Page 50 of Broken Wolf Heart
I pull her into my arms again. This time, she doesn’t resist. Her head tucks under my chin, her breath hot against my chest.
“I’m scared,” she says so quietly I barely hear it.
“I know.”
“Don’t let me become him.”
She doesn’t have to say Franco’s name, but I know who she means. And how she feels.
“I won’t,” I promise.
She exhales and slowly—finally—sleeps.
But I can’t.
Not tonight.
The air iscold against my skin as I stand on the rooftop patio. I didn’t bother putting on a shirt when I left Lexi in our bed and slipped up here. I needed to breathe. To feel the night against my skin.
Below me, the sprawling lawn of Franco’s estate stretches out like a blanket. Lights glimmer from the guardhouse down by the road, twinkling through the tree branches that offer privacy for the front of the house. Along the northern perimeter, I can sense guards patrolling. Can almost make out their murmur of voices as they chat while they walk. Life continues, ignorant of the storm brewing inside this house. Inside me.
Franco’s dead.
Lexi’s the high alpha now.
And I’m… something else entirely.
I grip the edge of the concrete railing until my knuckles go white.
My wolf is snarling just beneath the surface, pacing like acaged animal. There’s no peace in him. No calm. Only this constant, gnawing heat—like I’m being boiled alive from the inside out.
I feel stronger. But not better.
Feral. Unstable. Like if I breathe too hard, I’ll shift. Like if someone looks at me the wrong way, I’ll snap their neck. Even my own pack bond isn’t enough to settle the darkness.
Franco’s power is inside me.
I can feel it. Crawling through my blood. Whispering in my ears. It started as a nudge, but since the declaration of war my father made earlier, it’s been growing louder. More insistent. And now, it has a voice.
Franco’s voice.
Control is for the weak. Take what you want. Kill what stands in your way.
I shudder and shove the voice away, but it comes back louder.
She’ll never be strong enough. You’ll always have to protect her. You’ll always be the one bleeding. Dying. Breaking. Take her place. Rule them all. Make them bow.
“Shut the fuck up,” I snarl.
I slam my fist into the wall beside me. The stone cracks. A few pieces come loose, raining down at my feet.
“Whoa,” Dutch says behind me. “Didn’t realize we were remodeling.”
I don’t turn around. “What do you want?” I snarl, harsher than I intend.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he says, his voice placatingly calm. “Thought I’d check on the rest of the insomniacs.”
I round on him, glaring. “I don’t need to be checked on.”
