Page 22

SUTTON

T he 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’t just 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 is calculated, 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.

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 over loose 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. No sign 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.