Page 57 of Fae Devoted
The gray whipped round, the violent motion of his hips breaking the weaker wolf’s hold with a spray of blood and clump of fur. Seizing the brown’s muzzle in his vise-like jaws,the infuriated shifter tossed him to the ground as if Fitzgerald were a rag doll and not a seven-hundred-pound Ferwyn wolf. If the smaller male had been in his human form, the throw would have broken his neck.
But the gray wasn’t done with the offending shifter, pouncing on Fitzgerald, his canines ripping into his exposed throat, his sharp claws shredding the smaller wolf’s chest muscles. Clanmates watched in stunned silence, unable to process what they were witnessing. Tucker finally shook himself free of his stupor and shouted, “Jeremiah, stop!”
His brother didn’t stop, spitting the gore from his mouth before baring his teeth and ripping another chunk of flesh from the helpless male’s gullet.
Tucker converted to his wolf, his gray a carbon copy of his twin’s, and bounded over the circle’s rubber barriers. He plowed into his Alpha’s flank, knocking him off their gurgling clanmate. The other warriors came out of their daze and jumped in to drag Fitzgerald’s torn body away from the battling siblings.
After grappling for several minutes with neither gaining the upper hand, Tucker allowed Jeremiah to place him on his back, gambling his brother wouldn’t seriously harm his own littermate. Then he shifted to human form and plunged his hands into the red, sticky fur of his Alpha’s ruff.
“Brother, stop,” he gritted out, the muscles in his arms bulging as he fought to keep his twin’s fangs from his naked throat. Jeremiah’s yellow gaze was wild and unfocused, his muzzle covered in blood, his growls vicious—his savage visage the stuff of human nightmares.
Awareness slowly returned to Jeremiah’s eyes, but Tucker didn’t relax his grip until his brother removed his front paws from his chest and stepped away. The Alpha didn’t convert, choosing to stay in wolf form as the pack bond vibratedwith a mixture of his anger, righteousness, and confusion. By the letter of Ferwyn law, Fitzgerald’s surprise attack could be construed as a blood challenge, in which case Jeremiah’s violent reaction could be justified, if not warranted.
The Alpha’s life had never been in danger, the difference in their dominance levels astronomical. So why did he attack the foolish warrior as if it were a battle to the death? Tucker knew his brother wouldn’t have sensed any true malice from Fitzgerald, only embarrassment and frustration.
“Beta Grayson?” one of his warriors called to him, arms wrapped tightly around their pack healer’s waist. The Ferwyn must have raced to his nearby home to retrieve his mate, then carried her back at top speed. The frantic female strained against her Ca’anam’s protective hold, tears running down her cheeks as Fitzgerald struggled to breathe through what was left of the bloody pulp of his throat.
“Go to him, Cassandra,” Tucker said in a soothing tone, remaining flat on his back. The submissive posture of the sole male present who could match Jeremiah in strength meant to appease the agitated Alpha’s wolf. “But move slowly.”
“Yes, beta,” the witch replied in a shaky voice, stepping gingerly into the ring with her truemate glued to her side. Two other shifters followed on her heels; the males careful not to meet their Alpha’s eyes.
Jeremiah growled at their approach and then shook his head hard, scarlet-tinged spittle flying in every direction. He repeated the action before sitting on his haunches and staring at Cassandra. The Anwyll knelt at Fitzgerald’s side, her glowing hands shaking above his ravaged throat. Tucker tensed as the Alpha huffed through his nose, the spicy anise of activated witch magic and the coppery smell of blood a sickening combination to most shifters.
His brother didn’t move again, sitting still as a statue while she worked feverishly to repair the extensive damage done to Fitzgerald’s neck and chest. Although a Ferwyn’s natural healing ability would prevent death by almost any violent means short of beheading or removing the heart, an injury acquired by a shifter’s fangs or claws was slower to mend. If not for Cassandra’s aid, he would needlessly suffer the excruciating pain of his devastating wounds for hours instead of minutes.
As the Anwyll’s magic knit his flesh together, Fitzgerald’s breathing became less labored, his mental distress easing until he was able to concentrate enough to convert into his human body. Cassandra cooed soothing words and brushed the male’s hair from his forehead.
As Tucker looked on, the dream sequence changed. Fitzgerald’s short, dark locks morphed into a long braid the color of burnt sienna, its auburn tip sticking to the blood-saturated material of a bright blue blouse covered with orange blossoms. The shifter’s head turned to address the Alpha, and a smattering of freckles now marred with jagged furrows made by Jeremiah’s teeth appeared on a familiar cheek.
“I’m…sorry. Forgive…me, Alpha,” came from Jo’s half-healed throat and not Fitzgerald’s.
Tucker’s heart hammered as the customary fog appeared right on cue, freezing his body in place. It rolled in like a gentle wave, obscuring the ring’s outer edges in a cloud of grayish-white. The hazy mist surged and thickened, enveloping the healer and his warriors until only Jeremiah and now Jo remained.
Tucker thrashed against his invisible bonds, helpless as his brother thrust his neck up and stretched it forward, his nose wrinkling with a series of loud snarls in response to what should have been Fitzgerald’s pleas for mercy, not Jo’s.Jeremiah stalked past Tucker, swiping his forepaw at this face in a rebuke of his earlier interference. Incapable of protecting himself, Jeremiah’s claws raked his jawline and cut him to the bone. But outside the dreamscape, the brutal reprimand from this brother came later that night.
Jeremiah paused, his low growl switching to a sad whine. He circled back to Tucker and lowered his muzzle, licking the blood from his chin. His ministrations came to an abrupt halt, and with a renewed growl, Jeremiah whirled toward Jo.
The cry trapped inside Tucker’s head threatened to shatter his skull, his voice as paralyzed as his body. Somewhere in his subconscious, he understood it wasn’t his she-wolf laying alone in the dirt, broken and vulnerable. But his panicked soul insisted it was real. Insisted he couldn’t stop Jeremiah from killing Jo now, just as it always insisted he hadn’t stopped his brother from taking Fitzgerald’s life in a fit of insanity in the past, though he had.
The illusion was so real Tucker reached for his bond with Jeremiah, transmitting his hopelessness and desperation.
His Alpha didn’t listen, and the familiar, guilt-ridden dream turned into his worst nightmare.
Tucker fought the force holding him with everything he had, though he’d learned from experience it was a losing battle. Jeremiah’s angry snarls intensified, and Tucker couldn’t breathe, knowing what was coming next. Unable to stop it. Unable to wake up.
The screams came as they always did in the dream, but this time the pitch was high and feminine. Tucker stared at his brother, refusing to close his eyes though the huge wolf blocked most of Jo from view.
“Jacob, wake up.”
His stomach roiled at the sound of crunching bone, and he swallowed, choking on bitter bile.
“Jacob.”
Tucker reacted on instinct. Not yet completely awake, he grabbed the person poised above him by the waist and rolled, pinning them to the mattress. He’d already retracted his claws by the time Jo squealed, the well-known smell of sunny citrus and rose hitting his nose mid-tumble.
“Jo,” he said in a raw whisper. The lingering taste of fear burned his throat.
“I didn’t mean to startle—”
