Page 46 of Wolf of the Storm
I close my eyes and let Declan carry me home.
CHAPTER 12
DECLAN
I'm reviewing patrol schedules when the mate bond explodes.
No warning. No buildup. Just Eliza's terror slamming through the connection hard enough to drop me to my knees, a snarl ripping from my throat. Every instinct screams to shift, to run, to kill whatever's threatening her.
Eliza.
"Alpha?" Jax is at my side instantly, hand on my shoulder. He's been shadowing me since the hunt, his loyalty to Eliza now absolute. "What is it?"
"Flynn's Inn." The words come out more growl than speech. "She's in danger. Now."
“I thought she wasn’t to leave here…”
“She convinced several of the younger wolves to go with her. I think she was trying to prove something.”
Time is of the essence and I don't wait. I shift mid-stride, clothes shredding as fur erupts across my skin. Through the bond, I feel Eliza's fear spike, feel her adrenaline, feel the wrongness of violence happening around her.
Jax shifts beside me, his grey wolf keeping pace as we burst from Wolfstone. The others are already moving—Tessaappearing from the woods on my right. Even Rafe's panther form materializes from shadows on my left—he shouldn't be here, should be down at the docks, but the pack bond must have pulled him. The connection between us hums with urgency, with shared purpose.
We run.
Flynn's Inn is two miles through forest and over rough terrain. We cover it in under four minutes, pushing shifter speed to its limit. As we break from the tree line, I hear it—gunfire, screams, the crash of breaking glass.
And underneath it all, Eliza's heartbeat through the bond, racing but strong. Still alive.
The inn's front windows are shattered. Bodies litter the street—unconscious or hiding, not dead. Smart islanders who know when to play dead. The front door hangs off its hinges, and inside I see muzzle flashes, hear the distinctive crack of gunfire that shouldn't exist on my island.
I shift back to human as I hit the doorway, needing hands and human speed for the narrow spaces inside. Jax follows my lead, both of us naked and battle-ready, our humanity a thin veneer over predator instinct.
The scene inside is chaos.
Six mercenaries—professionals by their tactical gear and coordinated movements. They wear body armor and carry weapons that gleam silver in the dim light. Silver rounds. Someone told them it would hurt more—they're not wrong.
Moira Flynn stands behind the bar, salt-cellar in one hand, the other raised in a gesture that looks ancient. Three islanders huddle behind her—Old Tom Griggs, Sarah Thompson, and Eliza. The fading marks from Jax's bite are barely visible on her left forearm, but her face is pale, her jaw set with determination.
A mercenary pivots toward them, raising his weapon.
I move.
The shift happens mid-leap, fur surging forward in a blur of fury. I hit the mercenary from the side, jaws closing around his gun arm. Bones crack. He screams. The weapon clatters to the floor.
Around me, the brotherhood erupts into violence.
Grayson crashes through the side door in full bear form. He rears up on two legs—seven feet of muscle and rage—and positions himself between the civilians and the remaining mercenaries, becoming a living wall that bullets ping off almost harmlessly. His enhanced hide can take small-arms fire, and he uses it.
Finn moves like water through the chaos, still in human form but with his eyes gone full reptilian-gold. A mercenary tries to line up a shot. Finn exhales, and dragon fire streams from his lips—not enough to kill, but enough to force the man to drop his weapon and roll, screaming, as his tactical vest smolders.
Rafe and Kian are already inside, having come through the back. The panther flows through shadows, disappearing into darkness before reappearing behind a mercenary, claws raking across the man's hamstrings. The tiger moves like lightning, disarming another mercenary with brutal efficiency, jaws closing around the man's weapon hand with enough force to crush but not sever.
We're trying to minimize killing. Trying to avoid questions we can't answer.
I release the mercenary I've downed and shift back to human, grabbing his fallen weapon. The weight is unfamiliar—I prefer claws to guns—but I know how to use it. I put two rounds into the ceiling, the crack of gunfire loud enough to freeze everyone for a heartbeat.
"Drop your weapons!" The alpha command rolls through the room, hitting the mercenaries with physical force. It won't workon humans like it would on shifters, but the tone, the authority, the promise of violence in every syllable makes them hesitate.
