Page 289 of Heart of Frost and Scars

“Which way?” Monty flexes his gloved hands.

My ears perk at the sound of stumbling footsteps in the distance, each one heavy and desperate.

“North.” I prowl in that direction.

Rhett doesn’t know the dangers that lie in wait, the trap we set, the wolves lurking just out of sight. He doesn’t know he’s being hunted by something far worse than any creature he could imagine.

Dark, violent energy pulses through my veins. The beast is free, and it wants blood. It wants to taste Rhett’s fear, to tear him apart piece by piece, to make him scream for mercy and deny him over and over.

“He raped her,” Wolf says, a gleaming blade dancing between his fingers. “I don’t know how I pulled myself from unconsciousness, but I felt her there, her hand on my lap. I felt her pain, her horror, as he raped her on the table. Somehow, during the assault, she managed to dislodge my IV line. By the time you arrived, I had enough strength to remove hers, too.”

A snarl rips through my chest, my hands tightening around the crossbow until my knuckles go white. Nothing compares to the searing fire that burns inside me. I’m wrath incarnate.

Beside me, Monty turns to ice. Cold. Expressionless. And just as lethal.

Leo seethes, too far gone for words, too consumed by the need for violence, for blood.

We catch up with Rhett quickly and make our presence known, stomping our boots and sending him scrambling toward the river.

It’s instinctual, the way we move and work together. A pack of wolves closing in on our prey.

We spread out around the cliffs, melting into the shadows, not far from the fire pit.

I crouch low, my senses on high alert, listening to the sounds of the night, to the approaching thud of Rhett’s staggering footsteps.

He’s panicking, his breaths bursting fast and loud, his heart beating out of his chest. I hear and feel it all, and it only makes me hungrier.

Minutes later, he lurches into view, spinning in place, frantically scanning the massive boulders surrounding him.

He knows we’re here, senses the danger, and it’s too late to run.

We toy with him, flinging knives from the shadows, each hitting its mark with deadly accuracy. I aim for his limbs, for his flesh, not to kill him, but to hurt him. To make him scream. To make him suffer.

Each time a knife sinks into his skin, I relish the pained hitch of his breath. His steps falter. His head whips around as if he can’t believe what’s happening.

But he knows. Deep down, he knows this is the end.

I raise my crossbow, sight him through the scope, and fire. The bolt punches through his leg with a sickening thud.

His scream rips through the night, echoing off the hills.

Music to my ears.

I let loose another arrow, and it flies true, burying itself in the same leg.

Two more should do it.

I aim them at the same spot, the meaty part of his thigh. Even with his teetering, spinning motions, I nail the target.

Four bolts protrude from his leg, his scream a high-pitched wail that doesn’t end.

He wobbles, whirling, driven by sheer terror, as he takes off toward the trap.

We give him a running start, making him suffer, dragging out his death.

Then we stalk after him, flanking him from all sides, herding him like a panicked animal.

He doesn’t stand a chance, and we all know it. But that’s not enough. We want him to know it, too. We want him to feel every ounce of the terror he inflicted on Frankie, on Wolf, on all of us.

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