After the war, London is in chaos.
Packs are battling it out for dominance in the streets, lycans are killing each other in illegal fight dens. The Royals are being murdered.
All Juliet wants to do is forget - forget Sebastien, forget the wa...
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Tremors of fury wracked my body as I stalked out into the corridor. It took every last drop of self-control to hold back the urge to shift; like a rabid dog backed into a corner, all I wanted to do was embrace my instincts.
To let go.
To tear his throat out.
The stench of blood, sweat and death clung to the air — to my skin. I could smell them on me, the other fighters I'd killed; their skin was embedded in my fingernails, their blood staining my clothes, and no matter how many times I told myself that it was kill or be killed, I knew it didn't matter, because I was as good as dead anyway.
Michael had made damn well sure of that.
My fists clenched. The stitches pulled, itchy fire creeping through my nerves. In the back of my head, I could hear my own words coming back to haunt me: He's strong, but he doesn't have any training. Hell, I might as well have broadcast it on a billboard in the middle of the city — Two strays roaming the streets, just ripe for the killing. Come find us.
I shoved my hands into the tattered pockets of my jacket before I punched something. I wanted to scream. I wanted to light the whole damn city on fire with my rage. This wasn't the first time I'd come perilously close to rock bottom — but this time there was no plan B.
No way to fight my way back out.
Because I had fought.
I'd slaughtered every single obstacle in my way, and still —
The look. The look. The damn look.
It played on a loop in the back of my head, over and over: Veronica's face. The calculation in her eyes as she glanced in Michael's direction. The look that said, Maybe you're right.
My rage spiked.
It's his fault, it whispered to me. He did this...
I approached the desk where I'd gotten my number and the guy behind it eyed me warily. I realised I was glowering at him, my brows pulled down into a forbidding scowl, but my face refused to twist into something even remotely friendly.
Not that he wasn't prepared; there was a gun perched conspicuously on his end of the table, right next to his hand. Reminding me to play nicely. I imagined I wasn't the first rejected fighter high on adrenaline to consider taking out a few pack members, or that the possibility of a fight breaking out between factions hadn't crossed their minds. Their protocol was well practiced: everyone left separately, in an orderly fashion, under the watchful eyes of waiting attendants.
Like one more death could possibly be bad for business?
