Page 69 of Cursed Wolf

“I’m sure they’re afraid of the zombies. You saw the compound in the Shadowlands Sector. They only go out for hunting and foraging, but up here, no one was prepared for the wave of undead.”

“Maybe it’ll work to our benefit,” Crius states. I glance over my shoulder at him, riding his steed, shoulders square, and scanning the landscape as he talks. “Less of a chance of dickface Martell from freely moving to packs to terrorize them.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” I mutter, knowing nothing will stop him. My ex-fated mate had lost his mind. He enjoyed hurting me, and I saw him bursting with arrogance after claiming the Storm Wolves. So, not for a second do I believe he’s anything but a psychopath who won’t let the undead stop him from taking what he wants.

By the time we reach the Bane Wolves’ pack home, anxiety comes over me. On my last visit, my possessed sister killed the pack Alpha’s daughter, then I ran away.

“I assume we’ll be welcome here, Ragnar?” Since their last visit to this pack, none of the men told me how it went. To be fair, I’d been so occupied, I forgot about it.

“It’ll be fine,” Ragnar finally answers. “We didn’t tell you, but you'll find out soon enough. On our last visit, Martell had killed Mihai and some of his men, so I took over this pack.”

I’m stuck for words as a sense of guilt ripples over my stomach. “Oh, my goddess. It’s because of me,” I blurt out, and with it comes all the emotions, making me sound like I’m about to burst out crying. It makes me feel sick to think if it wasn’t for me, those he killed would still be alive.

Ragnar pauses, and we do the same. He turns in his saddle, his eyes half hooded, and I see the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

“Little fox, this isn’t your fault. Martell decided to rule the Storm Wolves on his own, as he decided he would claim the Savage Sector. That isn’t on you. He would have bullied the packs into submission, and in takeovers, there are always casualties… too many.” He pauses, the ache of what happened here painted across his hard expression.

“So, what are we doing here, then?” I ask, trying my best not to let the news get to me.

“Check on the pack, rest, and prepare for our next steps,” he says stoically, his warrior persona slipping into place, and I know the tragedy hurts him more than he’ll admit.

“Okay, but I still feel like crap,” I whine and can’t help but feel all those people would be alive if I hadn’t brought all my problems here.

But without a word, we’re off again. The gates sit open, which isn’t a good sign, but no one else is panicking. Reaching the front yard, we climb off our horses.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home.” Crius scans the empty field. In the past, we’d always been greeted upon arrival and our horses walked to the stables. Now, nothing.

“Stay with the horses, just in case,” Ragnar orders, eyeing Crius, who doesn’t protest the command.

The air feels heavy, carrying with it a smell of something stale. Crius grabs my reins and blows me a kiss, his smile a bright light when it feels as if we’re about to walk into the devil’s den.

The four of us head up the steps, and the place appears abandoned. The roaring fire in the center of the yard is gone. Scanning the grounds, the huts, and the mess hall in the distance, not a soul is in sight.

“Are you sure someone’s living here?” I murmur, and shivers run up my arms. What if Martell had returned?

Ragnar stays by my side while Nikos and Stone fan out, moving ahead of us.

“When I left, they had intended to move back into their homes, but they could still be hiding in the caves in the mountains.”

“Those poor families and children.” My stomach is in knots as I hurry across the grounds. I’ll be happy when we leave. This place gives me the creeps, and I keep looking over my shoulder as if someone watched us.

“Think there are people here after all.” Stone points to a hut, where the curtain falls as though someone has been watching us.

Ragnar pauses and stretches an arm out across my stomach to stop me. “Let them check first.”

Joining Stone, Nikos knocks on the door, then calls out, “Hello… we’re not here to hurt you. Ragnar, your new Alpha has returned.” When no one opens the door, Stone pushes it open.

And Chaos rains down on us.

Stone and Nikos recoil as undead pour out, one after another. They lurch toward us, greedy jaws snapping, arms reaching for us. Torn clothes barely hang on their thin frames, and their faces are gaunt, their cheeks sunken. One man has only one arm, but to these things, the only thing that matters is eating flesh.

I shudder and retreat as terror rises to my throat, picturing us trapped with no one to help us. My heart clenches tight.

Creatures frantically hurry toward Stone and Nikos, who have their blades out and lunge into battle.

“Go to Crius,” Ragnar orders as he jumps into the fight.

I retreat, well aware where there’s one—or in this case, five zombies—there are more. Swinging around to run to Crius and warn him, I come almost face to face with an undead—a man with no hair or lips, his teeth and pasty gums all I see—coming right for me. And he’s not alone. Half a dozen others quickly stumble behind them.

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