Page 8 of To Hunt A Wolf
And very, very injured.
I drop Dirk, who is now wheezing, and race toward Crigger’s voice.
As I run, a shoulder hits mine hard enough to make me stumble. The force of his body slamming into mine is enough to send me reeling, but it’s more than that.
It’s the scent.
I know that scent like I know my own reflection.
What it’s doing—whathe’sdoing—here now is a horrific question.
I catch myself and straighten, whirling toward the footsteps still racing away. They reach the door I came through a moment ago, and a figure steps into the opening.
He stops and looks back.
Behind me, Crigger’s breathing is ragged and wet.
He’s not going to make it. I don’t need my wolf senses to tell me that. Death is all over this place. It’s hovering over my alpha. And reflected back at me in the gaze still holding mine from the exit.
Levi fucking Wild himself.
Speak of the devil, and the devil shall appear.
“Mac,” he says, and the pain that scrapes over his tongue as he says my name is like a brand against my soul. “What are you doing here?”
When I find my voice, the words that spill out are full of condemnation. “Did you just kill the alpha?”
“Mac,” he says again, this time in defeat.
The sound of another door banging open drowns out whatever else Levi might have said. I jerk toward it just as bright spotlights click on to reveal a dozen men pouring into the space. They fan out, combing the area with flashlights and headlamps. One of them sees Crigger and shouts for the others.
Dread curls in my gut as their eyes land on me.
“Stop,” one of them shouts.
“Don’t move,” commands another.
Even though I haven’t.
“The alpha’s down,” announces a third.
One by one, they begin putting pieces together.
Crigger on the ground covered in his own blood.
Me standing here like a deer in headlights.
Another man bound and gagged at my feet.
I don’t have time to process how bad this will be before a familiar figure walks in behind the security team.
Thiago Clemons, Crigger’s youngest son. He’s a year older than Kari and me, just far enough ahead that I mostly escaped his torture in high school. I’ve heard the stories, though, and they aren’t pretty. Not to mention everything Kari has told me. His cruel eyes assess the scene faster than the others. Not a shred of emotion registers on his stony face as he studies his father’s now lifeless body.
“Is he dead?” Thiago asks.
“Yes, sir.” The security agent who answers him manages to sound sad.
Thiago doesn’t react to the news that his own father has just been murdered. His eyes rake me over, and he snaps at the men closest to him.
