The ride back to camp felt like torture.

Laura sat behind Dante on his horse, but she might as well have been alone. His back was rigid against her chest. Every muscle in his body screamed anger.

Behind them, wagons carried the wounded villagers they'd managed to save. Thirty-seven people. Out of two hundred.

The numbers kept spinning in Laura's head. One hundred and sixty-three dead. How many of those shadow wolves had been people like David? People with families, with children waiting for them to come home?

"You could have died," Dante said suddenly. He sounded really pissed.

Laura pressed her face against his shoulder. "But I didn't."

"That's...