Darren
I hunted in the shape the Goddess gave me for war.
My white lycan poured down the northern lawns with half a kingdom of fur behind me, hundreds of noses, the best trackers alive, and I ran at the front of them with my daughter’s scent thread caught in my teeth and my mind running a parallel hunt I could not call off.
Ally, crumpled in the middle of that cold room, with her hands open around nothing.
I had seen my mate take a knife meant for her heart. I had seen her stand in chains, stand in fire, stand over me bleeding and dare death itself to push past her. I had never seen her on the floor of our daughter’s bedroom with the sound gone from her and her hands shaped around a weight that was missing, and the image rode my back the whole search like a second rider.
Keep your lit
