MARCO'S POV
Violence. Lots of it.
My father craved war. He said that wolves needed to feel the thrill of the hunt and the art of battle to flourish not only as individuals but as a pack. And even though he is dead, it feels as though he somehow set this motion.
The fighting had just begun, but the c*****e was already evident. Blood and fur flying, the yelps and howls from wolves injured and near death. I can feel Rocco inside me, stirring. This is what he lives for. Destruction and death. It's as if the adrenaline is pumping my own blood faster, allowing for my kidneys or liver or whatever f*****g organ filters the wolfsbane out of my system to do it quicker.
"We have to help them!" I commanded. Shoe is watching as more and more wolves seem to emerge from the treeline. I have never
