Rhyannon Byrd - Last Wolf Watching

Brody Carter was not a man you wanted for an enemy.

She ran her tongue over her bottom lip, aware that it quivered, and found herself fighting a physical urge to move closer to him, wanting to soothe that angry burn of pain he carried inside—when suddenly the restless movements of the pack ceased. Mason lifted his face, sniffing at the cool, brisk air. “The Elders are almost here,” he announced in a quiet rasp.

Across the clearing, the eerie, demonic glow of torches could be seen drawing nearer, and Michaela stared unblinkingly at the shadow-thick edge of the forest.

The light grew brighter, burning against her eyes as she watched a dark-haired Lycan with distinctive golden eyes walk forward, bearing one of the torches, his lip curled in a belligerent sneer. Then the first Elder stepped from the shadows, into the clearing, his stature one of blunt, stocky strength; light brown hair shot with silver at his temples; deep-set eyes sharp beneath bushy silver brows.

“That’s Graham Fuller,” Torrance whispered. “He’s the Lead Elder and Mason’s father’s best friend.” Another figure stepped out of the trees, this one considerably younger than Fuller, his rich brown hair and dark eyes familiar. “You know that one,” Torrance told her. “You met Dylan at our wedding.”

Despite the fact that he was a member of the League, Dylan Riggs had always been a friend, as well as a supporter of the Bloodrunners. In fact, it had been Dylan who walked Torrance down the aisle at her wedding. Though his friendship with the Runners was strong, the past few weeks had put Dylan in a difficult position, as tension between the Bloodrunners and the pack increased.

More Elders entered the clearing, alternately taking their places on either side of Fuller, until the last one emerged. Michaela had yet to meet the notorious Lycan known for his purist views and hatred of humans and Bloodrunners alike, but she recognized him immediately from the description she’d been given. Stefan Drake, the one whom the Runners believed was responsible for the growing number of rogue werewolves and other horrifying crimes, and the reason she and Max had remained under Bloodrunner protection, even after the death of Anthony Simmons, the rogue who had threatened Torrance’s life. Mason and the others had believed that if afforded the opportunity, Drake would use the Doucets as a way to strike out against the Runners, and they’d been right.

Drake stood tall and lean, with sharp, aristocratic features made severe by the burning light of the torches and bonfire. Deep grooves of discontent lined the raw-boned features of his face, as if hate itself had worn him down. At one time, he had probably shared the same arresting looks as his children, until years of bitterness had finally left its destructive mark. His sharp, pewter-colored eyes found her and held, staring with a burning contempt that made Michaela recoil, despite her earlier determination to conceal her fear.

In the next moment, the Elders parted, and two hulking shapes emerged from the trees. In their wolf forms, the Lycans stood over seven feet tall, their legs bent at an odd angle as they stalked forward. Each held a thick chain that had been wound around their inside wrist, the twin lengths leading back into the shadows. Michaela’s throat constricted the second she realized what was happening.

She swayed. Her vision blurred. “Oh God, they haven’t.”

“Be strong, Michaela,” Mason grunted. “Max is going to need your strength.”

Strength! She didn’t have any left. Her knees sagged, and both Mason and Torrance caught at her waist as the Lycans walked forward. They had taken no more than a few steps, when they jerked on the chains and her brother appeared, emerging from the thick line of trees.

Bound like an animal.

Fury roared through her, jerking her upright as if she’d been jolted with an electric current, every muscle in her body screaming for movement while she watched Max stumble into the clearing, his long, lanky body dressed in nothing more than tattered boxer shorts, his dark skin smeared with blood and grime. His thick, ebony hair hung over his brow, obscuring his eyes, his battered hands fisted around the two lengths of chain that looped his neck like a collar. His chest and legs were bloodied with deep, raw-looking wounds, which she knew had come from painful claw swipes; his left shoulder was a mangled, bloodied mess from where a rogue werewolf had latched on with its jaws, ripping into the skin and muscles with its lethally sharp fangs.

Oh God, Max. This can’t be happening .

The sheer depth of her horror paralyzed her, freezing her muscles until not even her lungs were moving. “I swear it’s going to be okay , Mic,” her best friend promised in an urgent whisper. “Look around you. We have enough support to demand that they let him live, no matter the outcome of the ceremony.”

Support? Biting at her trembling lower lip, she glanced left, then right, surprised to see that others had joined them. She hadn’t noticed anyone beyond Brody. But Jeremy Burns, Mason’s partner, and his fiancée, Jillian, had moved to Torrance’s other side, and she watched as Jillian’s father stepped forward to the place beside his daughter, his wife there with her arm around his waist. Michaela turned her head to the left and blinked in surprise to see Eric and Elise Drake, the Elder’s children, standing next to Mason, as well as two other couples she couldn’t identify standing just behind Brody.

To the Bloodrunner’s left stood his partner, Cian Hennessey, his dark head angled toward Brody, lips moving as he spoke. Michaela struggled to hear what he said, but the wind carried away his words like smoke. While they talked, Carla Reyes and Wyatt Pallaton came to stand beside Cian. There was no denying that the dark-eyed, loose-limbed Wyatt was certainly attractive, but Michaela shared an easy friendship with the Runner and nothing more, her private desires obstinately focused on the man who seemed determined to keep his distance.

Now the Bloodrunners and their family and friends stood as a united force against the Silvercrest pack that had yet to accept the fact that something sinister was eating away at its foundation, rotting it from the inside out, like a cancer. Something that would rip down the protective walls that separated their world from the humans. In the back of her mind, it occurred to Michaela that loyalties were being announced tonight—a separation made between those who would stand with the Runners in their fight against the rogues and those who blindly supported the pack’s refusal to face reality and see Drake for what he really was—but all she could focus on was Max. He looked so hurt…so terrified.

When one of the guards jerked on his end of the chain, sending Max stumbling forward so fast that he fell hard on his knees, she snapped. One second she was holding Torrance’s hand, all but squeezing the life out of her fingers, and in the next she was flying forward.

“Leave him alone!” she screamed, her soft-soled, black satin slip-ons struggling for purchase in the damp earth as she rushed toward Max, only to find herself lifted off the ground when a hard, heavily muscled arm clamped around her waist from behind, pulling her clear off her feet. “Damn it, let me down!” she snarled, unable to take her eyes off her brother as the golden-eyed Lycan who’d first entered the clearing kicked him, yelling for Max to get back on his feet. On his hands and knees, Max’s head hung forward, the gaping wound in his shoulder seeping fresh blood until a pool began to form beneath him.