Whitefang trembled, his huge, intimidating wolf-body suddenly looking more like an oversized, guilty puppy caught chewing on a royal slipper.
"You could've just sent that gray mutt to escort her," Kayden snarled, his voice low and sharp like a blade. "But nooo, you had to lick her? What are you, a dog or a creep?"
His hand twitched—visibly. One more provocation and he might've just grabbed Whitefang by the scruff and punted him into the nearest bush.
Whitefang's ears drooped so fast they practically slapped his face. "I—I didn't know Ashmane would agree to take her!" he yelped. "He's never done that before! He usually acts like the forest owes him something!"
Kayden's jaw clenched so tight, he might as well have been chewing bricks. His fists balled up at his sides like he was one deep breath away from committing war crimes against woodland creatures.
Every time he thought about it—the image flashed: Helena, on the ground, beneath a wolf, covered in drool.
Blood. Boiling.
