Scarlet held his gaze. “So?”
Lips tightening, he gestured at her. Scarlet followed the look to her own hands. Nothing. Nothing. Then she saw the red-ringed bruise on her upper arm and cursed.
Sixty-Four
He dreamed of Ran, his younger brother, after he’d become a monster. In the dream, he watched as Ran prowled around his prey, his muscles flexing beneath his skin, saliva gathering at the corners of his mouth. Ran’s hand curled into a fist, then sprang open, revealing the fingernails he’d filed into sharp points. His eyes glinted with the knowledge that his prey had nowhere to run.
With a snarl, Ran dug his claws into the victim’s sides and tossed her—her. The dream sharpened, the blurred shadow turning into a girl as she was thrown into a statue at the center of a dried fountain basin. She was bleeding, her red hair dark with grime, her eyes bloodshot with panic.
Wolf watched, but could do nothing. He was encapsulated in stone and only his thoughts were wild and alert, telling him again and again that he’d failed her.
The scene switched, and he was a boy meeting his pack for the first time. He was still trying to get used to the fact that they had taken his Lunar gift away from him and turned it into something unnatural. Something that would make him a better soldier for their queen. The rest of the boys eyed him with loathing and distrust, though he didn’t know why. He was just like them. A pawn, a mutant.
Just like them.
The sound of a gunshot ricocheted in his head and he was standing in a crowded, dusty square. His mother collapsed beside him. Blood pooled under his feet. But they weren’t his feet. They were enormous paws, prowling back and forth, and the scent of his mother’s blood was in his nostrils—
The dream ended the same way it had begun. With the girl, beaten and covered in blood. She was on her hands and knees, scrambling to get away. She rolled onto her back. He could smell the blood on her. He could feel the horror rolling off her in torrents. He could see the hatred in her eyes.
This time, he was the predator. This time, she was looking at him.
He jolted awake. Stop Ran. Kill the alpha. Run away. Save her. Find the old woman. Kill Jael and rip his still-beating heart from his chest. Find his parents. Join his pack. Tear their limbs from their sockets. Hide. Be brave. Protect her. Find her. Save her. Kill her—
“A little help here!”
His eyes were open, but he couldn’t see beyond blaring lights. Someone was holding down his arms. Multiple someones. Growling, he snapped his teeth at his captors, but caught only air.
“Stars above,” someone grunted. “I’ve never seen one of them wake up like that before. Hand me that tranquilizer.”
“No. Do not tranquilize him.” This second feminine voice was soft and calm, yet spoke in demands. “Her Majesty has requested his presence.”
Wolf got one arm loose. Cords snapped around him. Something scraped beneath the skin of his forearm, but he was too frazzled to pay it much attention. He snagged one of the blurred shapes by the throat and tossed him overhead. A scream was followed by a crash of metal.
“What—”
Wolf found the second person and wrapped both hands around their throat. Just a snap …
A shock of pain tore through his arms. He let go and the stranger stumbled back, gasping for air.
Wolf collapsed back onto the table. Though the pain had been brief, his left hand continued to twitch.
It wasn’t a table at all, he realized. Shallow walls surrounded him. Dozens of tubes, many of which were still buried in his flesh. The tugging sensation he’d felt before was from needles still half-buried under his skin. Grimacing, he turned his face away, the sight churning his stomach.
Not more needles. Not another tank. Not more surgeries.
Footsteps approached and he glanced toward his feet. A form was silhouetted in the bright lights. A female thaumaturge in red, with pitch-black hair pulled into a bun. “Welcome back, Alpha Kesley.”
Wolf swallowed, though the movement hurt his throat. Something felt wrong. Many things felt wrong. Something was on his face. A mask, or—
He reached for his mouth but the cords held him back, and this time he didn’t fight them.
“Finish the reconstitution procedures,” said the thaumaturge. “He is quite amicable now.”
Another woman crept into view, rubbing her neck. She eyed Wolf warily as she started to remove the needles from his arms, then disconnected some probes that had been stuck to his scalp. He flinched at each one.
“Can you sit?” asked the lab technician.
Wolf braced his muscles and pushed himself upward. The task was easier than he’d expected. His brain was telling him he was weak, confused, delirious. But his body felt ready to fight. His nerves hummed with unspent energy.
The technician handed him a cup of orange liquid. He sniffed it first, his nose curling in distaste, then fit it to his lips.
He paused. Lowered the cup again.
Raising his free hand, he pressed it against his mouth. His nose. His jaw.
His body convulsed with horror.
It was done. After years of fighting to avoid becoming one of the queen’s monsters, it had happened.
“Is something wrong, Alpha Kesley?”
He met the thaumaturge’s gaze. She was watching him like one might watch a ticking bomb. Wolf knew he had no words to express all the confusion and bewilderment and the savage needs pulsing through his brains, needs he couldn’t name. He didn’t think he was capable of speaking, anyway. He drank the orange liquid.
The dream came back to him in sharp, scattered pieces. The girl’s red hair. His brother’s animalistic fury. His mother falling, dead, out of his reach.