Chapter 27 - Theodore
Theodore
The tranq gun swung towards my chest, Callum’s finger tightening on the trigger.
“DOWN!”
Rory slammed into me with the force of a freight train, sending us both crashing to the forest floor. We rolled through bracken and dead leaves, my shoulder striking something sharp—a root, a rock. The world spun in a kaleidoscope of brown and green.
Then the agony hit.
It wasn’t just pain—it was invasion. Ten times worse than before, Rory forcing himself to shift ten times too quickly.
His bones became mine, fracturing and reshaping with sickening wet cracks that I felt in my own marrow.
It felt so real, every snapping tendon and stretching sinew.
The transformation was happening inside me and to me, my mind unable to distinguish between his body and mine.
Muscles I’d never had tore themselves apart and rebuilt, alien and wrong.
I screamed.
The sound that ripped from my throat was barely human, scraping my vocal cords bloody. For a long moment, nothing existed except the white-hot torture, then—
Whizz.
A dart sailed past my ear, so close I felt the displacement of air.
Pure instinct kicked in, muscle memory overriding the chaos in my head.
Assess. Move. Survive. My father’s voice echoed through the years: “We never freeze, son. The moment you freeze, you’re dead.
” My body rolled before my mind caught up, every movement precise despite the lingering echo of transformation tearing through my nerves.
Despite my exhaustion from sprinting here like my life depended on it.
My Glock was in my hand before conscious thought caught up. Training overrode everything else—stance, grip, sight alignment.
Where Callum had stood, a massive black wolf now circled a smaller golden one. Rory. Christ, his wolf was so much smaller than I even understood—absolutely dwarfed by Callum’s bulk. The bigger wolf feinted left, then lunged, jaws snapping at Rory’s throat.
I turned my attention to the three men. “Drop your weapons!”
They froze. The blond one’s tranq gun clattered to the ground, hands shooting up. But the dark-haired man beside him didn’t flinch, raising his weapon towards me.
I put a bullet through his arm.
Blood sprayed across the clearing in a crimson arc. His scream echoed off the trees as he dropped, clutching the ruined limb.
“Maxwell!” Isla shouted, though she made no move to help her associate.
Callum’s massive form struck Rory square in the chest. He flew backwards, hitting the ground hard near the third man. Steel flashed as he drew a knife from his belt.
“Drop all your weapons, now!” The words ripped from my throat.
I’d never shot to kill anyone before. Dad had.
He’d told me about it, voice heavy with something I hadn’t understood as a child.
Now I did. The weight of crossing that line settled over me, suffocating, but Rory’s stream of pain through our bond burned it away.
This wasn’t about my conscience—this was about survival. “Last warning, or I shoot!”
Ooof. It crashed into me again—sharp, breathless agony that made my own ribs ache in sympathy.
Through the bond, I felt his desperation, his fear not for himself but for me.
The golden wolf struggled to rise, one leg trembling beneath him, and Callum prowled closer with predatory patience.
Every second I spent dealing with these bastards was another second Rory spent vulnerable, outmatched, bleeding.
The cold mathematics of survival crystallised in my mind: three armed men between me and helping him. Three obstacles that needed removing. Now.
The blond man’s arm drew back, knife glinting.
I didn’t hesitate.
My finger squeezed the trigger. The first shot punched through his chest, the impact spinning him sideways.
Blood misted the air. The second man was raising his weapon when my bullet found him, dropping him in a graceless heap.
Two lives ended in the space of a heartbeat, and some distant part of me—the part that wasn’t drowning in Rory’s pain—catalogued exactly what I’d become.
Isla’s gasping filled the sudden silence. I turned to find the third man gone, vanished into the trees.
No time to think about what I’d just done. Callum was moving again.
Compartmentalise. Focus. Survive.
The wolves crashed together again, a writhing mass of fur and fangs. I circled them, Glock raised, searching for a clear shot. Every angle showed Rory too close—one wrong bullet and I’d kill the person I was trying to save.
Callum seemed to understand. The black wolf deliberately positioned himself so Rory’s smaller form blocked my line of fire, tactical intelligence gleaming in those predator’s eyes. When Rory tried to dart left, creating distance, Callum herded him back, using his bulk to maintain the shield.
My finger hovered over the trigger. If Rory wasn’t so close, I could use a silver bullet, take Callum down possibly just from a grazing wound. But their tumbling and tussling made it impossible.
Despite the noises from the fight, I still heard Isla’s breathing, coming in sharp, panicked gasps. In my peripheral vision, I caught her backing towards the trees.
“Stay where you are!” I barked, not taking my eyes off the wolves.
“He’s going to kill him!” she screamed, voice cracking. “Callum’s going to—”
A strangled sob tore from her throat, forcing me to look at her. She stood frozen, auburn hair wild around her pale face, freckles stark against skin gone white as bone. Tremors spread through her entire body like she was coming apart at the seams.
Then she bolted.
“Isla!” But she was already crashing through the undergrowth, panic-driven and unstoppable. Brilliant.
Rory broke free of Callum, beautiful golden fur streaked with horrible crimson, and lunged for the black wolf’s throat. He twisted away, but the movement opened up his left flank.
Now.
I squeezed the trigger.
The bullet punched through fur and flesh with a wet thunk. Callum’s roar shattered the morning air, pure rage. Blood welled from the groove carved across his ribs—a surface wound only.
Those yellow eyes fixed on me with murderous intent. Muscles bunched beneath his coat as he gathered himself to spring. Ice flooded my veins, and through our connection I felt Rory’s matching panic crash into mine—pure, animal terror that this was how we’d both die.
Rory’s teeth found Callum’s back leg, clamping down with desperate ferocity. The bigger wolf stumbled but didn’t fall, powerful hindquarters still coiled for the leap that would put me on my back with fangs at my throat.
I emptied my clip into his chest.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Three shots, centre mass. Callum’s body jerked with each impact, dark fur blooming red. Time crystallised, each second stretching impossibly long, Callum hanging suspended for an impossible moment, yellow eyes wide with shock. Then he crashed to the ground.
Callum’s massive body hit the earth with a wet thud, but he wasn’t finished. His paws scrabbled against the forest floor, claws gouging furrows in the damp soil as he thrashed about like some dying behemoth. Dark blood pooled beneath him, spreading across fallen leaves in an ever-widening stain.
Just fucking die.
The thought sliced through my mind with vicious clarity. I’d already killed two men, so what more was a third, especially this vile man. All I wanted was for this nightmare to end. For Callum to stop moving, stop breathing, stop being a threat to the golden wolf now collapsed ten feet away.
Rory lay on his side, flanks heaving with each heavy breath. Exhaustion radiated from every line of his body.
Blood frothed at Callum’s muzzle, pink foam bubbling with each desperate wheeze.
The metallic stench filled the clearing, mixing copper with the loamy scent of disturbed earth.
His movements grew sluggish, those massive paws that had been clawing for purchase now twitching weakly.
Each laboured breath came weaker than the last until finally, mercifully, the light faded from his yellow gaze.
His eyes fell shut.
I rushed to Rory, knees hitting the ground hard enough to jar my bones. His golden head lifted just enough to rest in my lap, and a soft whine escaped his throat.
“Don’t shift back,” I whispered, hands finding the soft fur behind his ears. “Not yet. Let yourself heal first.”
My fingers moved carefully over his body, cataloguing damage. A deep gash across his left shoulder wept crimson. Puncture wounds dotted his neck where Callum’s teeth had found purchase, though none looked dangerously deep.
Images flooded my consciousness—myself as Rory had seen me, gun raised, face set in grim determination. Then terror that had consumed him when Callum lunged transformed into something else entirely: fierce, overwhelming relief that I was alive.
Then new images crashed through: Dev, unconscious under those blankets in the buggy.
“I’ll check on him,” I murmured, stroking Rory’s fur. “But stay here.”
I approached the buggy cautiously, lifting the edge of the tarp.
Dev lay naked beneath, chest rising and falling steadily.
Human form, breathing normally. But Christ—his skin was a patchwork of healing wounds.
Angry red welts crisscrossed his torso, some still weeping, others sealed with the pale pink of recent scar tissue. I gave his shoulder a light slap.
A soft moan escaped his lips.
“He’s okay,” I called back to Rory, returning immediately to his side.
Time crawled past. Rory’s whines grew more insistent, restless energy building despite his injuries. Through our connection, I caught flashes of his desires—the burning need to shift back, the desperate urge to chase after Isla. He tried to rise twice, but I pressed gentle hands to his shoulders.
“Not yet. Give it time.”
I tried Seb and then Kit on the sat phone. Neither call connected. Were they airborne already?