LISA
Mira stands in front of me, fully wolfed out, gray fur bristling.
Snow crunches beneath my boots as I back a little further away.
Something isn't right. Ten massive wolves wrestle with the Westwood wolves, brutally aggressive, and yet not a single one glances my way.
A gray wolf—one of our guards, I'm pretty sure—flies past us, blood matting his fur. He slams into a tree with a sickening crack. My stomach lurches. I can't recognize the wolves by sight like Ava does, because they all look alike. Only Kellan stands out from the rest, a little larger and more russet than gray.
He launches at two attackers, his teeth finding purchase in one's throat, trying to pull him to the ground. But these wolves don't seem to notice pain.
