The Hunted

Twenty-Two

Blake

She'd had to give them something. Even if her natural instinct was to shy away and block out the misery of her existence with dry humour and her weapons, Blake had known that she'd had to give those wolves something to make them trust her. Because she'd seen the look in Henry's eyes when he'd entered the room. He was debating telling her to leave, to kick her out for hurting his packmates again, and she would be forced to go back home with nothing except a few new scars and a lack of useful intel.

Besides, what did it really matter if she gave these creatures herself. The bits that she kept locked away from most prying eyes. When this whole thing was all over, she would get out, Malachi would come in, and they'd be all dead anyway.

She hadn't just come here for intel on the damned wall and werewolf weaknesses. No, she'd also come here to slaughter that wolf – Victor – and she'd just lost her best chance at it. There was no way now that they would let her get close to him. Not after he attacked her. Red would keep the two of them far, far apart.

Unless she came up with a way to make the fighting seem justified – like she wouldn't do it unless provoked. Even though she still had every intention of finding a way to kill Victor as retribution for what he'd done to her family, she needed to keep the appearance that she bore no ill will towards the wolf – at least until she had a way to bring that wall down and let Malachi in.

Perhaps saving Deacon's miserable life would be an asset – giving Henry some reason to trust her or, at the very least, to keep her around. It didn't matter that she'd saved Deacon with no ulterior motives. Blake had simply seen the tree starting to fall, had seen the wolf lying in the path of impact, and thought that being crushed by a tree would be an utterly miserable way to die.

Retrospectively, Blake probably should have left Deacon where he'd lain since the second he was back on his feet, he'd probably try to kill her again. There had still been murder in Victor's eyes too but Red had defended her. Had raced through the forest to find her and hadn't hesitated to attack her adversary when Victor was ready to deal a death blow. It wasn't the first time Red had protected her, of course. No, he'd been doing that from the moment they'd first met.

Blake still wasn't used to that. She had always been the one who protected others. Even Malachi hadn't ever gone to such lengths to ensure her safety. From the time she'd been confident with a blade and a gun, he'd sent her off into the world without a second thought – glad for another soldier to fight in this war.

Having someone look out for her, guard her, was foreign. And from the glint in Red's eyes now as he stared at her across the exam room...Even drugged up on morphine and half-delirious with blood loss and pain, Blake knew that look was of a man who would fight tooth and claw for her.

"Those scars on your back," Henry started. "You got those when you were a kid?"

Blake swallowed hard and took a breath. One that she needed to compose herself – and also because the doctor had started threading a needle through Blake's skin as she tied her shoulder back together with stitches.

She sensed Red and Monroe staring at her as well but she didn't look away from the Alpha as Henry stood. It was an action was one that demanded attention. There was a piece of dark chestnut hair that was sitting at an awkward angle compared to the rest. He'd been running his fingers through his locks. She focused on it – that strand of hair – as she said. "I told you before. The first hunt is always the worst."

"How old?"

"Eleven."

Red made a choked sound and when she glanced at him, he'd grown pale as death. Before she even had the chance to say a single word, he'd turned on his heel, thrown the door open, and strode from the room. The door slammed against the wall and then swung shut with an echoing bang.