Then I see her.
Emma.
She doesn't shift gradually.
She erupts.
White explodes across the clearing like moonlight weaponized. Her wolf form is massive—larger even. Has she grown? Her fur so white it reflects the firelight like polished bone.
She places herself directly between Cameran and the enemy.
A challenge.
A promise.
The first wolf reaches her.
Emma doesn't snarl.
She tears.
She slams into him chest-first, driving him into the ground hard enough to crater the earth. Her jaws close around his face—his face—and she rips upward.
The sound is obscene.
She doesn't stop.
Another lunges from the side. Emma pivots, takes the hit across her flank without reacting, and snaps her jaws shut around his neck. She shakes once.
Twice.
The body goes limp.
She drops it and turns, eyes burning silver-white, daring the forest to send more.
Eight more wolves burst from the trees.
Reinforcements arrive, but it doesn't matter.
Nothing does.
She is on a warpath now, and there is no force alive that can stop her. Her focus is singular, ruthless—fixed on death. On every soul who has wronged her. On those who dared to hurt her, to hunt her, to try to destroy not only her but the people she calls family.
This isn't rage without purpose.
She will tear down anyone who threatens this kingdom. Anyone who believes cruelty is power. Anyone who mistakes her mercy for weakness.
And as I watch her move through the battlefield—unstoppable, incandescent, terrible in her grace—I feel it settle deep in my bones.
Awe.
Reverence.
Absolute, unwavering respect.
Not just for the woman I love.
But for the Moon Goddess's chosen monarch.
Emma charges.
She doesn't dodge.
She doesn't retreat.
She plows through them.
One she pins and dismembers with her claws alone, peeling muscle from bone. Another she bites through the ribcage, crushing lungs, leaving him choking on his own blood.
A third tries to flank her.
She catches him mid-air.
Her teeth snap shut around his spine.
He never hits the ground alive.
I feel Cade's awe ripple through me.
Without warning I feel someone charging at me, Valen comes for me.
He doesn't shift.
Coward.
He rushes me in human form, silver knife in hand, eyes wild and unhinged.
"You stole her!" he screams. "She was mine!"
I meet him head-on.
Shift snapping back violently, my human hands already wrapped around his wrist before the blade reaches me. The silver burns—but I don't let go.
I punch him.
Once.
Twice.
Bone shatters.
He howls and knees me in the ribs. I feel something crack but I don't care. I throw him into a tree hard enough to splinter bark.
He laughs, blood pouring from his mouth.
"She spread herself for you," he spits. "Let you take what was supposed to be—"
I hit him again.
This time I don't stop.
We crash into the dirt, rolling, fists flying. He fights dirty—claws out, teeth bared—but he's sloppy, fueled by obsession not skill.
"Maybe before we kill her, I'll have a taste," he grins, blood slicking his teeth, eyes feral and fever-bright. "I've waited this long. Might as well take a bite."
Something inside me goes cold.
Not rage. Not panic.
Clarity.
That single sentence strips Valen of the last thing keeping him alive—any pretense of being a wolf. Of being a man. He isn't a rival. He isn't an Alpha. He's a disease. A rot that's been festering in my kingdom while I was too busy trying to rule with restraint.
That ends now.
I hit him like a force of nature.
I don't remember deciding to move. One moment he's smiling, savoring his words, and the next I'm on him, driving him into the earth hard enough that the ground cracks beneath us. The impact knocks the air from his lungs in a wet, choking sound.
I pin him there, knee in his chest, weight crushing, teeth bared.
He stabs.
I feel it before I see it—silver sliding between muscle and bone, a burning, screaming agony that detonates in my shoulder. My vision whites out for half a second. The smell of my own blood fills my nose.
Cade roars.
Not in pain.
In fury.
The sound rips through my skull and down my spine, ancient and monstrous, and I welcome it. I let him flood my veins, let the line between us blur until there is no separation between King and wolf, only wrath given form.
I grab Valen by the throat.
His fingers claw uselessly at my wrist, eyes wide now, smile gone, terror finally dawning as he realizes he miscalculated. He always thought he was entitled to her. Thought obsession was the same as destiny.
I slam his head into the ground.
Once.
Bone cracks. I feel it vibrate up my arm.
Twice.
Blood sprays across my face, hot and metallic.
Three times.
His body goes slack beneath me, limbs twitching, breath gurgling in his throat.
Not dead.
Not yet.
I shift partially, the transformation ripping through me with brutal speed. Claws burst from my hands, tearing through skin, black and lethal, dripping with power. I sink them into his chest, between his ribs, feeling flesh give way like wet clay.
He screams.
It's high and broken and beautiful.
"Not yours," I growl, my voice no longer entirely human, no longer restrained. "Never was."
I dig deeper.
I feel his heart beating against my palm—fast, frantic, desperate—and for one fleeting moment, I want him to understand exactly why this is happening. I want him to feel how small he is. How wrong he was. How inevitable this ending has always been.
Then I rip it out.
Valen dies staring up at the sky, mouth frozen mid-scream, eyes glassy and empty, his blood soaking into the soil of a kingdom he never deserved to walk on.
I let his body fall.
My chest heaves. My hands drip red.
And through the bond—through everything—I feel her.
Alive.
Fighting.
Mine.
The war isn't over.
But Valen is.