The warehouse smelled of iron and sweat and cheap liquor. Blood streaked the floor, boot prints smeared across it, broken cards and glass glinting under the overhead lamps.
The last of the wolves lay scattered—some were unconscious, some were moaning, and a few of them were clutching wounds that pumped dark, wet stains between their fingers.
Sera stood at the center of the chaos, breathing steady, the creature restless under her ribs. Her horde had done its work, swift and precise, and now only one thing remained.
The bay doors hung crooked on their tracks, bent during the scuffle. Through the gap between them, the night pressed close. To the men, it was only shadow and snow. To Sera, it was alive.
Figures swayed in the dark. Lean shapes, half-broken, teeth gleaming faint in the spill of lamplight. Their hunger reached her like heat, the thrum of starving dogs straining against chains.
