The scent of blood lingered.

It clung to the trees. To the frost-bitten dirt. To the silence.

Lyla stood at the edge of the clearing, silver eyes burning in the dark. Her ribs ached, her side throbbed, and the cold didn’t numb the sharp pull of exhaustion deep in her chest.

But she was still standing.

The rival had fled wounded, not dead.

Vaughn was gone, too, dragged into the shadows by two of his remaining wolves. The rest had scattered when Lyla’s power had turned the forest ...