Filed To Story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
We will kill each other in this field, watering the wildflowers with our blood, before either of us wins. Or concedes.
Killian slams his fist into my side at the same instant I drive an uppercut into his chin. And then, in the distance, screams cut through the red mist in my mind.
Females. Pups.
Killian and I both whirl to face the direction of the screams, our ears lengthening. They’re coming from camp.
Annie is gone, but so are a dozen of the mud-matted wolves. The ones who smell like Salt Mountain.
Killian and I leap and land on four legs, and we race toward the sound of screams.
16
ANNIE
Run!
Run! Run!
I squat as low as I can in the wildflowers and tear off my clothes.
A few yards away, Killian and Justus are murdering each other. Tye, Ivo, and the rest are just watching, and no matter how much I scream, no matter what I say, their wolves don’t listen.
And the Salt Mountain wolves are up to something. They’re edging away from the fight toward the trail to camp. Quarry Pack is so intent on the fight, they either don’t notice or don’t care.
I have to get to Khalil, and my wolf is faster.
Run into the woods! The woods!
I huddle in the tall grass and summon my wolf. For the first time in my life, she’s ahead of me, bursting through our skin before I’m ready, assuming form like she’s surfacing from water rather than tearing herself free from bone and muscle.
She runs away from the woods, toward the trail. The Salt Mountain wolves have gotten ahead of her, so she hangs back, keeping low and downwind.
Turn around! Now!
What are they doing? They can’t think to attack Last Pack. They’ll be vastly outnumbered. By old Rodric and timid Elis and Tarquin the cook and sweet Max and—
They aren’t fighters. Not like Quarry Pack and Salt Mountain. These skulking males who reek of aggression are going to spill into camp, and if our males are at the bonfire, maybe Alroy and Khalil and the others can head them off, but if the Salt Mountain wolves head straight for the sycamore, they can get to the females and pups before anyone has the chance to stop them.
My heart sticks in my throat. I need Justus. I need to get him to help. I’m not big or strong enough on my own, never, never strong enough. I scream and scream, and it’s like my voice is the crickets chirping.
Hide! Hide!
Get Khalil.
The Salt Mountain wolves pace so stealthily, and every second I’m watching them, Killian might have killed Justus. My mate might have killed my alpha.
Turn around!
If I turn around, what can I do? I can’t stop them. I’m too small, too weak.
Hide!
The voice throws up a memory, the underside of an old leather couch, the warped slats, the dust cover ripped at the seam. My stomach revolts. My wolf swallows the puke down. No time for this. No time.
The Salt Mountain wolves have reached the crest of the hill and are gathering at the narrow entrance to camp. They exchange greedy, sly glances. Their rancid eagerness wafts behind them, singeing my wolf’s nose, searing her eyes.
What do I do?
What can I do?
I’ve got no witch, no knife. I’m small and weak and alone. Again, again, again.
Go back. Hide. The voice is whispering now. Cajoling.
On some silent signal, the Salt Mountain wolves burst into motion, streaming through the gap in the rocks, howling a rally cry that echoes off the hills and freezes the blood in my veins.
Turn around and run!
In the distance, a pup screams.
I run.
My wolf pumps her legs so fast that she skitters and stumbles and then staggers forward until she regains her balance, and then she sprints into camp, straight for the sycamore.
At the bonfire and smokehouse and work sites and tents, Last Pack males shift, their wolves racing for the pups and females, too, but they’re coming from every direction toward a single place, in essence, funneling themselves, and the Salt Mountain wolves anticipate it.
Every Salt Mountain wolf but one forms a line to lasso the Last Pack males, their two strongest quickly engaging Khalil and Alroy’s wolves while the others outflank our males to the left and right.
Salt Mountain’s line can’t possibly hold against our numbers, but it’s holding for now, and their lone wolf, a supernaturally large beast, is loping unchallenged for the sycamore tree. For the pups. Efa.
Run!
I race for the females’ fire.
Faster!
My wolf’s lungs and legs burn. The air rings with guttural growls and screams and howls.
On your left!
I dodge right, narrowly missing a Salt Mountain male. Two of ours were on his tail, and they tackle him, rolling together in a ball of fur and fangs.
My wolf’s paws eat up the yards to the sycamore, but the lone wolf is already there, herding the females and pups together under the canopy. He bays and snarls, pacing and darting until our people are huddled together.
Diantha, Nessa, and Elspeth have shifted into their wolves and stand shoulder to shoulder, blocking a dozen pups behind them. Lilliwen cradles two babes, crouching to shield Auggie, Efa, and Leon with her body. A grizzled wolf that must be Mabli’s stands with her front on an overturned rocker, howling, baring her toothless black gums.
The lone wolf lifts his massive head and lets out a bloodthirsty, mad roar. The female wolves snarl back while the females in human form do their best to block the pups with their bodies, but there are too many little ones to hide them all. The babes wail, the pups in fur whimper, and the pups who can speak, cry for their mothers and fathers.
Kill him.
For the first time in my life, the pecking voice is perfectly calm.
My wolf skids to a halt several feet away and then slinks forward, keeping the fire between her and the Salt Mountain wolf, letting the smoke block her scent. When she’s too close to dare creep closer, she huddles close to the ground, staring up and up at his tremendous mud-caked haunches. She’s a miniature in comparison. All the females are, and we all stare, powerless, as the wolf’s bones crack and a strapping man rises from the hulk of his beast.
His blond hair shines through the dirt. I’ve seen him. Leith Munroe. The new Salt Mountain alpha.
He rests his hands on his hips as if there isn’t chaos all around him as his wolves play a game of distraction, breaking after our slower, smaller, or older males and mauling them until our strong males are forced to turn back, away from us, to rescue them.
Leith takes no notice of our wolves, even when they get close, or me, skulking behind the fire. Why would he? I’m no threat—skinny and small and stinking of fear.
Instead, he’s intent on someone behind the line of female wolves.
“Lilliwen Boyle, is that you?” he says. “Imagine finding you here. Are those pups all yours?” Lilliwen shifts to hide Auggie, and Leith cranes his neck to see around her. Auggie doesn’t help by poking his snout out and growling. “Oh, that one’s yours for sure. And his sire’s a Munroe, too, if I’m not mistaken?”
Leith squats and reaches out a sculpted arm, wiggling his long fingers. “Come say hello to your uncle, pup.”
Lilliwen snarls. The female wolves press tighter together, lowering their haunches, readying themselves to attack.
“L-leave us alone,” Lilliwen stammers, shoving Auggie behind her. Efa peeks out her other side. My heart lodges in my throat.
“Ah, but your new pack won’t leave us alone, will they? Always thieving our females. Pissing on our territory and running away.” Leith rises back to his full height and spits in the grass. “I think turnabout is fair play, don’t you? Don’t worry. If you want to stay here, Lilliwen, you can. We don’t have much use for a—used—female.” He makes a show of peering past her. “But this pack of dogs can’t keep stealing our good females with impunity. I think you’ll understand if we help ourselves to a few of these pups to balance things out. Seems a fair trade. Don’t worry, we’ll raise them right.” He winks.
Our females break into a ferocious snarling and howling that raises my fur.