Trauma

“Filthy fucking humans,” Dylan grated through elongated teeth.

​ Xavier hummed in approval from where the Alpha Prince stood before the bleeding and bruised excuses for men. He was in his completed half-formed state; seven feet tall, with a large wolven head, hundreds of pounds of muscle hulking over the pathetic sacks of human waste on plate-sized paws.

​ Ava’s captors cowered beneath him from where they sat broken on the bathroom floor. Covered as they were now in their own piss and tears, it was almost shocking to think that, only minutes before, they’d been waterboarding a girl, suffocating her to within an inch of her life.

Where was all of that gall now? The wherewithal to stand over someone and play God, taking the reins of life and death in your hands?

It was in Xavier’s hands now. And Dylan’s. And he’d already made up his mind on the fate of the men on the floor. When he shared a look with his friend, he knew he had, as well.

Eight men were in this room, and only four