Page 43 of Taken By The Wolves (Blackwood Forest #2)

FINN

We smell them before we see them; the rot of unwashed bodies and the sick-slick stench of adrenaline, blood, and hunger. It coats the air like a fog, tightening in our lungs, warning of what’s coming.

I hunch lower, shifting entirely now, bones stretching and snapping as fur ripples across my skin.

Pain flickers through me, but I welcome it.

It sharpens my focus, floods my system with clarity.

All around me, others shift in tandem, a chorus of guttural groans and growls, until the forest floor is bristling with muscle and claw, our combined forms coiling into a crescent formation.

Wolves and bears together, a terrifying half-moon of fangs and fury designed to trap Gregory’s rabid pack inside.

To end this.

Once and for all.

Nixon is already charging forward in his wolf form, his fur that distinctive silver-gray that flashes like lightning through the trees.

Every movement he makes is calculated. Beside him, Connor barrels forward as a monstrous brown bear, slower but brutal.

You don’t need speed when you’re that unstoppable.

I snap my jaw shut as the first of Gregory’s pack bursts through the underbrush.

A black-furred wolf lunges straight for me.

I twist, dragging my claws along his flank before biting hard into his shoulder.

The tang of blood fills my mouth as he howls and stumbles, but another takes his place instantly.

Teeth clash. Fur flies. I duck under a sweeping paw and sink my fangs into his exposed belly.

He whimpers, lurches backward, and I pounce, driving him to the dirt with my full weight.

Pain sears along my side. A red-furred wolf has latched onto my ribcage, his teeth deep. I howl, slam my body into his, then roll until his grip loosens. I manage to claw his face and push away. I’m bleeding, but I can still run… Still fight.

Another wolf comes from the side, reeking of rot.

He growls and tries to crush me with his weight.

I dodge too late, and his claws rake my thigh, a white-hot agony exploding through my leg.

I go down hard, roll, and come up snapping.

I bite his forearm and twist, hearing the crunch of bone before he slams me into a tree.

The air whooshes from my lungs. My vision flickers. But then Grizzly, Connor’s second in command, is there, plowing into the wolf and dragging him away, slamming his skull into the trunk until he collapses in a broken heap.

I pull myself upright, panting, blood running in rivulets along my side and leg, sticky and hot. But I’m still standing.

We push them backward. Inch by inch, we drive Gregory’s pack deeper into the trap, toward the center where Nixon and Grizzly, Dad and Connor are waiting to crush them. Bodies fall. Limbs are torn. Blood darkens the forest floor.

But Gregory isn’t here.

I scan the carnage, my thoughts a mental thread reaching out to Nixon. He’s not here.

His reply is immediate, ice-cold. I don’t see him, either. I’ve torn through ten of his wolves, and not one of them has his scent on them.

He sent them to die.

That’s not an alpha. That’s a coward.

A pause. Then Nixon again. The rogue bear, Bruno. Do you see him?

No.

We’re being flanked.

My blood chills. We both know it. The timing, the absence of Gregory’s scent, the missing rogue. It all screams diversion.

I grit my teeth against the pain and break off, launching into the trees, leaping over fallen logs and ducking low-hanging branches, racing the wind back to the cabin.

My lungs burn. My side and thigh throb. But nothing can stop me. If they’ve reached Scarlet and the kids—

No. They won’t get that far.

The cabin appears through the trees, lights glowing. The scent of Reed is thick in the air, which means he’s still alive and defending our precious mate. But there’s something else cloying in the air now. The copper stench of blood.

I skid to a halt, my paws clawing at the dirt, nostrils flaring. Nixon and Connor appear beside me, their forms hulking and bristling with tension. No words pass between us. We move.

The clearing opens ahead like a gaping wound, and time slows.

Gregory stands in the center, his fur matted and dark, his massive form crouched low. His jaws are locked around Reed’s throat, and our brother hangs limp in his grip, blood pouring in rivulets over his chest, his eyes half-closed, barely conscious.

A snarl tears from Nixon, pure rage and anguish. I don’t wait. I leap.

Gregory whips his head around as I strike, his fangs ripping free and leaving Reed crumpling to the ground in a heap. I smash into Gregory, claws raking across his side, and we tumble across the earth in a blur of fur and fury.

Robert crashes into him next, and then Nixon, and the three of us are a whirlwind of vengeance, of grief, of blood. Gregory fights like the cornered beast he is, tearing into us with abandon, but we are not fighting for territory.

We are fighting for family.

And he will not survive this night.