His team moved like they always did—no wasted motion, no shouted commands. Where Dominic cleared space, the pack held it. Where the pack stalled, Dominic broke the line.
Thierry and Saint dropped a new wave of vampires, their claws flashing in synchronization. Chapel and Kennedy darted in behind them, catching stragglers before they could regroup, while the four wolves prowled the perimeter to barricade the exits.
Every inch of forward movement was hard earned as they pressed deeper into the manor, leaving a trail of broken bodies and shattered glass in their wake. The vampires, desperate now, fought with renewed ferocity, but the pack’s resolve never wavered. Each of them instinctively protected the others, always advancing, never allowing the enemy to retake ground.
Nearing the dimly lit corridor of the east wing, his focus sharpened, the faint scent he’d been following growing stronger, more pungent.
“This way,” he said, and the pack adjusted instantly.
The vampires guarding that wing fought harder. Smarter. That was enough to confirm his suspicions, but it also told him something else important.
The shifters they had come to save weren’t blood bags.
They were inventory.
A single, reinforced door loomed at the end of the passage, unremarkable except for the faint shimmer around it. Dominic split through the wards with ease, power flaring hot as the door came apart in his hands.
The room beyond was dark, dank, and it stank of wet fur and fear. Cells lined the walls—some reinforced, some barely more than wire cages.
And there were dozens of shifters. Some had already succumbed to their injuries. Others looked on the brink of death. Several sported puncture marks and bloodied necks.
Only a few had the strength to call out or reach for him through the bars as he started moving down the rows.
Selected.
That was the word that lodged in his mind.
These shifters weren’t there by random chance. They had been chosen.
He just didn’t know why.
Chapter eleven
Hip pressed against the kitchen counter, Sammy stirred thick batter in slow circles.
Usually, baking settled his nerves and gave him something solid to hold onto, but today, the motions felt hollow. The scrape of the spoon and the hiss from the oven made him flinch, every sound feeding the restless energy twisting in his gut.
The scent of apples and cinnamon saturated the air, the fragrance unusually cloying that morning. Beyond the windows, the first glimmers of sunlight illuminated the sky in shades of silver and blue, and his hands trembled as he realized what that meant.
Dominic had said he’d be home before sunrise, but he’d stopped short of making any promises. He also hadn’t clarified in what condition he would return, leaving Sammy with a gnawing sense of dread that twisted and knotted in his stomach.
A necessary evil, Rogue had called the pack. He hadn’t understood at the time, and a part of him wished he still didn’t.
For better or worse, Blackrock took on the responsibilities MOA wouldn’t. In return, the governing body turned a blind eye when bodies started dropping.
The fact that the pack risked their lives to keep others safe didn’t seem to matter. Not to the communities who looked to them for protection, and certainly not to the Ministry.
It sure as hell mattered to Sammy.
It wouldn’t have been right to ask his mate to stay, so he’d smothered the instinct the moment it had surfaced. When Dominic had kissed him goodbye, Sammy had tamped down the urge to call him back.
Now he was left counting the minutes, trying not to unravel.
For the first hour, he had busied himself by showering and tidying his room. Then he’d alternated between pacing the entry hall and staring out the front windows. Mia, the little Yorkie, had followed him at first, her nails tapping a steady rhythm on the hardwood.
When she had tired, she’d curled up on a chair to watch him instead. He’d felt her gaze growing heavier with each pass, judging, maybe, or just sharing his unease.
Boone, however, was less subtle.