CHAPTER 93

On my left, there is some movement.

With a snarl, I spin around, swiping my claw at a wolf with a piercing blue gaze who hisses in agony and bounds back, the copper tang of his blood strong in the air.

Behind.

I'm not sure if that was my warning or my wolf's.

It makes no difference.

We've already whirled around to confront the danger.

The door behind me means I'm not in danger of injuring anybody who matters anything to me, so I stop battling my wolf the way I've been doing for years and start fighting with him.

And our adversaries perish one by one beneath our jaws and claws.

It makes no difference that others are rushing into the room, assaulting in pairs, one at a moment.

It makes no difference if they pierce my flesh with their fangs or cut open my back with their claws.

All that matters is that they perish.

The floor is slippery with my adversary's and my own blood, but the pain is a distant second—or is it third?—to the wrath erupting within me.

Then it's only me, my breathing r