The Pack Girl's Retribution (Sequel to The Pack's Girl)

Scouting

By the time Hunter returned, his face was solemn.

"You found a hideout." I filled in.

Hunter nodded slowly. "There are only a few wolves there now, if that's what you can call them." He frowned. "They're hardly that."

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Vanquish queried. His hands landing on my shoulders as he tipped down to be level with my face.

I nodded stiltedly. "I have some rage I'd like to expend on their kind."

"Keep in mind that many of the NightHunters were different packs before they were taken over."

"They chose to succumb. They didn't have to."

I didn't.

"As you wish." Vanquish rolled his shoulders and steadied himself.

"Here." Racer walked over and handed me the handle of an ornately carved knife. It was narrow and smooth, winding with vines. It was small and fit very well in my palm. "Keep this on you at all times."

My eyes flew to his face. "Did you make this?"

He lowered his head in a nod. Turning away before I could gush over it.

He never knows how to handle such things.

I leapt on his back and wrapped my arms around him.

He froze. Letting me hug him.

I felt the heat emanating from him and knew it pleased him that I was so appreciative of it.

Hunter walked over with his old belts and put it around my waist. Jerking it as tight as it would go.

It slung sideways over my hips.

I tucked the blade Racer gave me into the strip of leather. I adjusted my dress to ensure the buckles were

done and the skirt in place.

I'm ready.

The guys armed themselves with their own weapons before we headed out. Moving as one in a straight line behind Hunter.

After an hour or so, we heard the hum of an alive campsite. People walking around.

We lowered behind a boulder to watch.

There were women in the camp. They looked beat down and worn out. Dirtied and lurking in corners of the campsite. Peering around as though they wanted nothing more than to bolt.

It wouldn't take much for them to switch sides.

Back in an open corner hut, I could hear a woman shrieking. She was on her hands and knees.

A large man was climbed over her, he was

flat on his feet and hunkered forward with his hands on each side of her shoulders. He was dropping down as he pounded into her. Clearly with no regard to which hole he took.

Or purposely causing her pain.

He was firmly planted in her backside. Taking her with a greedy smile while her head was thrown back, her face contorted in pain.

She was dirty. Her hands and knees smudged with dirt. Her breasts swinging with every vicious thrust. But she wasn't begging him to stop or trying to plead with him.

Obviously having already learned that all of that was useful.

It was obvious she was the pack bitch.

They all mount her when it suits them. I knew it meant she'd be pretty, submissive, and with no protector which resulted in whatever male who wanted to climb atop her.