Page 137 of Faith and Fury

I throw myself at him like an omega possessed. He reaches for his baton, but it’s no use—the stupid thing is trapped in the fencing.

No matter how hard I hit him, the binding around my wrists won’t snap free. Infuriated, I try to bite it off, but the guard grabs me by my hair, stopping me.

It doesn’t, however, stop me from biting him.

The guard cries out, cradling his wrist to his chest. Before I can give the binds another try, two more guards come at me—these two still armed. The zap of electricity charging up should be more than enough to make me hesitate.

Instead, I remember the way Fang’s body spasmed. The thunk as he hit the ground.

I weave between the guards, then slam my elbows into one of their lower backs. He crumples. Someone else waves their baton, and I dodge. My ankle screams, strained inside the cast, but I push the pain away. It means nothing.

“Someone get her under control!” the old alpha snaps.

My glare shoots up.

You die first.

Turns out the guards have other plans. Someone wraps their arms around me from behind. Unlucky for them, I’ve tasted blood now, and I want more.

I bite down, evoking a sharp shout. Something clatters to the ground—not another baton, like I expect.

A gun.

The guards are freaking out now, and the rogues are getting antsy. They shuffle on their feet, eyes sharp, like they’re weighing up their options. Join me—tear these fuckers apart—or stand down.

A flash of movement. Roaring a battle cry, one of the rogue alphas barrels into the guards, knocking two down in a single hit.

That’s my opening.

Heart racing, blood roaring, I gnaw through my binds. They finally slip apart, freeing me. I reach for the gun, but someone kicks it away. Before I can look up, they kick me away, too.

Pain blasts into my chin. I stumble backwards, then stumble again on my fractured ankle.

“You out of your mind, F-7?” a familiar voice—Hamish—snarls. “You’re ours!”

That image of Fang springs to my mind. He must still be unconscious. And then, through my delusional, feral fog, I see something else.

Pack Wilder.

Jaxon sitting with me in front of the TV. Caleb giving me his jacket. Drinking coffee with Micah. A hundred perfect, tiny images, covering me like a blanket.

Or like a shield.

I push forward, ramming into Hamish. We fall into the ground, my body pressed to his. He’s surprisingly … soft beneath me. Like this is the first time he’s ever been in a fight.

You can dish it out, huh? I reach into his pants, knowing full well what I’ll find. But you can’t take it.

My hand closes around steel. I yank it out, relishing the cool, familiar weight. It’s almost a shame that I can’t get into stance like Maverick taught me.

Instead, I put the gun directly to Hamish’s head.

His eyes widen in terror. “Hey! Little help here!”

If anyone’s coming to his rescue, they’re not fast enough.

BANG!

The shot sounds like it’s coming from another world. Maybe I’ve ruptured my eardrum again, I wonder faintly. It would explain why everything feels a hundred miles away, and why the room—rogues launching themselves at the guards, at the ringleaders—suddenly feels so … small.

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