The Lone Wolf's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #3)(66)

He could rip these chains free and destroy these men.

Or he could leap down from this box and kill her.

And he’s silent and still and I don’t know which side the coin will land on.

Do I watch her die, or do I watch my wolf kill her?

Killian’s voice echoes in my head. The odds were better than even.

But I don’t risk her. Ever.

I don’t have a fucking choice.

Through my gritted jaw, I suck down a last breath laced with our mingled scents, and I don’t take my eyes off my little mate as I vow to Fate that I’ll do anything—anything—if she spares Mari, and with knotted guts, for the first time in my life, I call the wolf.

He bursts through me like wildfire.

He detonates.

Metal scrapes. Screeches. There’s a bang. Light floods the box.

He’s airborne. He’s ripped the panels from the container, leaving jagged holes in the sides. He’s trailing chains.

He lands on the man with the taser, knocking him on his back. The electrified barbs sink into his fur, shock jarring his bones, gasoline on his rage. He rips the man’s face off and flings his muzzle, sending the flesh sailing. It lands with a wet thud on the flattened grass.

There are shouts. A scream. Another gunshot sends clods of dirt into his eyes.

He tears the barbs out of his flesh with his teeth.

Mari peers up at him from her curled up ball next to the body. The fur around her mouth is stained red. My wolf notices, growling his approval as he bounds past her, straight toward the phalanx of five men in combat gear, rifles raised, advancing on us from the east. Behind the formation, Smith shouts orders.

“Johnson, Williams, Garcia! Suppressive fire! Davis, Brown—tranqs. Fire at will!”

My wolf launches himself at the men. There is an explosion of sound—gunshots, screams, my wolf’s roars, the crunch of bones. I register a starburst of pain in our left flank and the bite of shrapnel in our underbelly, but the wolf doesn’t falter. He is a symphony of teeth and claws, ripping flesh, spilling blood, howling his victory to the moon rising above the sunset as he steps on top of a mangled torso.

“We need back up!” Smith shouts into the radio on his shoulder. “Back up to the box! All hands!”

My wolf’s focus narrows on the older man as he stumbles backward, his pistol wavering as he trips over body parts. My wolf peels his lips back from his blood-stained teeth.

I shout into the wolf’s whirling mind with all my might. No. Get Mari. Run.

It’s like shouting into a hurricane.

The wolf growls so low in his throat, it’s a purr.

“Okay, whoa, relax, let’s talk about this,” Smith says, raising his left hand, palm open, as a distraction to cover him while he steadies his aim and prepares to fire. He’s too late.

As his last words leave his mouth, my wolf is in the air, and as Smith’s lifeless finger empties the chamber, the bullets fly wide and his headless body crumbles to the ground. My wolf’s jaw crunches his skull. He trots over to Mari’s wolf with it lodged in his maw like a ball.

I scream at him, pull him back with all my might. No. Don’t. Mate. Mate!

He doesn’t stop until he’s looming over her small, quaking body. He raises his muzzle again to the sky, his howl of victory muffled this time by the human head in his mouth. Mari’s wolf mewls with abject terror. Blood drips from Smith’s neck onto her matted, stained coat.

Go. Leave. Let her run.

My wolf shows no sign of hearing me. I grasp for our skin, but it’s like snatching air.

I can hear panicked voices to the north. We need to get out of here now.

My wolf bends his neck and sniffs Mari’s neck. Immediately, she freezes as stiff as a board. His nose twitches. It’s the spot where just minutes ago, I claimed her with my teeth. He growls.

She stays as still as the corpse beside her.

He prods her flank with a paw.

She plays dead.

He rumbles and uses Smith’s head to kind of whack her on the back.

Her wolf drags herself forward with her forepaws in almost an Army crawl.

My wolf growls, the tone menacing and yet, somehow encouraging, and he crowds her, urging her on until she staggers to her wobbling legs and starts trotting across the field, away from the massacre by the cargo container.

He’s herding her. She stumbles, and he’s there by her left haunch, growling and prodding her onwards, the fucking crushed skull stuck in his maw like an apple in a roasted pig’s mouth.

She’s slow. She’s shaken, and she’s so much smaller that her gait is a quarter of his, but he adjusts his pace, in essence strolling behind her as she runs. She staggers, and he uses his body as a guard rail, directing her toward the thick trees at the end of the field.

The pain in our flank and underbelly throbs, but it has no effect on him. His ears flick as he tracks the shouts behind us. The surviving men aren’t following us. They’re gathering, regrouping. They’ll have transportation—four wheelers, dirt bikes. They’ll know this terrain.

We’re moving too slowly.

My wolf snarls, and even though Mari’s wolf whines and tries in vain to force those short, shaky legs to go faster, I get the sense that the snarl was meant for me, not her.

The tree line grows closer. My wolf treads nearer to Mari’s side. The last glow from sunset fades, and the unfamiliar landscape is lit by a low moon, almost full. Cold dew mats our fur, our jagged breath visible in the chilly air.