Page 44 of Wolf of the Storm
He pounces.
I throw myself sideways, rolling down the slope in a tangle of limbs and leaves. I hit a tree hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs. By the time I struggle to my feet, Kian's circling me, moving with that fluid tiger grace that makes my lizard brain scream run.
I don't run. Running triggers chase instinct. Instead, I back up slowly, keeping my eyes on him, trying to remember everything Declan taught me about shifter body language.
Kian chuffs—that same amused sound—and swipes a paw at me. Not trying to hit, just... playing. Testing my reactions.
I dodge. He swipes again. I duck under a tree branch, putting the trunk between us.
He circles. I circle opposite, keeping the tree as a barrier.
This could go on forever. Except I don't have forever—I have maybe twenty minutes left, and somewhere in the forest, Jax is hunting me for real.
Kian lunges. I drop and roll under his leap, coming up on the other side and running flat-out for denser cover. Behind me, I hear that rumbling purr again, but he doesn't chase.
Three predators have found me. Three have let me pass.
The fourth hunter doesn't give me a choice.
The attack comes from upwind—a deliberate choice that means he wanted me to smell him coming. Wanted me to know what was hunting me.
Jax hits me from the side like a freight train.
We go down in a tangle of limbs and fur and fangs. He's shifted fully—a grey wolf with ice-chip eyes and teeth that snap inches from my throat. His weight pins me to the ground, and I feel his hot breath on my face, smell the rage coming off him in waves.
He's not playing. This isn't a test.
He's actually going to kill me.
I get my arm up just as his jaws come down, and his teeth sink into my forearm instead of my throat. Pain explodes up my arm, white-hot and nauseating. I scream—can't help it—and the sound echoes through the forest like a dinner bell.
Jax shakes his head, and fresh agony shoots through torn muscle. Blood runs down my elbow, hot and slick. I'm losing too much. I'm in trouble.
Then something else hits us—a blur of dark fur and fury.
Declan.
He slams into Jax with enough force to send both wolves tumbling away from me. I scramble backward, cradling mybleeding arm, and watch in horror as alpha and beta collide in an explosion of violence.
Finn's wards didn't stand a chance against the mate bond—not when Declan felt my terror, my pain, through the connection we share.
Declan is bigger, but Jax is faster. They tear into each other with savage intensity—fangs and claws, snarls that sound like murder. Blood flies. Fur tears. The wet thuds of bodies hitting trees echo through the forest.
Declan gets his jaws around Jax's shoulder and rips. Jax howls and twists, his back claws raking deep furrows down Declan's side. They break apart, circle, crash together again.
This isn't dominance play. This isn't even a challenge fight.
This is personal.
Declan's fighting for me. Jax is fighting for his pack, his certainty that I'm a threat, his belief that killing me will save them all.
They meet in the center, rearing up on hind legs, jaws snapping for throats. Declan's size gives him advantage—he forces Jax backward, step by step, until they're against an old oak. Then Declan lunges, fast as a striking snake, and locks his jaws around Jax's throat.
Not biting down. Not yet. Just holding. Asserting dominance in the way wolves have for millennia.
Jax struggles. His claws score Declan's shoulders, his flanks, anywhere he can reach. But Declan doesn't let go. He holds on, pressing Jax harder against the tree, until finally—finally—Jax goes still.
Submission.
