Page 36 of Snarl First, Kiss Later (Alpha’s Prophecy #2)

THIRTY-SIX

SILAS

T he wind was wrong.

Silas knew it the second it shifted. Cooler, sour on his tongue, and laced with smoke that didn’t belong to any hearth in the valley.

He stood on the battlements of the outlying court walls, scanning the horizon with a soldier’s stillness.

The early dusk settled low, thickening with storm-colored clouds. His jaw worked. His wolf stirred.

“They’re coming,” he said flatly, voice low in Caz’s direction.

Caz stood beside him, sharpening a blade already keen enough to cut whispers. “You always say that like it’s prophecy.”

Silas didn’t smile. “It’s instinct.”

And instinct never lied.

Within minutes, the first alarm bell screamed. Metal on metal. A rapid staccato of boots over stone.

They came in packs, like Roman taught them. Fast. Coordinated. Loud.

The Silent Sons poured over the ridge in black, curved weapons in hand and wild fury in their eyes. No warning. No banners. Just war.

Silas dropped to the courtyard as soldiers scrambled to position. His voice cut through the roar like steel.

“Hold formation. Archers ready. Don’t break unless I say.”

The gates groaned. Landon stood at the rear with reinforcements. Sonya and the pup were safe underground and Ava was somewhere near command, too far for comfort but too close for argument. She’d insisted on fighting. He hadn’t said no.

Couldn’t say no to her anymore.

But right now, he had one focus: Roman.

He moved through the chaos like a blade made flesh; fast, efficient, silent. Every step was muscle memory. Every strike calculated. The Sons fought dirty, slashing low, throwing crude flash bombs and poison-dipped knives. But the court had trained under war. They didn’t break.

Silas dropped three men before reaching the second tier of the courtyard. He saw the massive figure in black at the gate’s center—Roman.

His old Alpha.

Roman’s form was leaner, but still commanding. His hair had lost the sleek black looking more light at the temples, jaw unshaven, eyes gleaming with something between madness and clarity. The bastard looked pleased.

“Silas,” he called, voice cutting through the fray. “Still bleeding for kings who chain you.”

Silas stepped forward, sword raised. “Better than dying for one who abandoned his pack.”

Roman laughed. “You think Landon leads them? He herds sheep. The real wolves follow fire.”

Then he lunged.

Steel met steel with a screech that echoed off the stone, the force of the impact shaking Silas down to the bone.

Roman was faster than he remembered—more vicious, less calculated.

Every move was wild, like he’d stopped pretending to be anything but chaos.

Sparks lit up their blades with each strike, metal screaming as they clashed again and again.

Silas’s arms burned. His breath was steady but clipped.

Roman didn’t fight clean—he gouged with his elbow, snapped out with his foot, clipped Silas’s ribs and sent pain arcing through him.

But Silas absorbed it. Let it fuel him. He hadn’t survived this long on reflexes.

He survived because he adapted. Endured.

“You’re still slow,” Roman sneered, sliding in with a hook that missed Silas’s jaw by inches. “Still hiding behind honor and kings.”

“You’re still delusional,” Silas snapped, parrying with a twist, catching Roman’s blade with his own and knocking it aside. “You don’t have a kingdom. Just corpses.”

They circled one another. Around them, the battle blurred as wolves tore into Sons with fang and fury, the clash of bodies echoing off stone and fire-lit sky. Caz howled nearby, shifting mid-sprint as he tackled two Sons trying to flank Silas.

Blood soaked the cobblestones.

“Your human won’t survive this war,” Roman snarled between blows. “She’ll die like the rest. The prophecy’s a lie. That child is a curse.”

Silas’s grip tightened on his sword. Their blades locked, their faces inches apart.

“You’re not fighting for truth,” Silas said low. “You’re fighting because you lost.”

Roman bared his teeth, slammed their blades apart and swung wide. Silas dropped, rolled through blood and ash, came up behind him and slashed across Roman’s back.

The Alpha howled, spinning, blood slicking his tunic. He pivoted faster than Silas anticipated and crashed into him with a shoulder that knocked him off his feet.

They hit the ground hard.

Roman shifted.

Bones cracked. Muscles snapped. His human skin split and fell away like broken armor. What rose was massive, pure black, eyes red with a madness that shimmered like flame.

Silas snarled and gave in to the shift.

His bones shattered and reformed, muscles rippling into fur, teeth lengthening. His wolf exploded outward in a blur of auburn and gold, his form tall and brutal. Around him, allies followed suit—Caz already mid-transformation, others joining, howling through the battlefield like storm winds.

Roman charged.

Silas met him.

They collided with a sound like thunder. Claws tore flesh. Jaws snapped. Roman went for the throat, and Silas shoved him off with a brutal kick of his hind legs. They rolled through flame-lit debris, snarling, bloodied.

Roman pinned him. For a second, Silas couldn’t breathe, teeth inches from his windpipe. But then he bucked, slammed his head up into Roman’s muzzle, and flipped them. He tore a chunk from Roman’s shoulder.

Roman yelped and kicked him off.

They broke apart, both panting, bloody, snarling.

Silas shifted mid-motion, landing back in his human skin, naked and smeared with blood. His sword landed nearby. He didn’t reach for it. Instead, he walked toward Roman, who hovered half-shifted, staggering on two legs, the beast still in his face.

“I should kill you,” Silas said, voice raw.

Roman grinned, red teeth gleaming. “Then do it. Or are you still weak?”

Silas’s fingers twitched. His wolf screamed for blood. This man—this monster—had cost him his life, his future. Had tried to burn down everything they were building.

But something in him stilled.

Killing Roman would give him what he wanted. A martyr’s end. A legacy forged in vengeance.

Silas looked past the rage. Past the blood. To the court. To the child who had just been born.

He growled, low and deep. “No.”

Behind him, boots pounded. Caz sprinted in, half-shifted, holding a set of glowing silver-gold chains forged in the deepest warded smithy of the court blessed by druids, warded against shift and flame.

Landon had commissioned them for one reason.

Moments like this.

Caz tossed him a glance. “Tell me you’re not doing something stupid.”

Silas held Roman’s glare. “PEACE demanded a trial. If we kill him, they’ll paint us like him.”

Caz spat blood. “Then bind him fast. I don’t want him speaking another word.”

They wrapped Roman’s limbs tight. The Alpha snarled, cursed, laughed even as the chains burned into his flesh. But they held.

“This isn’t over,” he hissed through broken teeth.

Silas knelt beside him. “No. It’s just beginning.”

The chains glowed brighter. Roman’s form buckled and stilled.

Around them, the fire died down. The court stood.

And Roman—the war’s symbol, the monster of their past—lay bound at Silas’s feet.

Not dead.

But justice was coming.

And Landon, the Alpha King, would see it through.

The rest of the Sons broke within the hour. Some fled. Some begged for mercy. The court took prisoners where they could, gave last rites to those who didn’t make it.

The fire was put out. The bodies were buried.

And Ava…

He found her at the western perimeter, crouched beside a medic. Her face was streaked with dirt, her jacket torn, but she was alive. Unbroken.

She turned when she felt him coming. He didn’t speak. Just looked at her like maybe she was the thing worth all this damn fighting.

“You’re okay?” he asked finally.

She nodded. “You?”

He paused. “Not sure yet.”

Her fingers brushed his. “You didn’t kill him.”

“It’s not my place. Not now.”

She swallowed, and he knew she understood. Knew the weight of it. Knew what mercy cost.

Right now, the war wasn’t over. But for tonight, they’d won a battle.

Together.