The West Pack was a pack of wolves—literally and figuratively.
Henry Nightshade had raised them with iron fists, believing cruelty forged loyalty, and that fear was the best kind of obedience.
Unknown to him, all he'd really done was breed monsters—ravenous, power-hungry beasts who learned to bare their teeth even to their own kind.
Now, those same wolves were turning on his son.
Asher's breath came ragged as he braced himself against the wall. Blood leaked from his abdomen, and the scent of iron filled the air, mingling with the smoke that burned his lungs. The assassins closed in, circling like vultures over prey that refused to die.
He tried reaching through the mindlink again.
Jeremiah! he called, forcing the link open with sheer willpower.
But there was nothing. The connection snapped back like a whip, making his head pound. Someone, or rather, something, was blocking him.
He gritted his teeth. No way in hell was him dying like this.
