Page 3 of Runt of the Pack
“I’ll manage,” I say tightly. My wolf bristles, indignant at the perceived pity. I am no longer an omega. It’s been almost a year since I was cast out from the Alpha Krov pack. I can take care of myself now.
Yulia pulls an envelope from the drawer and joins me in the center of the room. Her brow creases with concern as she presses it into my hand. I thank her and tuck it into my coat pocket before heading for the door.
She escorts me to the vestibule. “I’ll see you in three weeks, then,” Yulia says, “with the next couple of paintings?”
“Sure.” I nod, my footsteps echoing on the marble floor.
As the doors open, a blast of frigid air hits me, stealing away what little warmth I had gathered.
We exchange farewells and I head back to my place, the weak sun mocking me as it dips below the trees. There are still hours left before the impending storm, but my wolf urges me to hurry. She remembers our first days of exile—the cruel winter storms that ravaged us, the constant struggle for food...
My legs pump furiously as I sprint through the dense woods, snowflakes beginning to blanket the ground. Soon, the rundown cabin appears, a welcome refuge. With no time to waste, I chop wood with vigor, stockpile it by the door. The ax handle stings my palms, but I welcome the pain. It’s honest work, the work of survival.
Inside, I strip the dacha of all but the essentials, stowing boxes in the cellar. The wind howls fiercely outside as the sun begins to set, sending icy daggers through the walls. But we are ready, my wolf and I. Come what may, we will endure together.
I pause as the fire sputters to life, warding off the creeping twilight. But while the iron stove promises warmth, it cannot soothe my wolf—now pacing impatiently within our confined refuge. My inner beast recalls the freedom of running wild beneath the moonlight unencumbered. Tonight though, only the shrieking storm awaits beyond barred doors.
“Not tonight, girl...” I grumble as I gather my painting oils, tossing them into their small crate. A sigh escapes me as I glance over the unfinished canvas. My hands itch to create, but my mind is too consumed with worry and frustration to find any inspiration.
Meanwhile, my wolf stirs restlessly, longing to answer winter’s violent song with our own ululating cry. She urges me to venture out one last time, free from the confines of walls and ceilings.
When she reminds me that this could be our final glimpse of the shimmering lake before it freezes over, I am trapped in her wild excitement.
3
VLAD
Rain continues to pelt the tarmac of Ciampino Airport as I stride towards my sleek private Gulfstream jet. The icy night air slides over my skin, barely registered. My heart pounds with focused intent—reach my brother and remove the threat slithering in his territory before it strikes.
My boots echo loudly on the empty boarding steps. Inside, the luxurious jet cabin provides no comfort, its plush ivory leather chairs and polished wood surfaces barely glimpsed. With sharp gestures, I direct my pilot Andre to file our urgent flight plan to Pulkovo as the last suitcases are loaded. We must be wheels up within thirty minutes if we’re to reach Russia tonight.
Settling into my seat facing the length of the plane, I tap the armrest impatiently. Useless to pace the confines of the jet, yet remaining still proves impossible. My knee bounces rapidly as the engines rumble to life, power flooding my tense muscles. I crave action, but can only endure this helpless waiting as we taxi onto the runway.
As the jet lifts smoothly into the dark sky, the city lights of Rome dropping rapidly behind us, the weight of dread settles heavier in my gut. When I carve Grisha’s heart from his worthless chest with my claws, I’ll be certain Gavriil learns to be wary of the company he keeps.
Unable to tolerate further inaction, I retrieve my phone to warn my brother of the viper I now race to intercept. No doubt in his arrogant ways, Gavriil believes himself untouchable even as peril encroaches. ?????! One ring echoes after another with no answer—the pup’s probably knot-deep in his pretty human pet instead of taking my call. Never mind she warms his bed, no ordinary mortal can understand our ancient bonds and ways.
Frustrated, I slam the phone down, cracking the screen. A fierce growl rumbles in my chest. If Gavriil is too distracted by his plaything to address this threat, perhaps his Enforcer isn’t likewise compromised. I jab Sasha’s number next. He at least carries centuries of duty to our clan in his blood and bones.
Three rings before voicemail picks up. My fangs punch free as a red haze clouds my vision for a brief, savage moment. I force a breath, wrestling the wolf back under control. We’ll have the traitor’s blood soon enough. When Sasha also fails to answer after several more attempts, unease replaces my rage. Why does no one respond? Has the attack already begun while I waste precious hours trapped uselessly in flight?
A shrill beep pierces my spiraling thoughts—the secure satellite line reserved for high-level pack emergencies. Impossible to ignore. I slam my hand on the receiver.
“What?” My demand echoes through the silent cabin. Surely, it’s not Gavriil on the line. He never calls himself, even when his tail bleeds, always working through retainers.
Static hisses across the connection. Frustrated, I repeat the sharp query, prepared to ream whichever incompetent underling interrupts me. A hesitant female voice finally answers, so quiet the words are nearly lost under the white noise crackle.
“Volodya? I’m sorry, I know I should not be calling you like this...”
“Samara?” I blurt in surprise. I haven’t heard my sister’s voice in years, not since she rejected the bear I suggested as her mate. Her timid presence used to quietly smooth many childhood fights and tensions back when Gavriil and I constantly circled each other as competitive pups.
Concern strikes bone-deep as I register her breathless tone. Sam never initiates conversations, much less emergency contact. She murmurs confirmation of her identity, almost drowned out by increasingly loud static. I activate the sat phone controls to adjust signal clarity. “What’s happened? Why are you calling?”
“...attacked... estate compromised...” is all I can pick out.
“Sammy, speak up!” I grip the phone tightly in rising apprehension. “Has the estate been attacked? Is Gavriil in danger?”
“Can’t... long... not safe...” More static, the white noise now completely overriding her voice. Damning useless technology! I should rely instead on true wolf hearing.
