One slammed me hard against the trunk of a fallen oak, and the jagged edge of a broken branch tore deep into my arm. Blood poured freely from the wound, its metallic scent flooding the air around me.
When they finally left, they left a message. "Tell Caspian this is just the beginning."
I dragged myself to the pack healer's den, my body battered and my spirit shattered. But the healer's words struck harder than any of the blows.
"You were about a moon's cycle along," she said softly, her eyes lowered, unable to meet mine. "We couldn't save the pup. The trauma to your body was too severe."
My eyes fixed on the ceiling of the healing den, hollow and numb. My inner wolf lay curled in the darkest corner of my mind, silent for the first time in years. Not pacing. Not snarling. Just still. A grief too vast for sound.
Later that night, when I returned to the den we shared, Caspian walked in carrying a bottle of aged whiskey in one hand and a reinforced case in the other. Most likely it contained pack resources or silver-tipped weapons from one of his territorial deals.