The stench of blood and silver burned in my nostrils before I even crossed the tree line.
It was thick — acrid and heavy — curling in the cool air like poison. My wolves flanked me, tense and silent. No one spoke. Not when the scent in the air promised death. Not when we were still trying to make sense of what the hell had breached our borders.
Evan had said rogues, but I knew the difference. Rogues didn't fight in formation. They didn't carry silver-tipped blades. And they sure as hell didn't die grinning.
I stepped into the clearing, boots crunching over broken branches and blood-soaked soil. Two of my enforcers were crouched near the perimeter, one of them pressing a compress to a deep gash on Dan's side. The younger wolf was pale, his shirt soaked crimson.
"Get him back," I barked. "Now."
They obeyed instantly, and I turned my attention to the thing chained to the base of an old oak.
Not rogue.
Not just wolf.
Lycan.
