Freya stumbled through the darkened woods, her breathing labored and her legs heavy from exhaustion. Twigs snapped beneath her hurried steps, and the occasional hoot of an owl made her flinch. But she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Her mind replayed the scene again and again—her father lunging at her, her own hands turning against him, his final breath leaving him.

You’re no better than him, a dark voice whispered in her mind. She shook her head, trying to banish the thought.

As the trees thinned, Freya slowed her pace, her chest heaving. A sudden movement ahead made her stop dead in her tracks. Her wolf senses sharpened, ready for a...