Page 83 of Arranged Wolf's Nanny
Rosalia froze, horror rooting her to the earth. She was too late.
Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest. She should have escaped sooner. She should have found a way to warn them. Now the Iron Walkers were bleeding and dying, and she…she had been locked in a room, wasting time on hope.
But despair was a luxury she could not afford.
Her wolf snapped at her, demanding she move, demanding she act. She tore herself from the ridge and hurtled down the slope.
The scent of Iron Walker blood cut her deepest. She knew them now. Dane’s steady musk, Nicolas’s sharp tang, the warm strength of others who had become family in the weeks since her wedding. Somewhere among the chaos, Rick’s scent burned brightest, thick with fury, threaded through with smoke.
And Eva…oh gods, where was Eva?
The thought almost broke her stride. She shoved it down and ran faster.
Closer now, she could make out the shapes: Green Mountain wolves flooding from the east, Black Claws pushing hard from the west. The Iron Walkers were caught in the middle, fighting tooth and claw to hold the line.
Rosalia launched herself over the last tangle of brush and into the fray.
A Green Mountain wolf lunged at her, jaws snapping. She met him head-on, her teeth finding his shoulder. Blood filled her mouth as she shook him off, then whirled to face the next.
Fight first,her wolf demanded.Find him after.
Her world narrowed to survival: the scrape of claws, the burn of muscle, the hot rush of blood against her tongue. Around her, Silvermist screamed.
And still, beneath it all, the bond pulled. Rick was here, somewhere in the carnage. She could feel him, sharp as a blade in her chest.
She had to reach him. She had to.
The first wolf crumpled beneath her jaws, but three more surged forward. Rosalia twisted, claws raking across a flank, and spun away before the next could snap her hind leg. The battle was chaos, fur and blood and fire, all scents tangled into one choking haze.
Iron Walkers held the line near the town square, their dark pelts standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Rosalia threw herself into their flank, pressing against an enforcer she didn’t know by name, but he gave her a quick nod before barreling at another Black Claw brute.
For one breath, she almost felt the rhythm of it, the push and pull of warriors who fought for more than survival, who fought for their home.
Then a new scent cut through her.
Her father.
Rosalia’s hackles rose before her head even turned. She knew that musk as intimately as her own: smoke and venom, old leather and cruelty. John Heath stood at the edge of the square, half-shifted, his human face distorted by the sneer she had grown up fearing. His eyes swept the battlefield until they landed on her, and then his lip curled.
“Rosalia.” His voice was ragged with the growl of his wolf, but his words carried clear. “Traitorous little bitch.”
He lunged.
Rosalia braced, her wolf snarling, ready to meet him fang for fang. Every instinct screamed to run. He was alpha, heavy with power, his sheer size eclipsing her, but another instinct, sharper, screamed louder: never again. She would not cower. She would not let him steal the last of her life.
She lowered herself, muscles coiled.
But he was too fast. He hit her like a wall, teeth snapping for her throat. She rolled, twisted, caught his muzzle with a slash of her claws, but he was already bearing down again, his rage wild, his intent clear.
He meant to kill her.
Rosalia’s heart slammed against her ribs. The world tunneled, her father’s bulk above her, his teeth glinting with the inevitability of it. She snapped her jaws, catching flesh, but his weight crushed her down. Her breath came ragged.
This is it.
Then another shadow exploded into them.
Rick.
