I’ve known Killian my whole life, and every year, he’s worse.
Mate.
No. He’s not my mate. No way. I’d have had an inkling.
Wouldn’t I?
Wouldn’t he?
He slowly rises to his feet, chest thrown back, a fighting stance. A growl rolls from the back of his throat. He scrubs his pecs with the flat of his hand like he has indigestion. His brow furrows. He’s as confused as I am. This doesn’t make any sense.
My wolf replies with a rumble.
She makes a noise!
It’s kind of a sassy purr. I press my palm above my breasts. Holy crap, my solar plexus is vibrating. Whoa. She’s really in there. She’s not a figment of my imagination. I didn’t somehow eat her in utero like a vanishing twin.
My eyes prickle. I’m going to shift. Finally. I need to get out of here. I need wide open spaces, room to run, and—
Out of nowhere, without waiting for his nod of approval, Haisley Byrne saunters to the dais, steps up to Killian, wraps her arms around his neck, and shoves her boobs into his side. Then she rises up on her tiptoes and kisses him full on the mouth. He goes rigid.
He doesn’t avert his eyes. He’s looking at me while she sucks his face.
No.
Ours.
An inhuman wail—both a yowl and a roar—fills my ears from inside my skull.
My spine rips out of my skin.
Pain cascades through me, bursting from the inside out, an explosion of splintering bone and shredding muscle. I’m dying. I’m being torn apart.
I scream, collapsing to the ground. My joints break with a sick pop, and I lay powerless against the contortions, staring unblinking at the dais. Haisley’s jaw has dropped. Killian’s—holding himself back?
His fists are clenched, his teeth gritted, as if he’s straining to control himself.
My vision is like a camera focusing. Everything is small and far away, and then it’s close and bright and too vivid. I can see the cracks in the linoleum. Dust motes suspended in the air. The golden rings around Killian’s pupils blow wide and then contract into pure black.
In the kitchen, a dish shatters. Everyone’s heart is beating in an uneven rhythm. It’s a roar filling the room, a wave beating against a shore.
I can smell everything. Meat. Blood. That bitch. Her coconut shampoo and her vanilla lotion mixed with sweat. She’s touching my mate, rubbing her scent on him.
A faint, panicked voice, far away, pleads to stop, think, wait a minute, but she—I—don’t listen. I am the wolf, and she’s encroaching on our mate.
I leap, baring my fangs, snarling, every movement an agony as my body tries to reknit mid-motion, joints and sinews mending as I simultaneously rip them anew. I mean to lunge, attack, but there’s something wrong with my back leg, so I have to drag the useless limb as I go for that bitch, snapping my teeth.
I can’t stop. Everything’s in the wrong place, the wrong proportion, and there’s no color, but scents swirl and speak.
I’m weak—I know I am—but she can’t touch him. He’s mine.
I raise my muzzle and howl.
There are hoots and catcalls behind me. She says human words from her fake red mouth.
I bark at her. Shift, bitch. Fight me. Let him go and come. I’ll tear your pelt from your hide. I’ll destroy you for touching my mate.
Through sheer determination, I drag my aching carcass close enough to take a swipe at her. She laughs and toes me in the ribs with her high-heeled boot. Compared to all the other pains, it’s nothing. I manage to nip her calf and get a taste of denim.
Not what I want. I lick my muzzle. I want blood.
She snarls. Someone snaps, “No!” But in a moment, she’s gone, and in her place, a snow white she-wolf is looming over me.
She’s big. Three times my size, at least.
She doesn’t hesitate. She goes for my throat. Her fangs sink into my collarbone, a new, searing pain exploding through my already reeling brain, and I struggle, I fight like hell, but she’s so much stronger, and I’m a mess.
She rips a hunk of flesh from the bone, and I scream. She doesn’t let go, flinging me side to side, slamming me against the floor.
I snap my teeth, but my mouth closes on air. My claws glance off her thick coat and tough hide.
I’m losing blood, fading by the second. The stink of copper is everywhere. My pack is going to let me die. They’re going to watch me bleed out while they sop their dinner plates clean with bread I baked.
I’m cold. And tired. I let myself go lax. I can’t win, and there’s no sense in giving them a show.