Page 63 of Mate Night Snack
"They're not even trying to hide their tracks," she muttered, her golden-brown eyes scanning the treeline with predatory focus. “This is either arrogance or strategy."
"Strategy," Emmett said grimly, rising from his crouch. "They want us to find this. Want us to know they've been here."
The morning mist clung to the mountainside like smoke, turning the familiar landscape into something alien and threatening. They'd been tracking the rogue pack's movements since dawn, following a trail of deliberate signs that painted a picture neither of them liked. Territorial markings. Scent posts. The kind of systematic approach that spoke of military precision rather than wild desperation.
"Look at the pattern," Emmett continued, pointing to the various marks they'd discovered over the past two hours. "They're not just scouting. They're mapping our defenses. Learning our patrol routes."
Maeve straightened, wiping her hands on her pants. "How long you figure they've been at this?"
"Weeks, maybe longer." He moved to examine another set of claw marks, these ones fresh enough that sap still wept from the wounds. "Like they knew that Katniss would be showing up."
The thought made his wolf pace restlessly beneath his skin, agitated by the scent of enemies and the knowledge that Katniss was back at Miriam's inn, protected but not invulnerable. The mate bond hummed with her presence, a warm constant in the back of his mind that told him she was safe for the moment. But moments had a way of changing without warning.
"You feel that?" Maeve asked, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper.
Emmett went still, every sense suddenly hyperalert. "Yeah."
The forest had gone quiet. Not the natural quiet that came with predators hunting, but the artificial silence that happened when prey animals recognized a threat they couldn't name. No bird calls. No rustle of small creatures foraging in the underbrush.
They were being watched.
Emmett's hand drifted to the knife strapped to his thigh, while Maeve's fingers flexed like she was already imagining claws. Neither of them spoke, but they moved with the kind of coordination that came from years of fighting together, positioning themselves with their backs to each other and clear sight lines to the surrounding trees.
The attack came from two directions at once.
The first wolf launched itself from a rocky outcrop to their left, a lean gray shape that moved with vicious efficiency.No warning growl, no posturing, just silent death aimed at Emmett's throat. He rolled aside at the last second, the creature's claws raking across his shoulder instead of finding the killing blow it had intended.
Behind him, he heard Maeve's sharp curse as the second attacker engaged her, the sound of bodies hitting the ground mixing with snarls that held nothing civilized.
Emmett came up from his roll already shifting, bones flowing like water as his wolf surged to the surface. The transformation was faster than it had ever been, driven by fury and the primal need to protect what was his. By the time his paws hit the earth, he was fully wolf and ready for war.
The rogue scout was already turning for another pass, yellow eyes bright with bloodlust and something else. Intelligence. This wasn't some mindless predator driven by instinct. This was a soldier following orders, and its orders clearly involved maximum damage with minimum concern for its own survival.
They collided in a tangle of fur and fangs, rolling across the forest floor in a fight that was as much about positioning as raw strength. The rogue was smaller than Emmett but faster, using its size advantage to dart in and out of range while looking for openings. Its claws found his ribs, drawing blood that soaked into his dark fur and filled the air with the metallic scent of violence.
But Emmett had something the rogue didn't: purpose beyond destruction. When the opening came, he took it without hesitation, jaws closing around the scout's throat with crushing force.
The rogue went limp, not dead but unconscious, its body shifting back to human form as awareness fled. A young man, maybe early twenties, with the kind of lean muscle that spoke of life spent in constant motion.
Emmett shifted back to human form, breathing hard as he took stock of the situation. His shoulder burned where claws had found their mark, and he could feel blood trickling down his ribs, but nothing that wouldn't heal.
Maeve's fight had ended similarly, her opponent also unconscious and human-formed. But she was favoring her left arm, and there was a deep gash across her cheek that would definitely scar.
"You all right?" he asked, moving to check her injuries.
"I'll live." She prodded gingerly at the cut on her face. "Bastard was quick. Got me while I was dealing with his claws."
Emmett knelt beside the unconscious rogues, studying their faces. Both young, both bearing the kind of scars that spoke of harsh training and harsher discipline. But what struck him most was how thin they were, how hollow their cheeks looked. These weren't well-fed pack members. These were foot soldiers, expendable resources sent to test Hollow Oak's defenses.
"Scouts," he said quietly. "Probably the lowest members of Ashwin's hierarchy."
"Makes sense." Maeve crouched beside him, her predator's instincts still on high alert. "Send the expendables to probe our response time, our fighting ability. Gather data for the real assault."
"And if they don't come back?"
"Then he knows we're not as soft as he hoped."
"We need to get back. Warn the others that this was just the opening move."
