Page 85 of Psycho Pack

"What are you talking about?" I ask, glancing between them. "What's Surhiira?" The name sounds light and musical on my tongue, nothing like the rough names I'm used to.

Thane sighs, raking a hand through his snowy hair. "It's an independent nation in the southeast. Nobody really knows what goes on down there. They're neutral, but only because they're completely isolationist."

"Yup," Whiskey chimes in. "But they're badass. Everyone's an assassin, even the omegas. The kids, too."

"That makes no sense," Plague snaps. "Who would there be to kill?"

Whiskey shrugs. "I dunno, it's probably a battle royale free-for-all."

I frown, processing this new information. Another nation, one I've never even heard whispers of? How is that possible?

Then again, my world has been so small for so long.

As much as it bothers me, there's probably a lot I don't know.

I huddle closer to Wraith's warmth as we follow the winding path. The pristine white train haunts the edge of my vision, taunting us with its promise of shelter. My teeth chatter despite my best efforts to stop them.

Whiskey stumbles again, this time catching himself on Valek's shoulder. The silver-eyed alpha snarls and shoves him away.

"Touch me again and I will cut off your fingers."

"Fuck you too, buddy." Whiskey flips him off with a frost-reddened hand.

A low growl builds in Wraith's chest. I stroke his arm, trying to soothe him before the tension escalates. His muscles bunch under my touch, but he doesn't lash out.

The wind picks up, driving needles of ice into any exposed skin. I press my face into Wraith's scarred neck.

"This is taking too long," Thane mutters from behind us. "We need to find shelter soon."

"No shit," Whiskey pants. "I can't feel my fucking ass anymore."

That seems like something Plague would normally have a remark about, but this time, he's unusually silent. He moves like a shadow through the snow, his face turned toward the gleaming train in the distance. Something about his posture seems off.

Almost wistful.

The path narrows, forcing us to walk single file. Loose rocks skitter under our feet, vanishing into the white void below. One wrong step and we'd follow them down.

My borrowed clothes are stiff with ice now, crackling with each of Wraith's movements. The cold has settled deep in my bones, making everything ache. Even my eyelashes are frosted over.

I lose myself in the hypnotic crunch of boots on snow, the rhythmic puff of breath visible in the frigid air. Time becomes meaningless, marked only by the gradual dimming of the weak winter sun.

When I lift my head again, squinting against the glare, my heart drops into my stomach. The mountain pass we've been following disappears beneath an impenetrable wall of snow and fallen trees.

"Fuck!" Whiskey growls, stomping uselessly at the barrier. "Now what?"

An uncomfortable silence falls over the group. I can practically hear the gears turning in everyone's heads as they try to come up with a solution.

"We could take the train," Plague says, so quietly I almost miss it.

Everyone stares at him.

"You can't be serious," Thane growls. "Surhiira wants nothing to do with a pack of Council attack dogs, and they travel with the most lethal snipers in the Outer Reaches and beyond. If they spot us, we're as good as dead—let alone if we walk up to them."

The others seem equally bewildered. Whiskey opens his mouth, no doubt ready to unleash a barrage of inflammatory questions, but Plague cuts him off with a sharp gesture.

"Wait here. I'll be back," he mutters, his voice oddly strained. Without another word, he turns and starts trudging through the deep snow, heading in the direction of the gleaming white train.

"What the fuck is he thinking?" Whiskey growls, taking a step forward like he's going to follow. Thane's hand on his shoulder stops him. "Bro, he's gonna get himself killed!"

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