Page 47 of Wolf of the Storm
That hesitation costs them.
The lead mercenary—taller than the others, with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow and dead eyes that mark him as a killer—doesn't drop his weapon. Instead, he moves fast, lunging forward to grab Eliza before anyone can react.
His arm wraps around her throat. His gun presses against her temple.
"Back off, or the girl dies."
The world goes red.
Every instinct I have screams for his death, demands I tear him apart for daring to touch what's mine. The mate bond floods with Eliza's fear, her pain as he tightens his grip, cutting off her air.
"Let her go." My voice doesn't sound human anymore.
"Not until we walk out of here." The mercenary backs toward the door, dragging Eliza with him. "Santos paid us fifty grand each. Said to make it hurt. Said you killed his brother."
Eliza's eyes meet mine. I see fear there, yes, but also calculation. She's thinking. Planning.
Her weight shifts slightly, and I know what she's doing.
I move the instant she does. She drops her full weight, becoming dead weight in the mercenary's grip. His hold loosens for a fraction of a second as he struggles to keep her upright.
That fraction is all I need.
I shift mid-leap. The mercenary tries to bring his gun around, his finger tightening on the trigger. The shot goes wide as my jaws close around his throat. No warning. No hesitation. I bite down and rip.
Hot copper floods my mouth. The mercenary makes a wet, gurgling sound and collapses, his weapon falling from nerveless fingers.
But not before a second shot fires.
Eliza cries out, stumbling backward. Red blooms on her right arm, just above the elbow. The bullet grazed her—not a direct hit—but the scent of her injury hits me like a physical blow.
The last shreds of my control snap.
But I don't lose myself to the rage. I become it. Cold. Efficient. Lethal.
I move through the remaining mercenaries like a force of nature—jaws, claws, brutal precision. No hesitation. No mercy. Just the absolute certainty that they threatened my mate and that means they die.
When I shift back to human, I'm standing over their bodies, my entire body shaking with residual fury and blood—most of it mine. Rafe's panther form and Kian's tiger have the others pinned, massive paws on their backs, jaws close enough to their throats that the mercenaries don't dare move. My hands still want to be claws, still want to tear and rend until nothing that threatened Eliza draws breath.
"Declan." Eliza's voice cuts through the red haze. "I'm okay. Look at me."
I go to her, crossing the destroyed inn in three strides. My hands hover over her injured arm, afraid to touch, afraid I'll hurt her worse. The bullet grazed her, leaving a furrow through skin and muscle that bleeds freely but not arterially. Painful, but not life-threatening. Still, the knowledge that she was hurt while under my protection makes rage claw at my throat.
"Look at me," she repeats, placing her good hand on my chest. Through the bond, I feel her fear fading, replaced by concern for me. "Declan, I'm fine. You got here in time. We're both fine."
"You're bleeding."
"So are you."
I look down. She's right—there are gashes across my ribs where a knife found purchase during my blackout rage, claw marks on my shoulder from where one of the mercenaries fought back with enhanced strength. I didn't even feel them.
"Let me see that arm." Moira Flynn steps around Grayson's bulk, moving with the calm of someone who's seen violence before. In her hands, she carries a bowl of water that gleams strangely in the light, and the air around her tastes of salt and power.
I growl without meaning to, my instinct to keep everyone away from my injured mate.
"Down, boy." Moira's voice is dry, unimpressed by alpha posturing. "I've been tending bar and patching up idiots for a decade. Let me work."
Something in her tone penetrates the haze. I step back, though every fiber fights me.
