Chapter Three
He can’t be dead. He can’t be dead.
Ellen stood absolutely still. Waiting. Watching. No movement, no movement, nothing. And, inside, she couldn’t stop screaming. Couldn’t wrap her mind around what she saw—pale, cold, and stiff on the ground.
The wind reeked of death. Three bodies lay in the blood-soaked snow. Three bodies mangled and terrifyingly still. But only one held Ellen’s attention. Byron. Byron the butcher. Byron the bastard. Motherfucking coward.
“Get up,” she ground out, shaking her hands, fighting for control as she stalked the dark-red patch of snow where he lay.
If he moved, if so much as a finger twitched, her wolf would act swiftly. Even now her wolf was pushing to get out, the urge to tear what remained of Byron’s body to tiny pieces was almost beyond control. Part of her wanted that, too.
Part of her wanted to run away. Far away.
Where would she go? She had no place. No one and nothing. She’d be hunted by all sides, the good and the bad, because she was neither. Peace was not in the cards for her.
Time was slipping away. Dead or not, Byron had answers. And the only way to get them required touching him. Being weak was never an option, especially now. Palms clammy, heart slamming into her ribs, stomach churning, she forced herself closer to Byron’s remains.
“Ellen?” Hollis’s voice. Soft. His hand gently clasping her arm.
She spun, her fist smashing into his nose without thought. Byron’s presence put her wolf on alert. Instinct ruled—the instinct to protect and fight. At the expense of Hollis’s nose.
He released her, one hand covering his face. “Jesus, Ellen. It’s me.”
Of course it was. Hollis was her shadow. Always two steps behind.
“I forgot you were there,” she murmured, offering no apology. He’d no cause to touch her. Ever. She understood his pack was too wary of her to allow her a moment’s solitude. They had dangerous enemies, they should be wary. But not of her. Hollis was one of the few to believe that. Maybe that was why she didn’t mind his constant presence. He accepted her as she was. Even when she did foolish things like insist on running here—not waiting for reinforcement—and into what might have been a trap.
Byron loved traps. Setting them. Waiting for them to spring. And playing with his new toy—unless his Alpha had other ideas. Her gaze swept the perimeter of the meadow, looking, anxious. Were there more here? Waiting to attack? Waiting to drag her back? Her wolf sensed no threat. Not yet. But there was only one way to be certain.
She spared a glance at Hollis, his curse muffled as he pressed a handkerchief to his bloodied nose. He’d heal, wolves healed quickly. But a broken nose wouldn’t matter if Byron’s pack, the Others, were coming for them now. The only thing that would matter then was survival.
No more standing around. Pushing aside the rising panic, she closed the gap between herself and the man who had delighted in torturing her.
He is dead. Dead. Gone. No threat anymore.
A gust of wind blew Byron’s shaggy mop of thick black hair, giving the illusion of movement. Her wolf whimpered. She froze—cowered—before red-hot anger took over. “Bastard,” she hissed between clenched teeth.
Enough. No more weakness.
Crouching, her bare knees numb in the biting cold snow, she shook her hands before pressing her fingers against Byron’s chilled flesh. Faint sensations slid across her fingertips. “Damn you,” she ground out, biting into her lower lip, placing her palms flat against his body. Years of experience warned her she was too close, in striking distance, preparing her for the first blow—but her wolf demanded she stay strong. Clenched teeth, every muscle poised to run, breath shallow and uneven. Concentrate. Breathe. He can’t hurt us now.
Byron was cold. Stiff. Gone. But it offered no relief. His death was her right, a right she’d been robbed of. Rage rolled over her, so much she burned with it. To see him this way—throat ripped wide, a clean death—only added to the insult. Byron the butcher hadn’t deserved mercy.
Focus.
Information burned into her fingertips and palms, radiated along her arms, and flooded her mind—vivid images, conversations, sensory processing. Splintered but telling.
The answer she needed most was easy to find. “He acted alone. The Others didn’t know his plan. They won’t follow him,” she told Hollis. Her mind was wandering, sifting through other images and sound bites, digging in places she’d best leave alone. An image of Cyrus rose up, his colorless eyes and humorless smile making her wolf wince and back away. Cyrus was Byron’s Alpha. He’d been her Alpha for a time. Whatever damage Byron was capable of was child’s play compared to the man. No, the monster. “Cyrus doesn’t know where he is. But we must burn the bodies.”
“How do you know?” Hollis’s question was vague, muffled…far away.
Something was there. Something her wolf wouldn’t let go of. She had to find it, whatever it was.
“Ellen—”
“Hush,” she barked at Hollis. Explanations would wait. Explanations, now, would only lead to more questions and answers. She wasn’t ready for that.
Her wolf was hunting, trapping her in Byron’s head. Ellen didn’t want to know how Byron had hated her, and loved her, and hated loving her. Or that hurting her gave him pleasure. How he’d adored making her scream. The more she’d rejected him, the more desperate his need to hurt her. Cyrus was the only thing that stopped him from killing her. Killing her, losing her power, was an unforgivable act. And Byron hated her most for that—her power and her importance to Cyrus.
But her wolf held on, searching until…
No. Fuck, no. Her mind shut down, but not before she’d seen… Oh God. No. It was too much. Her wolf ran, hiding from the truth, as her hands slid from Byron’s body. Now was not the time to face the demons of her past. Not yet. Cyrus and his pack of Others had taken everything from her. Everything. But anger. Anger was good. Rage was better. Her eyes fluttered open. Her wolf’s growl spilled from her lips. But the sound was tempered with anguish.
And she hated it—hated the power Cyrus and the Others still had over her.
Cyrus lived. For now. Somehow, someway, she would watch the life fade from his eyes.
It was the only purpose she had left.
Birdsong reached her. The Montana wind whispering through the trees. The sun was rising above the horizon, faint yellow in a pale-blue sky. Life went on. No matter the pain and suffering and injustice that existed, life never stopped. No one could share in her grief for those she’d lost. But she held on to them, to remember why she fought. And holding on ensured the sharp pain of their loss would never fade.
The pain was good. It kept her rage razor-sharp and lethal.
Her gaze fell to Byron. Still cold and pale. Still dead. But that didn’t stop her fury. “You’re lucky Mal killed you. Lucky it wasn’t me,” she hissed, her hands fisting against Byron’s chest. The air in her lungs expanded, tight, crushing, forcing her to scream, “You would have paid for what you’ve done, you fucking bastard. You would have bled.” She slapped him, the sound enraging her all the more. “You took everything from me. You took her from me.” A red haze clouded her vision, the roar of fury in her blood drowning everything else. Stopping wasn’t an option. Her wolf didn’t want her to stop. Over and over, until her arms and body were shaking, she hit what remained of Byron. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
“Ellen,” Hollis soothed. Steely-arms slipped around her waist, pinning her arms at her waist, and pulling her away from Bryon.
She struggled, his hold restraining her made things worse. He didn’t know. Couldn’t understand. “Don’t touch me.” She pushed out of his hold and slumped back in the snow, staring blindly around her. The connection was severed and her endorphins crashed. Nausea set it, breathing ached, and staying upright took effort. Burying her hands in the snow eased the resulting burn, but not the feel of Byron from her skin.
She stood up, swaying on her feet, rubbing her hands together, but it was still there. He was still there. Clinging to her. She doubled over, throwing up until her stomach was empty and dry heaves had her pitching forward. Hands on knees, she waited until her breathing steadied, then pushed herself upright. And came eye to eye with Hollis.
Green eyes, alert, searching, far too quick. He was waiting for something. Answers most likely. He was a man of science, he said, always looking for answers. Well, he could wait.
“Where is the truck?” she asked, glancing beyond Hollis. Her palms still burned, still tingled. Washing them would help. Or scrubbing them…with bleach if necessary.
“Cold?” He shrugged out of his carefully pressed shirt and offered it to her. She hadn’t realized she was shivering. Even naked, as she was now, she was rarely cold. Her wolf kept her warm. But her wolf was in shock, still reeling, still hurting. “What can I do?” His question was soft.
As a skilled physician, brilliant at deductive reasoning and logic, could Hollis bring Byron back from the dead, so she could kill him again? Slowly. Painfully. Even if he could, would he? Since it was a ridiculous train of thought, she kept her mouth shut and tugged on his shirt. His scent wrapped around her, offering her a warmth she’d never admit she craved. Craving, wanting, needing—weakness. Glaring seemed a perfectly acceptable response to his question.
Copper brows arched, his gaze searching her face. “You don’t scare me.”
“Liar,” she whispered. He shouldn’t look at her like that, like he cared. And, to a point, he did. She was a puzzle he yearned to solve. He could try, but she wouldn’t make it easy for him. Eyes narrowed, she stalked toward him, taunting, “I scare you. You know I do.”
His concern evaporated.
She smiled slowly, sweetly, enjoying the telltale tightening of his jaw. Teasing Hollis was one of the few pleasures she allowed herself. Whenever the possibility arose, she took it. Like now. Right now, she needed pleasure…in whatever form available.
He ran a hand through his tousled copper hair. “You frustrate the hell out of me. That’s not fear.”
“Then perhaps you fear what I make you want to do?” she asked. Like embrace his wild side and find his wolf. He had a wolf, no matter how he denied it. Her wolf sensed his beast, inside Hollis, just beneath the surface, aching to be freed.
“You overestimate the affect you have on me,” he countered, using his most detached tone to great advantage.
“Perhaps.” She shrugged, her fight draining.
He glanced at Byron, then back at her. “What just happened? I know…something happened.” His bright-green gaze was invasive…and irritating. “Are you okay?”
“Stop asking that. I am.” Enough thinking or talking about Byron. “The bodies must be destroyed here. If you take them back, you risk leading the Others to your sanctuary.” Her gaze swept the horizon. “It’s too great a risk.”
“Okay.”
She stared at him, then startled. “No argument? You surprise me, Hollis.”
A frown creased his forehead. “I only argue when necessary. When it comes to the safety of our pack—”
“Your pack,” she interrupted.
“The pack,” he kept on, “I won’t take chances. You said the Others aren’t coming—”
“Not now. But they will look for him eventually.” She nodded at the corpse. “Cyrus will. He was important to Cyrus, to his pack.” She swallowed back the rage that choked her. Cyrus appreciated the bastard’s skill set, a skill set Ellen had endured far too often.
“Was he important to you?” It was a simple question, without any judgment. Hollis had the infuriating ability to stay rational under even the most trying of circumstances.
“His death was,” she muttered. Countless hours had been dedicated to imagining ways to exact her revenge on Byron. Each fantasy was more detailed than the last, offering a temporary balm to the aching hole in her chest.
“He deserved to die?” Calm, assessing, clinical.
“Yes.” Her gaze met Hollis’s, unflinching, wanting him to understand. Needing him to understand. “But not like this. Not quickly, cleanly, drinking in fresh air, on a battlefield.” A hard knot lodged itself in her throat, making her next words garbled and thick. “He should have suffered. Alone and broken. Choking on fear and begging for mercy that would not come.” As she had.
Hollis stepped forward, his hands hovering inches from her shoulders. Her wolf craved touch, comfort, and support. From Hollis? Yes. From Hollis. Ellen frowned and shied away. Until Cyrus was dead, she’d earned no right to comfort.
The distant roar of a truck engine announced the arrival of the rest of Finn’s pack.
“Will you tell them?” It was hard to look at him then. Lying to one’s Alpha was no small thing.
“Tell them what? Something happened, but I have no idea what.” He studied her, those green eyes sweeping over her face. “What can I say?”
She shook her head, avoiding his gaze at all costs. “They were alone. The pack, for now, is safe. They need to know that, as long as we dispose of the evidence, no Others are coming.” Which was good. Finn’s pack, Hollis’s pack, had much to lose. Namely children. Something the Others had been unable to produce for more than two decades. While she belonged to neither pack, she would protect Finn’s children. Her species was a proud race. Finn, Hollis, and their pack honored that. That, alone, earned him her loyalty.
Hollis was watching her again. “Glad to hear it.”
Her nod was stiff, fighting back the drive to hunt, to fight, to run. To do something. Anything was better than standing here, knowing too much, feeling too much, with no hope of relief anytime soon. Finn and his pack had been treating her as a guest, but that didn’t mean they would let her leave. And she’d have to leave if she was going to defend those worthy of protection.
It was time to confront her past, time to face her demons. Her gaze fell to Byron. Demon. Only one remained. Cyrus. No matter what the cost. She had to kill him.
…
Hollis was beyond fucked up. Answers mattered to him. Information, facts, logic—things that led to answers and understanding mattered. Protecting his pack, all of his pack, mattered. And he relied on having the right answers. Ellen had them, more than he did anyway, so why was she holding out on him? She was a never-ending string of complex questions that had no clear-cut fucking answers. It was driving him crazy.
As was the way she was acting this very moment.
Slumped down in the rear passenger seat, wrapped in his shirt, her forehead pressed against the truck window, oblivious to the conversation taking place in the front seat. She was quiet. Calm. No sighs or sarcasm or biting comebacks. Today had shaken her. Badly.
And nothing shook Ellen. At least, not in the time he’d known her.
This was a woman who flaunted her scars, naked and unashamed—a visual “fuck you” to anyone who dared look at her with sympathy or pity. It was an almost daily occurrence, one he enjoyed far too much. The woman was exasperating. But she was fierce and strong in a way he admired even if he couldn’t understand. To see her like this, huddling in his clothing, almost dejected, was not only unnatural, it was distracting.
Even his packmates—Mal and Dante—kept glancing back to check on her.
Regardless of his medical and psychological training, he wasn’t equipped to understand what she’d been through. What could he possibly do or say to offer her comfort? Absolutely nothing. When it came to Ellen, he was consistently out of his element.
And what he’d witnessed today… It—she—defied logic. Ellen had placed her hands on Byron’s corpse and the air around her changed. Almost charged. Yes, electrified. Enough to spark. Her skin had flushed, her breathing slowed, and something happened to her. Rapid eye movements and muscle spasms, similar to deep sleep. But she’d been fully awake. Talking. Screaming words that squeezed his heart.
You took everything from me. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what that meant. Still, ideas were already forming. Ellen was a fighter for a reason. A very skilled, very lethal fighter at that.
You took her from me. Someone important. Someone very important.
Whatever happened, her words had been a revelation—her body jolted from the shock of it. Byron was dead, but, somehow, he’d told or showed her things.
He knew about Byron the butcher. Mal had spent months imprisoned, tortured by Byron at Cyrus’s orders. But what had they done to her? Who was the “her” Ellen had mentioned? The raw pain on Ellen’s face… He’d never seen pain like that. Whatever Cyrus and Byron had done to her had left a lasting impact.
And Hollis didn’t like it.
Now that his temper had cooled somewhat, part of his brain was working through what had happened in the clearing. Obviously, it worked through touch. But what sort of connection was it? And why hadn’t he known before now?
One more question to add to his mile-long list of Ellen-related questions. The last three and a half months had been the most interesting, exhausting, and confusing of his life. Because of her.
Still, he liked her. Without sound reason and against logic, he trusted her. She fought against his reliance on knowledge and his methodical attention to detail, but she respected his opinion and the way his mind worked. And while she insisted that magic and fate held as much weight as more concrete science, he couldn’t deny their world might have room for both. Perhaps that’s why they worked so well together.
While their fundamental ideals were opposite, they’d been working toward a common goal: keeping his Alpha’s mate, Jessa, and the baby she carried alive and well through pregnancy and delivery. They’d succeeded in something Hollis thought was impossible and Ellen had never, ever doubted.
Today had changed everything—again.
When or why, he didn’t know. Maybe it was when they’d moved the Others’ bodies and she’d jumped away from Byron’s touch. Maybe it was the slow easing of her posture as the Others’ remains disintegrated in the roaring flame. Or maybe it was before that. When she’d delivered Jessa’s baby and he’d seen hope in her eyes. Hope and joy.
That, he’d liked.
His gaze returned to Ellen. Mismatched eyes were closed, his shirt pulled tightly together, the slight flex and stretch of her hand was the only proof she wasn’t sleeping. He reached for her hand without thinking, curious. As he suspected, the skin of her palm was blistered.
“Did you burn yourself?” Which might be a plausible explanation if she’d helped them burn the remains of the Others. She hadn’t. These welts and blisters were caused by whatever the hell had happened between her and Byron’s corpse.
She tugged her hand from his and pulled it inside the shirt, out of sight.
“I’ll get you some salve when we get back to the lodge,” he offered.
Not a word.
“Jesus, what happened?” Mal asked. “I can’t take it. Call me an asshole or threaten to cut my nuts off again. Say something.”
Hollis smiled, appreciating his attempt to break the tension.
“Is she sleeping?” Dante asked, glancing over the front passenger seat to check.
“Only explanation,” Mal agreed.
If she were asleep, she wouldn’t be smiling. And she was, slightly.
Dante and Mal kept up a steady stream of conversation for the rest of the drive. Mal was on a high—not the norm. But then again, he had taken out the fucker who had kept him chained to a wall and used him as a carving board. Reason enough. Dante, like Hollis, was just relieved. Today had been high stress from the get-go. Knowing that no one else was coming, that they’d wiped out a small part of Cyrus and his Others, was just that. A huge, fucking relief.
Even if they all knew it wouldn’t last long.
If his time with the pack had taught him anything, it was to enjoy every victory, no matter how big or small.
Today had been pretty big. Killing three Others, Cyrus’s right-hand torture master included, was pretty big as far as he was concerned. Jessa’s early-morning delivery of a healthy baby girl made it even better.
Their pack was growing, which meant more to protect. More for the Others to target. It was a sobering thought. All the more reason to find answers.
He missed life before Finn was turned, before Finn had turned them, even if it had been predictable and boring. More than anything, he missed not having a pack of motherfucking monster wolves out to kill those he cared about most.
That’s why he was working so hard to develop a cure. If he could cure them, this would all be over. Life would be normal again—as normal as could be expected after living this way for a decade. He could spend all his time researching things that affected the world, not a small, violent group content to rip one another apart.
Not that his pack wanted to rip anyone apart. The only fighting they engaged in was defensive. They’d spent the first few years hiding their secret and attempting to live normal peaceful lives. But once Cyrus and the Others knew of their existence, that became increasingly harder to do.
Today’s attack? With Jessa in labor? It was too convenient, too easy. He didn’t want to believe someone on the inside had been waiting for just the right moment to tip-off Byron.
His gaze shifted to Ellen. Would she be blamed? She’d been an Other—well, she’d lived with them. That would make her a suspect. Not that it made sense. She’d put up with his pack, their questions, jeers, and cynicism for Jessa and her unborn baby. She wanted their species to survive. She’d never willingly endanger Jessa and the baby, especially at such a crucial time. No. He was certain Ellen hadn’t done this. And he wanted to prove it, somehow.
But if it wasn’t Ellen, who? Finn was careful about who he brought here. The refuge was a safe place for them, where they could be themselves—away from society and their enemies. Only the pack, Brown and Gentry, Finn’s security team were the only ones welcome here.
As soon as they pulled into the yard, Ellen slipped from the back seat and ran into the house.
“She’s acting weird,” Dante agreed. “Not that I like her bitchy sarcasm but this…” He shook his head. “Guess she was friends with them.”
Hollis thought about her reaction to Byron’s body. Her fury and tension and fear. Whatever he’d been to her, it wasn’t a friend.
“Byron wasn’t the type to have friends,” Mal said, staring after Ellen.
“Whatever. He’s dead. Sort of wish you’d waited to kill him so we could have grilled him.” Dante pushed open the passenger door.
“Next time I’ll try to remember that,” Mal snapped, slamming the driver door behind him. “Dumbass.”
Dante was still laughing when he pulled open the front door of the lodge. The scent of marinara and garlic greeted them. And burning wood. The dull roar of conversation. Followed by a terrified scream.