LERRIN
Lerrin stalked through the Tent City—the name they'd given the encampment—his teeth set. He was on the edge of rage. He had no energy to try to avoid the eyes and words of his people. Let them come. And let them feel the rough side of his tongue if they did.
They were self-indulgent and ill-disciplined. Even his soldiers! And he was finished stepping around the issue.
His mind trailed back through that afternoon's meeting with the three fists that had been chosen for the mission to assassinate the cat. All of them the best snipers, trackers, and hand-to-hand combatants the wolves could offer.
And all of them snarling, vibrating on their feet with bloodlust as if they'd never learned restraint! He'd been appalled. Asta had snapped at them to stand down, and they'd done it—but their intentions were clear.
