Chapter 13 · The Scent of the Hunt

The wolf didn’t blink. Neitherdid I.

Rain drummed against the eaves. Plink. Plink. Plink. Each dropfelt like a timer counting down to my death. He was massive—ribs like barrel hoops under wet gray fur, oneear a mangled stub. He didn’t lunge. That was the worst part. Wolves that want to kill youdon’t stand in the doorway just to breathe you in.

He was tasting the air. Tasting me.

Igripped the iron poker in my right hand, my knuckles white. A knife in my left. Both were useless. A pregnant she-wolf, two weeks past heat, hiding in a rotting cabin. My pup kicked hard, like he wanted to introduce himself tothe monster standing six feet away.

Don’t. Don’t you dare move.

Ash. Pine tar. Creek mud. I’d smeared the sludge over my belly for nine days until my skin crackedand the stench made me gag. It was supposed to mask the pup. It was supposed to buy me one more night.

Therogue lowered his head. He inhaled, slow and patient. When his yellow eyes snapped to mine, the hunger didn't vanish—it sharpenedinto interest. Interest is always worse.

"Go on," I rasped. "Nothing here worth bleeding for."

He stepped over the threshold.