Thorne

The scent hits me before I break through the last line of cedar.

Riven. Mala. Blood.

My heart slams against my ribs, my Lycan snarling inside me, claws scraping against bone. Run.

“I am running,” I grind out, vaulting over a fallen trunk, boots barely touching the forest floor. Pine needles scatter behind me as I push harder, lungs burning, the metallic tang of fear thick in the air.

Not Mala’s fear.

Others.

When I burst from the tree line at the forest’s edge, I see them.

A cluster of small bodies—pups and Juveniles—mud-streaked, wide-eyed. Riven stands at the front, jaw set, blood matting the sleeve of his shirt....