Hearing Callum’s name did something to me. My eyes stung, and my insides went liquid and warm. I would have sworn my heart stopped beating, and my fingers curled so tightly into fists that my nails cut into the palms of my hands.
Callum was the alpha who’d brought me into the werewolf world. He’d saved me from a rabid werewolf when I was four years old. He’d raised me. He’d protected me. He’d hurt me. And the last time I’d seen him, he’d promised that he would do the unthinkable.
My mind went immediately to places I didn’t want it to go—to memories of the rabid wolf who’d killed my parents, to the sound of their blood splattering against an off-white wall. Werewolf attacks were vicious. Brutal. And unless you had a knack for survival, they didn’t end with the wolf’s prey turning into a W
