Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 112089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
Brochan turned and strode away. He probably should’ve just kept going in the first place.
“Are ye through with yer tryst?” Niamh asked when he caught up.
Edgar loped after them as they kept moving. “Did he tell you what he found?” he asked when he caught up. “He found a four-leaf clover. On his first try!”
“Did he, now?” She glanced back, her expression impossible to read. “Beginner’s luck, maybe.”
“How do you know he hasn’t been looking at camp?” Mr. Tom asked. “Have you been spying on him?”
“Edgar’s been spying on everyone,” she replied. “That’s what he does.”
“I do not spy,” Edgar said. “I merely watch everyone discreetly so that they don’t feel anxious.”
A tremor of warning stole Brochan’s focus. A shiver started at the base of his back and crawled quickly up his spine. Danger. Something hostile was near.
Niamh glanced away to the right, then back at Brochan.
“Yes, that challenge will be for him,” Mr. Tom said. They’d clearly felt it too. “I’d just as soon get out of the way. I can’t imagine we’ll be needed.”
A branch swayed gently about fifteen feet away, in line with the presence Brochan felt. But there were more. Other bodies, maybe not hostile, hiding in the brush, watching.
He straightened his shoulders and held his head high as he walked to the area of the hostile presence. The branch stopped swaying. He stared straight ahead, bristling. His power pumped out a warning.
The challenge had not yet begun, so he wouldn’t be faulted for the posturing. He wanted to make sure these creatures knew exactly who they were challenging in the safety of their home.
A crackling announced the presence to his other senses. The basajaun was downwind, though, so he couldn’t tell whether it was someone he’d already met.
All at once, the creature’s concealment magic fell away, and he was running at Brochan. A vicious snarl ripped from the great basajaun’s throat as he charged, his large arms held wide on his ten-foot-tall body. Hair puffed out all around him, making the impossibly large creature seem that much bigger.
What a way to die.
Brochan lowered his gaze marginally, since there was no fear of his meeting the creature’s eyes while staring straight ahead, and bent a touch at the top of his back. It was the posture he used with Austin.
The creature continued forward, closing the space at remarkable speed. The basajaun reached him as the slavering snarl came to an end. His huge arm swung across and then out, striking Brochan across the shoulder and smashing him to the side.
Brochan flew, hitting the hard-packed dirt and sliding. Skin burned away from the contact. He hit a post with his head and then stopped when the rest of his body slid to the center of the path.
Anger curled within him. The desire to shift and fight back was almost overwhelming. Alpha Steele had never hit him like that. He’d never crossed the line, inciting the type of violence that would bring Brochan’s animal rushing forward.
Alpha Ironheart wouldn’t dream of it. She’d hunt down and punish anyone who did.
But he wasn’t dealing with his alphas now. This wasn’t about dominance, either. This was merely about his control.
The situation was triggering him, though. It brought back memories. Failings.
In his wandering days, after everything had been taken from him, he’d passed through towns where alphas did stuff like this—knock around weaker pack members, pick on people who weren’t able to get up and fight back. They’d been ridiculed, beaten, and punished for fun. For sport.
There wasn’t one day that Brochan didn’t regret pretending he didn’t see it. There wasn’t one moment that he didn’t feel like a coward for leaving those towns without trying to help. For turning a blind eye to the injustice, too sick with grief and loss to make a stand. Wishing for nothing other than an alpha strong enough to tear him apart like he’d seen others torn apart.
He’d found that someone. And then the alpha’s mate, who was equally strong. But instead of tearing him apart, like he’d initially wanted, they worked every day to rebuild him. To stand him up little by little and make him stop thinking—wishing—for the grave.
He owed them everything. If he had to keep his composure here and take a beating to show he had control, he’d do it ten times over.
Getting to his feet, he took a deep, shuddering breath. He would remember what this felt like—being made the victim—but not because he wished for vengeance on the basajaun. They were doing what they thought was necessary to protect their kind and their young. He’d do the same.
No, he’d remember it because his alphas planned to unite the shifters, which would mean taking a stand against wicked alphas like the ones he’d come across. Next time, there’d be no walking away.