Wolfborn: Second Chances (Excerpt)

The Lost

The guards had bound Devon Creed in place with silver-plated chains and cuffs crafted from solid steel. The precious metal seared her exposed skin, insidiously poisoning her bloodstream and draining her will to fight until she stopped defying the bonds holding her on her knees.

The abrasive, sun-warmed texture of the blood-soaked stone bruised her skin, and it felt like hundreds of fire ants devoured her numb legs.

Her central position in the "Circle of Justice" was an "honor" reserved for mass murderers, kinslayers, political rivals that stir rebellion, and traitors. Prince Marcus accused her of all these things, fashioning her into a villain the likes of which the werewolf kingdom had not seen in a thousand years.

He framed her with minimal effort, orchestrating each detail to perfection. Always putting her in the wrong place at the wrong time, with no excuse for her presence and no idea of what she would find.

Maria's letter provided the final nail in my coffin. At the time, I didn't think twice about my cousin's impassioned plea in that familiar cursive hand on the embossed parchment. Nor did I doubt the authenticity of the wax seal imprinted with their family crest.

Dear Devon,

My husband has gone insane again. This time, he threatened the children. Please come alone. I don't want to set him off, and Malvern always listens to you. Don't let your father see this missive and burn it as you always do; you know what he thinks of Malvern and his temper.

Yours always,

Maria

It was not the first time Lord Malvern drank too much and threatened his wife, but never the children—not with his background.

Devon left her tasks undone, and despite going against her father's wishes, she hurried to the aid of her family. She snuck from the castle, borrowed Hank's horse from his stable, and took the shortcut through the forest.

The keep's doors were ajar with no signs of forced entry when she arrived. A bloodied sword lay abandoned in the foyer, and the familiar blade belonged to Malvern. She picked it up without thinking.

The scent of blood permeated the air and became denser near the Great Hall.

Instinct drove her to run toward it and push open the enormous oak doors torn half off their hinges by some unknown force. Something wet and sticky smeared her hands, but she ignored it.

Devon rushed into the room and froze.

They were all dead.

Maria.

Malvern.

The children...

"Oh, Creator, no," Devon whispered, her hand before her mouth as her insides heaved.

Malvern's men-at-arms, the servants, and even the dogs before the hearth had been slain.

Shock iced her heart as her brain struggled to process what she saw.

No, no, no... her mind screamed. Did Malvern do this?! No, then he would not be dead as well. They were attacked.

Maria was her best and only friend since childhood. The idea of her vivacious green eyes never opening again, her laughter never filling another room, and her just being gone refused to sink in.

*This can't be happening,* the wolf muttered over and over again.

*Who did this?* Despite her dismayed shock, Marcus' crest, drawn in blood near Malvern's body and half obscured by the scuff mark of someone's boot, drew Devon's attention. *We have to get out of here,* she panicked. *We are in danger.*