Chapter 8 · Gold in the Dark

The needle's still pressed into his throat when he smiles at me.

One centimeter deeper and the silvered wolfsbane hits his jugular. The Alpha of Ironcrest dies on my triage floor, his blood pooling over my knuckles, wearing that exact look. Like he already won.

"Kill me, Nora." His voice is pure gravel around the steel. "Or you and my cubs belong in my cage by sunrise."

My hand doesn't shake. Six years out in the rogue barrens beat the tremor out of me.

It's the rest of me that's betraying the line. A deep, treacherous pull low in my spine. That sick animal ache that doesn't give a damn about survival. My body hasn't done this in six years, and it picked tonight—with thirty armed wolves ringing my clinic—to wake back up.

His scent fills my mouth. Bitter pine. Cold iron. And underneath, the scorched-caramel heat that used to mean safety.

The air scrubbers roar overhead. They're already choking on him.

I run the math because it's the only thing keeping my fingers steady. Thirty enforcers in my yard. Theron's rifles on the roof, scopes dialed on black armor, leveled at my own fence.