Reaching into a side pocket of his pants, Ethan pulled out a set of thin wires. “Cuffs,” he said. “I shouldn’t need to stun them again unless they become majorly disruptive.”

“After seeing what you did to that car, I don’t think any of these punks are going to be playing chicken with you.” Grin feral, the other man slapped him on the shoulder, his strength reverberating through Ethan. “Trust Selya to find herself a mate who can cut people in half.”

Ethan didn’t respond, but all the times when he had cut people in half after Ming literally took control of his brain . . . they haunted him. Even worse were the memories of his family’s screams as he sliced them to pieces.

But this, tonight, was different.

It was the first time he’d wounded and hurt in order to protect. The intruders had come to cause pain to Selenka and those under her care; they’d made themselves targets. He felt no guilt whatsoever, at peace with his actions in a way that would make Alia proud. This, he thought on a sudden, acute wave of understanding, was what he’d always been meant to be: a protector like Gregori, a weapon used to defend against evil.

A throb began at the back of his head as he started to handcuff the fallen intruders, each pulse deep and loud. Three minutes later, he was glad he was alone except for his unconscious captives. It gave him time to erase all evidence of his new nosebleed . . . a bleed that didn’t stop for long minutes.

Scarab whispered in his head, so much power at his fingertips if he would only reach for it. Power enough to protect the entire world.

* * *

—

THE pack laid Emanuel to rest in a ceremony rich with song and laughter. It was what he would’ve wanted, this member of Selenka’s pack who’d never been grim or hard. Emanuel had been smiles and amusement and silly practical jokes that drove his packmates crazy, but when it had mattered, he’d been there, solid as an oak. People had relied on him. Selenka had relied on him.

As was their way, her pack released their grief in a chorus of wolf song that echoed across the territory. It was a memorial more ephemeral than a stone carving, but to a wolf, what mattered were the memories. Emanuel would be kept alive in stories and in wolf song for generations to come.

Then they returned home under the starlight, to pick up the mantle of life again. Grief was a different process for each and every one of them. However, in one thing, BlackEdge was united—to bring up their pups in the world of the living and not of the dead.

It was a decision made during the start of her grandfather’s reign as alpha, after the pack lost fifteen adult wolves at the same time. It had been a horrible accident, a small plane going down in flames after being caught in turbulent weather. The pack had been devastated and barely functional in the aftermath.

Her grandfather had lost a brother in the carnage, but he’d made his way beyond the grief to care for his heartbroken people. He’d made them remember the young, the babies who didn’t understand what was happening and who were going small and silent under the weight of the grief that held the pack in thrall.

To raise a pup was a privilege and a gift. No wolf would do anything to destroy those vulnerable young hearts. And so Selenka’s pack would laugh again in the days to come. They’d hold the birthday celebration for a small boy that had been canceled today. And they’d remember Emanuel at each celebration, in their hearts, or with a drink raised to the sky.

But, tonight, it was a time of mourning, a time to come to terms with the grief.

Only after her pack no longer needed her would she find her deadly, beautiful, and relentlessly devoted mate and lie with him skin to skin. Because no matter the violent abruptness of their mating, Ethan belonged to her in a way no one else had ever done or ever would do.

She was a wolf, had grown from girl to woman in the glow of her grandparents’ loving union. But her parents’ troubled relationship had already left scars on her heart by then, and even being aware of the damage hadn’t changed the wariness deep inside her. She couldn’t bring herself to trust anyone enough to allow them a glimpse of her heart.

Until a damaged Arrow said, “I am yours,” and meant it with all that he was.

She was still thinking of Ethan when she spotted Gregori arriving at the den just as she returned from the funeral. She was the only one outside because the alpha was always the final one to leave a burial, the one who spoke the pack’s last good-byes to their lost packmate. Others would go up there in the days to come, to speak their private thoughts, but for tonight, it was done.

Crouching down next to him, she fisted her hand in the fur at the back of his neck. “What’s happened? Are you hurt?” The scent of fresh blood was pungent in her nose, the mingled scents telling her this involved more than just Gregori.

When he shook his head, she said, “Do I need to send healers?” That got her a nod. “Security?” Another nod. “Any of our own hurt?” The question was razors across her soul; she didn’t know if BlackEdge could take another loss after Emanuel.

She only breathed easy after he shook his head again. She didn’t ask about Ethan because the light-fractured night of him was jagged inside her. The static in their bond couldn’t block that critical awareness.

Instead of running into the den and causing alarm, she used her phone to contact Margo and asked the other woman to put together a team of five—a glance at Gregori got her a nod on the number. Then she called the healers, asking for two with full medical kits.

Both groups responded quickly and discreetly, slipping out of the den one by one.

Once gathered, all of them melted back into the trees in Gregori’s wake. They reached the site of the situation to find a group of people who were either lying silently on the ground with their eyes open, their arms handcuffed behind their backs, or in the same immobilized position but moaning in pain.

Ethan stood a deadly black sentinel over them.

“Who cauterized the wounds?” The scent of cooked flesh made her wolf curl its lip.

“I did.” Ethan’s voice, dark music to her ear.

“Nice little hidden gift there, mate of mine.” His actions had probably saved the lives of at least two of the injured, but they’d carry major scars unless they paid for reconstructive work. Because the pack certainly wasn’t going to give them anything but basic first aid. Not when Selenka had scented petrol as she came in.

Seeing the red containers strewn on the ground was a match to a flame, her claws slicing out of her fingers and her growl silencing all chatter in the clearing.

Today was not the day to fuck with Selenka.

Chapter 19

Selenka Durev: BlackEdge Alpha, 5’11”, brown-eyed, and sexy enough to fry your brains. Our sources tell us that she once went head-to-head with a bear in a bad temper and shredded the bear so badly that he’s still growing back his fur. Is it any surprise that she’s a badass who holds territory in an area that houses both a bear clan and Kaleb Krychek?

Our spies in BlackEdge also inform us that being one of Selenka’s wolves is a badge they wear with pride. “Our alpha is our claws and she is our heart. She knows how to love with a ferociousness that encompasses us all—but she won’t blink at tearing our enemies to bleeding, whimpering shreds. Don’t mess with BlackEdge unless you want to end up missing a body part or five.”

—From the “Scary but Sexy” column in the December 2082 issue of Wild Woman magazine: “Skin Privileges, Style & Primal Sophistication”

“WHICH ONE OF you is the leader?” Selenka asked the fallen. “Unless you’re too much of a coward to identify yourself.” That last was a deliberate piece of manipulation—the young tended to be easy to rile unless they’d learned discipline over their instincts and arrogance.

“Me.”

As she’d expected, the answer came from one of the four dominant wolves in Blaise’s congregation—and though the young male tried to square his shoulders and meet her gaze, he couldn’t. Because Selenka wasn’t Blaise, to coddle a wolf who should be acting like a fucking adult by now—and her wolf definitely wasn’t feeling friendly.

Seeing that the changeling—Zivko was his name—had lost a small chunk of his leg, she waited for a healer to confirm he was as well as he could be until he got reconstructive treatment. Then she asked Ethan and Margo to haul him up to his feet. His face contorted in pain but he didn’t cry out. At least he had guts.

She locked her eyes with his the instant he was upright, her wolf in her own. He couldn’t break the contact. The animal that was amber in his irises knew she was a predator with far stronger jaws. He had no choice but to look at her, no choice but to feel fear lock his body in place as perspiration broke out over his skin.

If Selenka wished, she could use nothing but the power of her dominance to force him to his knees, make him crawl. She didn’t usually unleash the depth of her dominance in such an aggressive way, but Zivko had made himself a threat to her pack. He was changeling, was wolf. He’d known the consequences he was courting.

“Talk,” she said on a growl.

He resisted for a split second, and a small part of her appreciated his grit. There was dominance there—the promise of real strength, if he ever got his head out of his ass.

But he was only an untrained and cocky boy against a honed alpha.

Shoulders slumping, he said, “We just wanted to mess with you.” Heavily accented but fluent Russian. “For turning us in to Blaise for the graffiti.”

Selenka took in the people on the ground. “How did you talk them into it?”

“They’re friends. I told them you got a bunch of us into shit with Blaise.”

Selenka wasn’t buying it—she didn’t think he was lying, but she also didn’t think he was telling her the whole truth. Either that, or he’d been manipulated himself. “Who came up with the idea of fire?”

It was an ugly thing she wouldn’t have predicted on the basis of the background checks Margo and Ivo had run on Blaise’s Disciples. The two had uncovered a couple of juvenile offenses to do with boosting cars, the odd speeding ticket, and a disturbing-the-peace charge attached to a human who’d once been a drunk, but nothing beyond that.