it—smiled while she pulled his ear off with her fucking teeth.”

“Shut up. You didn’t see shit.”

“Council says stay calm, Council says stay the course. Fuck that! Council wasn’t in that hallway.”

“Hush your mouth.”

“Why? So the walls don’t hear? Maybe the walls should.”

“Sir,” Joren said, tone gentled a fraction as he caught my attention again. “She’s your mate, isn’t she?”

I kept my eyes on the far doors to the med wing. “Yes. And she’s in the med wing. For now.”

Rafe looked like he wanted to spit. “The Council doesn’t know what they’re doing anymore.”

“Watch it,” Maelor barked without looking.

Rafe shrugged, eyes never leaving me. “Just saying what the men are saying.”

“What else are the men saying?” I asked, because I wanted to know.

“That the hunters are being hunted,” he said. “That when the Nyktos took one of our outposts, that we could swallow. But this? Human girls ripping our throats out in our own base? We’re supposed to be the ones breeding them. We’re supposed to have the upper hand. Not them.”

Gareth blew out a slow breath, eyes on his boots. “Others are saying that the men think the Council’s been dosing humans. Trying to make their own super soldiers. Trying to replace us.”

Brenna’s knife twitched in her hand. “Maybe they’re not wrong.”

Maelor turned at that. “Careful,” he said.

She smiled without humor. “I always am.”

Maelor stepped closer, not aggressively, just jamming himself back into the conversation like a wedge. “You keep your squad tight, Commander. I won’t have agitation on my concourse.”

“I’ll handle it, Colonel,” I said flatly.

Silence ticked like a metronome. Maelor’s eyes flicked to Brenna’s knife, to Rafe’s bruised jaw, to Gareth’s scarred brow, to Joren’s assessing stare. He nodded once, his eyes respectfully calculating, and eased back. He watched me for a long moment, then flicked two fingers to his escort. “Back to posts.”

I gave the smallest tilt of my head, and my squad knew what it meant. No orders were spoken, no words wasted as we moved as one together. Joren fell in beside me, as dependable as ever. Brenna slipped her blade out of sight with a twist of her wrist. Rafe and Gareth drifted close, whispering quietly between themselves.

We peeled away from the center of the concourse, moving casually, unhurried. To anyone else, it looked like nothing more than soldiers regrouping after a long night.

I didn’t have to glance back to know Maelor was watching. I could feel it, the gravity of his stare tracking us as we climbed the far stairs. Suspicion rolled off him like heat, heavy and sour. I kept my stride even, my expression still as if it were carved from stone. If Maelor wanted to stare holes into my back, let him.

And when the time came to rescue my mate, it would already be too late for him to stop me.

Once we were alone and out of Maelor’s sight, Rafe blew out a thin breath. “Permission to be frank, sir?” he asked, speaking softly enough that I could hardly hear him myself.

“You’re never anything else.”

A quick smirk crossed his lips. Sobering, he shifted half a step closer to me. “Can you get her out?” His words were barely a whisper.

My jaw tightened. “Yes.”