Cyprus bit down on a groan as he hit the ground. Pressing his palm to pitted stone, his muscles shook as he tried to push upright. Made by dragon claws, deep gouges on the surface of the LZ scored his skin. Another round of pain streaked through him. Chest heaving, he struggled to regain his feet. Howling winter wind blew into the wide opening between the jagged snarl of towering rock. The cold raked over his bare skin, chilling the blood on his back, urging him to turn belly up and cry mercy.

Blinking red ooze from his eyes, he shook his head to clear his vision. Cry mercy, his arse. Staying down wasn’t a good idea. He needed to get back on his feet. The next strike would come any moment, but—

Goddamn. He hurt all over.

His brothers-in-arms showed no leniency. Little compassion either. Cyprus breathed through the agony. Shite. The males didn’t know the meaning of the word. Each stood strong, adhering not only to tradition, but the spirit of grevaiz. A necessary thing. After coming clean and telling his warriors all, he wanted the punishment. Needed the censure to strip away the past. To assuage his guilt. To carve away the bitterness and allow him to feel clean again. Had the pack gone lightly—and shown mercy—he would never have felt their forgiveness.

So, he endured. Strike after strike. Brutal knuckles and hard hits. Being knocked down again and again…without lifting a finger to protect himself.

Bloodied and bruised, aching all over, he rolled onto his arse. Blood dripped into his eyes but not before he saw a pair of boots stop beside him. A hand appeared in front of his face. Cyprus grasped it like a lifeline and, with a grunt, allowed Wallaig to pull him to his feet.

A gust of wind swirled into the LZ. The mountain groaned.

Cyprus swayed, fighting to maintain his balance. A big hand landed on his shoulder, steadying him. Swiping the blood from his brow, he met his first in command’s damaged eyes. Scarred beyond repair, Wallaig’s white pupils glowed in the gloom. The male stepped in close, pressing the points of his bloody knuckles into Cyprus’s chest, right over his heart.

“Forgiven.” Expression tight with regret, Wallaig touched his cheek to his, smearing Cyprus’s blood on his skin. “You are a worthy male, Cyprus. Strong and honorable. I am proud to call you commander.”

Standing in a semi-circle behind him, the other warriors murmured. Quiet voices all echoing the same sentiment—acceptance, absolution, the pride of calling him one of their own.

Relief rushed through him in a torrent of emotion. Cyprus shook as shock and disbelief collided. Tears pooled in his eyes. One fell, joining the blood on his cheek. Exhaling a shaky breath, he cleared his throat. Unbelievable. He hadn’t dared hope. Had feared his warriors would reject him without hesitation after being told the truth, but…his chest tightened…the males he fought alongside understood instead, accepting his imperfection, forgiving him for his mistake, still comfortable under his command.

With a nod, Wallaig released him and stepped back.

One by one, his brothers-in-arms came forward. Each cupped his nape, thumped his chest and touched cheeks with him, the agony of hurting him a dark blight in their eyes. Their pain as great as the physical anguish now throbbing through his body.

The last in line, Tydrin approached on quiet feet. Tossing tradition aside, he didn’t touch cheeks with him. His brother hugged him instead. “Well done, brother.”

Returning the embrace, Cyprus rapped him on the back. “Thank you, Tydrin…you wee runt.”

Tydrin laughed.

Wallaig snorted. “Enough with the love in. We’ve work to do tonight.”

Grabbing Tydrin by the scruff of his neck, Wallaig yanked him away from Cyprus. As his brother stumbled backward, his first in command nailed him with a no-nonsense look. “What’s the plan, lad?”

Rolling his shoulders, Cyprus met each warrior’s gaze in turn. Mouthy Levin. Brutal Kruger. Stoic Rannock. Bad tempered Wallaig. And steadfast Tydrin. He flexed his fists, assuming the mantle of command as though it had never been in question.

“Now, we hunt,” he said, sounding more beast than man as his dragon half took over. “Grizgunn wants my female. I pricked his pride when I took Elise from him. He’ll search for any sign of her and—”

“You’ve fed from her?” Kruger asked, emerald green eyes intent on his face.

Cyprus nodded. “And fed her in return.”

“Brilliant.” Picking up a rock, Levin tossed the pebble from hand to hand. “You can mimic and broadcast her bio-energy like a signal. We’ll set a trap, draw the bastards in and—”

Rannock growled. “Gut the arseholes, one at a fucking time.”

“Exactly.” Cyprus grinned, aches and pains forgotten as the thrill of the hunt coursed through him. “Pair up. Levin and Kruger, Wallaig and Rannock…Tydrin, you’re with me. Everyone follow my lead.”

Showing teeth, his warriors snarled in agreement.

Cyprus turned toward the ledge and, arms and legs pumping, ramped into a run. Footfalls hammering stone, he sprinted across the LZ. The toe of his boot meet the uneven edge. Without pause, he leapt into the void and, glorying in the blast of cold air, shifted into dragon form. His body lengthened. His hands and feet transformed into claws. Black and white orange-speckled scales replaced his human skin, spreading like wildfire as he unfolded his wings. An updraft lifted his bulk. Cyprus banked hard, rocketing between two jagged peaks. Brutality settling in his veins, he turned south toward Edinburgh. No time to waste. He had a rogue pack to hunt and Grizgunn to kill.