Lowell spits blood, his vision hazy, but his body refuses to fall. His breathing is ragged, his chest heaving from the bullet wounds scattered across his torso and the one deep in his chest. The pain barely registers. His Lycan blood burns through the damage, sealing the wounds almost as fast as they come. But he’s fucking exhausted.

The bodies of Marco’s men litter the ground around him—ripped apart, their blood staining his claws, his face, his fucking soul. He lost count of how many he ...