Page 30 of Cruel Moon
We’re evenly matched in size, but as the fight drags on, I notice something. The gray’s getting sloppier, his attacks wilder. His rage, initially a strength, is now a weakness. He’s making mistakes.
There. He overextends on a lunge, leaving his neck exposed for a fraction of a second. It’s all I need.
I don’t hesitate. My jaws close around his throat, teeth sinking into vulnerable flesh. I bite down hard, feeling muscle and sinew give way. The sickening crunch of his spine reverberates through my skull.
I release his limp body, sparing only a moment to ensure he’s truly down. All around me, the battle rages on. O’Connor and Gallagher wolves fight side by side against these unknown invaders. The snarls and yelps of combat mix with the human screams and the roar of the fire.
The wail of a fire engine cuts through the noise, growing louder as it approaches. I turn to see the familiar red truck rounding the corner, followed closely by an ambulance. Our volunteer firefighters and paramedics leap into action with practiced efficiency.
“Get those hoses connected!” shouts Chief Brannigan, his usually jovial face set in grim determination. “Johnson, take your team and start evacuating the east wing!”
Wolves—our wolves—run alongside them, guiding them to those still trapped inside.
That’s a little something nobody knows about White Fork. All the locals know about us wolves. It’s the tourists that are going to be a problem. But that’s something the witches of Banfield Court are going to have to quietly tackle after this situation is under control.
I glance around, making sure there are no more strangers that need eliminating. Then I plunge again into the burning building behind my packmates and the smattering of still-shifted Gallagher wolves. All the rest are holding children or helping tourists to safety.
The heat hits me like a physical blow. Smoke fills my lungs, making each breath a struggle. I push forward, relying on my enhanced senses to guide me. Past the crackling of flames and the groaning of stressed timber, I focus on the sounds of heartbeats—rapid, terrified pulses that call to me like beacons.
Following one such beacon, I find myself at a closed door. I can hear frantic movement inside, punctuated by weak cries. With a running start, I slam my body into the door. The wood splinters, but holds. I back up and try again. This time, the door gives way.
A blast of superheated air rushes past me as the door opens. Through the smoke, I make out two figures—an unconsciouswoman sprawled on the floor and a small child huddled in the center of the room, coughing and sobbing.
Heavy footsteps behind me announce the arrival of a firefighter. His voice, muffled by his mask, is still audible over the roar of the flames. “I’ve got the woman. Get the kid out of here!”
Careful to be gentle despite my urgency, I close my jaws around the back of the child’s shirt. The toddler whimpers but doesn’t struggle as I lift her.
The return trip seems to take an eternity. The smoke is thicker now, the heat more intense. My lungs burn with each breath, and I can feel the child’s small body shuddering as she coughs.
Almost there. Just a little farther.
Finally we burst out into the open air. The sudden rush of cooler air is almost painful after the inferno inside. I gulp in deep breaths, tasting ash and smoke but relishing the oxygen.
“Hand her to me.”
I swing my head toward the last voice I expected to hear. Bridget stands before me, arms outstretched, her face smudged with soot and her eyes wide with determination. For a moment, I’m frozen, taking in the sight of her.
She’s a mess. Her clothes are singed and torn, covered in ash and dirt. Her hair is a wild tangle, with strands plastered to her forehead by sweat.
She’s still here. She didn’t run.
For a moment, I hesitate.Can I trust her?The question echoes in my mind, warring with the instincts of my wolf that recognizes her as mate. But the child in my mouth is coughing and squirming, and I know I have no choice. I gently place the toddler in Bridget’s arms.
She cradles the child close, and I’m struck by how natural she looks, how gentle her touch is despite the urgency of thesituation. “Shh, it’s okay, little one,” she murmurs, her voice soft and soothing. “You’re safe now. We’ve got you.”
Her eyes meet mine, and I see a flash of…something. Regret? Fear? There’s a complexity in her gaze that I can’t quite decipher. It’s as if she’s trying to convey a thousand words in a single look. Before I can make sense of it, she turns and rushes the child toward the waiting paramedics.
I watch her go, my heart a jumble of conflicting emotions. Part of me wants to follow her, to demand answers, to understand why she’s still here when she could have easily slipped away in the chaos. Another part wants to trust in what I’m seeing—a woman who, despite whatever mission brought her here, is choosing to stay and help.
She moves with purpose, handing the child off to a paramedic before turning to help an elderly woman who’s stumbling away from the burning inn.
This is who she really is, a voice in my head whispers.Not the spy, not the witch on a mission, but this—a woman who runs toward danger to help others.
I watch her a moment longer before another scream echoes from inside the inn. I whirl and charge back into the inferno.
Chapter Fifteen
Bridget Winslow
