Page 7 of Snarl First, Kiss Later (Alpha’s Prophecy #2)

SEVEN

AVA

A va hadn’t seen the arrow coming.

One second, the road ahead curved through pine-studded hills, dappled with soft amber light as they edged into what should have been neutral territory. The next, her right shoulder lit up like someone poured fire straight beneath her skin.

The impact knocked her back with brutal force. She hit the ground hard, biting back a scream. Dirt filled her mouth, her vision spotted black. Her hand instinctively went to the shaft lodged deep in the meat of her shoulder.

Silas was already there, crouched over her with a snarl twisting his face, scanning the trees.

“Shit,” she gritted out, fingers trembling as they brushed the arrow. “They were waiting.”

His jaw tightened. “No time.” His voice was sharp, but she heard it—that thin edge of panic buried under years of stoic restraint. “Gideon’s bastards. Stay with me.”

Ava tried. Gods, she tried. But the pain was a punch behind her eyes, her pulse thudding loud and frantic in her ears. She caught the glint of red fletching—three notches cut clean through the tip. Her stomach sank.

Standard issue for Gideon’s Torch.

She didn’t need a briefing to know what it meant. They weren’t just scouts passing through. They were hunting. And they thought she was the traitor who’d sold out the convoy.

Silas grabbed the shaft with one hand and braced her with the other.

“Don’t you dare?—”

He yanked.

Her scream shredded the trees.

The world tilted. Ava bucked against the pain, but Silas had already stuffed cloth against the wound, pressing down hard. Her arm trembled violently.

“They were watching this road,” he muttered, fury under each clipped word. “They knew we’d come this way.”

“Bullet would’ve been cleaner,” she hissed.

“They weren’t trying to kill you.”

Her head rolled toward him. “Then what?”

“Wound you. Drag you off. Torture you for answers.”

Ava’s gut turned. She remembered the convoy wreckage. The bodies. The way one soldier had been pinned to a tree, eyes gone.

“They think I flipped.”

“They think you know something.” His gaze flicked behind them. “Which, in fairness, you do.”

She laughed, ragged. “Fantastic.”

Silas tied off the bandage with a grunt, his hands sticky with her blood. Her shirt was already soaked through, dark and wet.

He picked her up without a word.

Ava wanted to protest. She wasn’t helpless, dammit. She could walk. But the world swayed dangerously, her limbs leaden. Her boots dragged through dust and leaves as he carried her like she weighed nothing.

Over his shoulder, she saw movement.

More figures in dark uniforms and tactical gear—Gideon’s Torch, unmistakable. Pale masks covering their faces. One raised a radio.

“They’re tracking,” she mumbled.

“I know.”

He ducked into the trees, zigzagging through undergrowth with feral speed. Every footstep jostled her wound, sending lightning arcs through her nerves.

By the time they reached the old trailhead—one Ava hadn’t even known existed—her consciousness was dangling by a thread. She felt each heartbeat thudding weakly against her ribs. Her arm was cold, numb.

“Silas…” she whispered.

“I’ve got you.”

She wanted to believe that.

But her blood painted his chest, slick and red, and behind them came the soft, unmistakable crunch of boots and metal.

They weren’t far behind.

And Ava didn’t know how much longer she could last.

The forest swallowed them again. Branches tore at his clothes, snagged in her braid. She felt the rumble of his chest where her head pressed against it, heard his muttered curses. Not at her. At himself. At the world.

They broke into a clearing an hour later. Ava barely remembered the journey, just the throb in her arm and the tension in his jaw. There, a squat stone cabin leaned against the tree line, moss devouring its roof.

Silas kicked the door open.

A man stepped into the light. Wiry build, grey-streaked hair pulled into a knot. A cigarette hung from his lips, unlit. His eyes, sharp and wolf-yellow, flicked from Ava’s blood-soaked shirt to Silas’s grim expression.

“Shit,” the man said flatly. “You owe me a bottle, don’t you?”

“She’s dying, Tamsin.”

“So dramatic,” the man sighed. “Bring her in.”

The inside of the cabin was cramped and smelled like herbs and old leather. Ava blinked blearily, taking in shelves stacked with salves, dried roots, and what might’ve been bones. Tamsin cleared a table with a sweep of his arm.

Silas laid her down like glass. She hated how much that shook her.

“Arrow nicked deep,” Tamsin muttered, already peeling away the bandage. “Fletching says Torch, but that poison’s homemade. Real classy.”

“She’ll live?” Silas asked, low.

Tamsin snorted. “Long as she doesn’t make me regret this, yeah. Go fetch water.”

Silas hesitated. Ava saw it, felt it, but he left.

Tamsin’s hands moved fast. She gritted her teeth through the burn of whatever he poured on the wound. Her vision tunneled, breath shuddering.

“You human?” he asked eventually.

“Last I checked,” she rasped.

Tamsin nodded once. “He’s got the look. Guilt and secrets. Dangerous combo.”

“He’s not… what he seems.”

“None of us are.”

By the time Silas came back, she was fuzzy and floating, pain dulled to something distant.

He stayed beside her, arms crossed, refusing to sit.

She drifted in and out.

When she woke again, the cabin was dark and smelled like cedar smoke. Her shoulder ached like hell, but her head was clear. She turned, slow, and saw Silas near the hearth, shirt off, wiping his blade with a cloth.

Her gaze snagged on the scar across his back.

Long. Deep. Ugly.

It wasn’t just the wound, she knew there was a story in it. The punishment. The silence that followed.

“Who did that?” she asked, voice rough.

He stiffened at her voice but didn’t turn. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

Silas finally looked over his shoulder. “An alpha I once followed. Roman wasn’t the only one who liked control.”

Ava pushed herself up with a hiss. “You stayed loyal through that?”

“I was younger. Stupid. Thought pain meant purpose.” His eyes darkened. “Didn’t realize I was just one more pawn.”

She didn’t reply. What could she say? That she understood? She didn’t. Not really. But she knew what it meant to carry ghosts.

“I didn’t mean to get you hurt,” he said after a beat.

“You didn’t throw the damn arrow,” she muttered.

“Still. My mess. You got pulled in and now your own people think you’re a traitor.”

She scoffed. “Guess we’re both idiots then. Besides, Gideon’s goons aren’t ‘my people’.”

They sat in uneasy silence, the fire snapping low. Ava watched the way the light played off his profile exaggerating his sharp lines and shadowed thoughts.

“You ever plan to go back?” she asked. “To the pack that is, after we tell Landon.”

“Don’t think they want me.”

“That why you haven’t tried?”

He turned toward her, expression unreadable. “I’m not the kind of man kings forgive.”

“Well,” she said softly, “maybe you’re the kind they need.”

He stared at her, and for a heartbeat, the world held its breath.

The door creaked.

They both snapped to their feet, weapons drawn. A figure stepped into the frame—tall, broad-shouldered, face hidden by a hood.

“Easy,” the man said, raising his hands. “I’m not here to fight.”

Silas didn’t lower the blade. “Who the hell are you?”