“Thank you?” I laughed, sharp as a blade. “For what? For the forced moon-purging you tricked me into? Or for rutting with your assistant on our sacred nesting furs?”
His hand lifted—animalistic reflex—but before he could strike, I caught his wrist mid-air. My fingers pressed into the nerve points my uncle, War-Alpha Draeven, had taught me. Axton’s face contorted in pain.
“Lay a hand on me,” I whispered, voice low and feral, “and you’ll learn what it truly means to cross a Rustpire wolf. They won’t even find all the pieces.”
I released him, watching him stumble. Vanya clung to his arm, trembling. Only now did she understand the danger she’d stepped into.
“You’re just like those savage she-wolves,” Axton half shouted at me.
“No, Axton.” I straightened my blazer. “I’m worse. I’m a Rustpire she-wolf scorned.”
I slid into the back of my moon-carriage. The leather was cool beneath me. Calder, my driver, met my eyes through the mirror and simply nodded. He knew.
The carriage pulled away, leaving Axton and his weak new mate behind. From now on, Axton’s betrayal and disloyalty would be repaid—not with words. But with blood, as pack law demanded.