I was dreaming.
No—reliving.
The scene returned like a cruel loop, playing over and over in my head.
My mother's scream.
Finn's wolf lunging forward, fangs flashing under the pale light.
Blood.
It spilled across the ground in rivers, hot and metallic, splattering against my face and soaking through my clothes.
I tried to run to her, but the weight of her blood pressed me down. My hands were painted red.
My mother's body collapsed, and Finn's wolf stood over her with bloodied fangs, eyes glowing like coals.
"Stop!" I heard myself cry, but my voice was weak, lost in the roar of my wolf's panic inside me.
Leika's howl joined mine, the sound fracturing, breaking apart as though even she couldn't withstand the sight.
Blood, again and again.
I blinked, but it was still there. It wouldn't wash away. The ground was drenched, my palms slick, my clothes sticky.
And Finn. His fangs, his claws, his golden gaze, his rage.
