Page 100 of The Pack

Mogg lumbered around the clearing with unsettling ease for someone his size, his glowing eyes darting between me and the pile of debris he’d gathered. My heart pounded as he crouched down and struck a piece of flint against a rusted metal plate, the sparks catching on the dry kindling he’d arranged.

“Mogg make fire,” he grunted, his voice rough, but almost singsong. “Fire make meat taste good. Fight taste better.”

A cold chill ran down my spine as his words sank in. He wasn’t just going to kill me—he was going toeat me.

I thrashed against the ropes holding me, my arms burning as I pulled with everything I had. But the bindings didn’t give. The coarse rope bit into my wrists, the rough fibers scraping against my skin as I struggled.

“You not get free,” Mogg said, glancing over his shoulder at me. His grotesque grin stretched across his twisted face. “Mogg tie good. You stay.”

“Let me go!” I shouted, my voice shaking with both fear and rage.

He chuckled, the sound low and rumbling as he turned back to the fire. “No let go,” he said simply. “You good meat. Meat that fight taste best.”

I pulled harder, my muscles straining as I twisted my wrists, desperate for even the smallest bit of slack. But the ropes were tight, expertly knotted, and every pull only made them dig deeper into my skin.

“Mogg like when meat fight,” he said, as he added a larger branch to the growing fire. The flames crackled and leapt higher, casting an eerie glow on his massive frame.

“Fight make blood hot. Make taste better.”

“You’re insane,” I spat, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

“Maybe,” he said with a shrug, his hulking shoulders rising and falling. “Mogg not care. Mogg live. You not.”

His words hit me like a fist to the gut, and I bit back a panicked cry, my mind racing. I couldn’t give up, couldn’t let him win.

The fire roared to life, its heat licking at my skin even from several feet away. Mogg leaned closer to it, his giant hands holding a jagged metal skewer as he tested its weight.

Mogg’s uneven grin widened, his glowing eyes narrowed, the firelight causing grotesque shadows to dance across his face.

“Things in Dublin,” he rasped, his voice low and guttural, “do more bad to you than what Mogg do. You beg for what Mogg plans.”

What the fuck did that even mean?

He stood, the fire casting his shadow across the clearing as he took one step and then another toward me, the skewer glinting in his hand.

“Noooo!” I screeched.

I felt true terror claw its way up my throat.

The world seemed to slow as he raised the skewer. I closed my eyes, bracing for the inevitable.

Then, a snarl.

Low and guttural, it sliced through the night like a blade, followed by the unmistakable sound of something heavy crashing through the underbrush.

My eyes snapped open just in time to see a massive blur of silver fur launch itself at Mogg, slamming into him with bone-crushing force.

Magnus.

His wolf form was sleek and powerful, his silver coat gleaming in the firelight as he sank his teeth into Mogg’s arm. The mutated giant let out a throaty roar, swinging wildly as he tried to shake Magnus off.

From the shadows, another wolf emerged. It was a deep black shape that moved like liquid shadow. Tobias darted in low, his jaws snapping at Mogg’s legs, forcing him to stagger back.

“Mogg not alone?” he growled, his voice breaking into a guttural roar of frustration.

“Neither is she,” Magnus snarled, shifting in midair as he leapt away from Mogg. By the time he hit the ground, he was in human form, a blade flashing in his hand as he lunged forward.

The clearing became a scene of chaos.

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