Lachlan didn't remember getting to his feet.
One second, he was watching Sera pin a creature to the ground, blood streaking down her thigh and moonlight carving her into something ancient.
The next, he was outside.
Barefoot. Cold air hitting his skin like knives, but as much as his mind told him that he should be freezing, his body didn't feel anything. His chest was bare, his breath sharp in the cold, and still, he wasn't uncomfortable.
The horde turned.
A single, synchronized motion—as if the entire forest exhaled at once. Two hundred pairs of eyes fixed on him. Black eyes. Hungry eyes. And mouths that opened wider than any mouth should, revealing rows of gleaming, serrated teeth.
But Lachlan didn't run. He didn't scream. Instead, he froze, his breath caught halfway up his throat. Something under his skin stirred again, clawing toward the surface, screaming to get out. To determine who was actually stronger.
And the horde started to shift.
