Chapter 100

Lenora

The Savage Claw mutts have the audacity to come back without my mate.

They swagger into White Stone like nothing’s wrong, their boots dragging dust, their expressions empty of shame. When I ask where Cameron is, all they offer is a shrug, a half-muttered "we lost him."

Lost him.

As if he’s some pup who wandered off chasing butterflies.

I want to rip their throats out.

Instead, I stand at the edge of the circle of wolves that has formed, my arms folded, my voice carrying enough ice to silence the whispers. "So you came back here without him? Without even trying?"

A few glance away. The new leader clears his throat, but the words catch like he knows better than to test me.

I don’t waste more time. "Able-bodied wolves, with me," I order. The bond thrums steady in my chest, strong and alive. He’s out there. He’s breathing.

We gather a small hunting party—young warriors, a few of the council’s sons, and seasoned trackers who know the forest paths better than anyone. Weapons glint under the moonlight, claws half-drawn. The scent of moss and damp earth fills my lungs as we push into the trees.

Around me, the others whisper:

"What if the vampires took him?"

"No Alpha could fight alone—"

"They say he was human once. What if he—"

"Quiet," I snap, sharper than a whip. They fall silent, ears flattening, eyes lowering.

I’m not worried. Not truly. I think—no, I know—I would feel it if something happened to him. The bond would shatter, leave me hollow. But it’s strong, thrumming in my chest like a second heartbeat. He’s fine.

The forest floor is damp beneath my boots, sucking faintly at each step, dew clinging to moss and roots. The night has dragged on too long, and now the horizon blushes with the first thin rays of dawn.

The wolves with me are restless, their shoulders hunched, their ears flicking back at every whisper of wind. I barely hear them. I only hear the pull. The steady thrum of the bond guiding me forward like a compass buried in my bones.

We reach the point where Savage Claw claimed they lost him broken branches, footprints scattered, the acrid stench of blood that isn’t his. Their tracks veer south, clumsy and panicked. But Cameron’s presence? It hums north. Steady. Certain.

I don’t hesitate. I turn, and I walk.

"Alpha’s mate—where are you going?" one of the younger wolves asks. His voice cracks on the word mate.

"Where he is," I answer simply. My voice brooks no argument.

They follow. Of course they do. Wolves are pack creatures by nature, so even if I’m leading then to their deaths which I’m not, they have to follow.

The trail sharpens.

Boot prints pressed into damp earth. A familiar scent clinging faintly to the air—Cameron’s. Fading, but enough. Enough to pull me like a tether through the forest.

Then it hits. That stench.

Rancid. Rotting. A smell that worms into the back of the throat and refuses to leave. The scent of corpses. Vampire corpses.

The wolves stiffen around me, hackles rising, ears flat. No one speaks, but every breath comes shallow now.

We push forward.

Gasps break behind me. I don’t need to look to know why. The copper sting of blood grows thick, choking, and then I see it:

A clearing painted red. Mangled limbs, torsos ripped open, heads twisted and tossed aside like discarded fruit. The soil is soaked through, glistening black-red under dawn’s light.

My mate was here.

"Some remain behind," I command, my voice steady though my stomach roils. "Burn the bodies. And send word to Nana—we’ll need her guidance for the blood. Vampire blood poisons everything it touches. It’ll rot this land for decades if left."

Wolves scramble to obey.

I step forward, boots slicking with gore. My pulse hammers.

Parasites. Even in death, they linger. The sun scorches them, yes, but slow, weak, like a half-hearted punishment. Only fire devours them completely.

We continue on. The path is marked in crimson, in shredded bone, in silence too heavy for words. Each step is a story of violence—Cameron’s violence.

And I can’t help thinking: he came out here to monitor Savage Claw. To assess. Not to... to unleash this. I’m not complaining though, it’s so attractive.

I glance back. Savage Claw had sworn they couldn’t even find it, the nest. Cowards. Liars.

So why does it look like my mate single-handedly tore through half a nest?

The trail shifts again. The ground gouged with deep claw marks. Struggle. Something dragged, unwilling. Not Cameron. The direction of the scrapes, the desperation in them—they belong to prey.

My blood runs cold.

We follow. The air thickens with the scent of death. The silence deepens, wolves padding softer, breaths held.

And with each step, I know—

We are walking closer to whatever tried to drag itself away from him.

Whatever my mate refused to let escape.

***

Cameron

Seriously.

Just how many are there? 𝓯𝙧𝙚𝒆𝙬𝙚𝒃𝙣𝙤𝒗𝓮𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

The sun’s already bleeding through the canopy in faint streaks, and they keep coming. One after another. Claws, teeth, red eyes in the dark. I’ve lost track of the number I’ve cut down.

My boots are slick with dirt and gore, my arms humming with exhaustion, but still my claws stay out because more will come.

The one I’m dragging now is half-dead, twitching, leaving a dark smear across the forest floor. My fingers are locked around its ankle like an iron trap.

"Are you all this weak?" I mutter, more to myself than to it. "Because I expected more."

It snarls. Thin, high, like a feral dog.

I crouch, bring my face level with its ruined body. "So. Where’s the nest?" My voice is steady but low, a question asked for the last time.

Nothing. It bares its teeth.

I roll my eyes. "Right. Loyalty. Or stupidity."

My claws slide deeper into its leg with a wet sound. It jerks, but still no words. Just another rasping growl.

"I know you can talk," I remind it. "You were barking orders to retreat a few minutes ago."

Some of them got away. Most didn’t. This one sure didn’t.

"We’ve got all day," I tell it, my tone almost conversational. "Well—I do. You don’t."

The dawn light is stronger now, painting the treetops in gold. My shirt’s torn, my skin streaked in black-red where their blood clings.

"I’m curious, though," I add, tilting my head. "Do you turn to dust like in the movies, or is that just bad writing?"