Chapter 25 #2
The battle was chaos—fur, blood, snarls, and flame—but I never stopped moving. I led from the front, from the heart. Every time one of ours faltered, I was there. Every time the line buckled, I held it. I was alpha by proxy, mate to Wolfe, but in that moment—I was more.
I was the Hollow’s fire.
The wolves who betrayed us fought like they had nothing to lose. We fought like we had everything.
The chaos had a rhythm now—blood and breath and instinct. I ducked a blow, spun, slashed. Killian’s howl tore through the clearing just before a wolf I didn’t recognize launched at my side.
I braced to take the hit. It never landed.
A blur of dark fur slammed into the attacker mid-air—an older wolf, thickset. The two of them rolled across the dirt in a snarling heap. I sprinted after them, claws digging in, ready to drag them apart—ready to finish it.
But the moment I reached them, it was already done.
The rogue’s body hit the ground with a sickening crack. The Stonefang wolf stumbled, blood gushing from a wound in his neck. He shifted—halfway—back to his human form, gasping.
I shifted and dropped to my knees beside him.
“No, no, no—stay with me,” I begged, pressing my hands to the wound. “Shift, please.”
His eyes found mine. Brown, glassy, burning with something fierce and raw. “Alpha Wolfe,” he said hoarsely, “tell him we follow.”
“You need to shift—”
He gripped my forearm, blood slick between our skin. “My family…” He inhaled, his breath rattling. “Make sure they’re safe.”
Then he was gone.
Just like that.
I stared at him, my hands shaking. His blood on them. His body cooling. A Stonefang Pack wolf—my pack—had died to protect me. No hesitation. No doubt.
And I hadn’t even known his name.
A sob built in my throat, but I swallowed it down. I couldn’t afford to break. Not now. Killian’s wolf roared in the distance. The fight wasn’t over. Not yet.
I closed the dead shifter’s eyes with one hand. I’ll carry this. I thought. I’ll carry him.
Then I stood. Killian had three coming at him at once. No. I’d not lose another pack member today. My shift was immediate as I ran back into the fire.
One by one, they fell. Until silence rose in a wave, unnatural in its swiftness.
Bodies lay scattered across the pack grounds. Blood soaked into the soil. My fur was slick with it, but I was still standing.
Still breathing.
Still burning.
The scent of Wolfe hit me before I saw him.
He tore into the clearing like he’d felt my every breath from a hundred miles away. Shifted. Wild-eyed. Covered in ash and fury.
But when he saw me—standing in the center of the field, panting, battered but whole—his steps faltered.
I shifted back slowly, shakily, blood drying on my skin, a dozen wounds burning fresh.
“I held the Hollow,” I whispered, voice cracking with the weight of it all.
Wolfe stepped forward, his gaze moving over every inch of me, and I felt the bond snap tight—singing with pain and pride.
He reached for me, and I went to him. Leaning into him as his arms wrapped around me.
“Is everyone—”
“They’re safe,” he whispered, reaching out. I felt him grab Killian. “You’re still bleeding,” he told him. “Shift and heal.” Wolfe pressed his lips to my hair. “Are you hurt, princess?” he murmured, drawing his head back and looking down at me.
“I’ll heal.”
“There’s a lot of wounded,” Killian mumbled. “You two good?”
“Go,” Wolfe told him. “Brand, Axel, and Cody are heading to us.” Wolfe kissed my temple again. “You okay?”
“Yes.” I was now that he was here and that it was over, even though I knew it was far from over.
“Then let us see to the wounded,” Wolfe said grimly.
We worked our way through the pack, helping shifters too hurt to shift without their alpha, or carrying our dead to the clearing. We worked until the pack was healing and safe, until all those who fought with us saw their alpha amongst them once more.
The pack was unsettled.
Wolves murmured. The injured were tended to. The scent of blood still hung thick in the air, but the edge of panic had dulled into something else.
Survival. Victory. Grief.
I sat on the steps outside the pack hall—where most of our pack huddled—barefoot, my knees scraped, in a dress that wasn’t mine. Thalia had handed it to me with shaking hands and a half-hearted threat to knock me out next time I tried to lead a battle from the front lines.
I didn’t argue. I just sat.
The blood on my hands was gone, but I could still feel it. I’d barely spoken since the moment it ended. Just enough to give orders. Check the wounded. Confirm the dead.
In my mind’s eye I saw the one who had died for me. I hadn’t even known his name. A wolf had died for me, and I hadn’t even known his name.
I curled my fingers into the step, nails digging into the grain of the old stone as if I could hold myself together by force alone.
Wolfe joined me. His scent came first—oakmoss, leather, and black pepper. His scent lived in my bones now. I didn’t lift my head until I felt him settle beside me, and his thigh brushed mine as he sat.
He didn’t speak. He was filthy—caked in blood, dirt, ash. His knuckles were white, his fists clenched too tightly.
“I didn’t think you’d make it,” I whispered.
“I ran.”
I turned my head to look at him, really look. “You got here too late.”
Wolfe didn’t flinch. Just nodded slowly. “I know.”
“But we won.” I hated how bitter the words sounded in my throat. “We held and we won.”
“You did.”
“I lost people.” My voice cracked.
“We all did.”
We sat in silence, the weight of our choices settling between us like ash after the fire. I reached for his hand without thinking and felt his strong fingers thread through mine.
“I don’t know his name,” I admitted, so quietly I wasn’t sure he heard me. “The Stonefang wolf who shielded me. I didn’t know him.”
Wolfe exhaled slowly, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, still holding my hand. “Then find out. Speak it. Make sure it’s never forgotten.”
My throat tightened. I would. For him. For all of them. We sat there like that, shoulder to shoulder, bruised, spirits battered and bloody. Not speaking of love. Not needing to.
Wolfe turned toward me and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. His thumb lingered against my cheek. “Your father would be so proud of you,” he said softly.
A tear slipped over. He leaned in, forehead touching mine, and for a long, quiet moment, the war faded. The wounds didn’t. The ache didn’t. But I didn’t feel alone.
Not in this pack. And this pack?
It was ours.