RETH

Reth had avoided going to the prisoners as long as he could by insisting upon receiving his briefings from the sentries and guards before he did anything else, and by speaking with Behryn briefly when his friend woke, about the most important questions to ask them. Their discussion about what information he should prioritize in the event that one of them was dying as he answered, turned Reth's stomach, and clearly wore Behryn out. But Reth knew Aymora was right about at least one thing: The loss of these two lives—if it was necessary—was better than the lives it might save.

What Reth had to reconcile was what he would do, how he would feel, if he killed these men, but they gave him nothing. He prayed that wouldn't be the case. Though he knew Aymora would say that their deaths would still benefit him when the rumors reached their enemies that Reth had personally tortured and killed the prisoners.

She believed that on hearing that, any of their people who might have considered leaving the Tree City—and Reth's rule—would be convinced it wasn't worth it.

Reth wondered if instead he would be galvanizing his enemies and stopping the return of any of their number who might be beginning to see through the Wolves' false façade of comraderie. What if those Anima heard of his ruthlessness and felt they had no option but to support Lerrin and his rebels?

The truth was, he would never know.

But he'd sent one of Aymora's assistants and a couple guards to administer the herb tincture Aymora gave him an hour ago. And it should now be at full potency. So there was nothing left to wait for. He had no choice but to go to the trees where the prisoners were being held.

After farewelling Aymora and a silent Hollhye, he walked out of the cave with a sigh. He didn't shift into his beast form to travel to the other side of the city. He needed his mind, and he needed the time. He spent the first half of the walk praying for wisdom and forgiveness for what he was about to do. These were the moments he wished he could speak with his father who had waged war against rebels for a full two years. But the only moment that came back to him now was the night soon after he'd returned from the human world when he'd woken in the night and needed a drink and walked out into the Great Room of the cave, only to find his father sitting in a chair by the fire, staring into it.

At twelve he was already tall and broad, though he hadn't reached full adolescence yet. Even so, to him his father was huge, his hand spanning almost the entire fat arm of the chair that…

Reth swallowed. His own hands spanned that arm now. When had he become as big as his father?

He shook his head and turned his mind back.

"Dad?

" he'd asked, certain his father must have fallen asleep, or perhaps been playing a game. Why else would he sit there by himself in the middle of the night?

"Son,

" his father said, suddenly coming alive. He'd turned his head to find Reth walking around him.

"Did I wake you?

"

"No, I was thirsty.

" By then he was in front of his dad, his back to the fire, the orange light flickering over his father's large form, casting a Reth-shaped-shadow across him. But even in the low light, and even sleepy, he could see his father was pale and his skin clammy.

"What's wrong? Are you sick?

"

His father had sighed and Reth had sensed in him that parental concern that meant he felt Reth wasn't yet ready to hear the real answer, so he would make one up.

But then he hesitated.

Reth waited.

His father pulled his hands into his lap and stared at them, turning them back and forth as if he were searching them for something on his skin.

"Son, war is ugly,

" his father said suddenly, his voice low and rough.

"I pray you never have to face it. But if you do… do not make choices from anger. Or fear. Whatever you choose, choose it because you know it to be the very best way forward. Then, when it is over, you will still be able to look at yourself in the mirror.

"

It had been lost on him, then, what his father was saying. Why he sat staring at flames in the middle of the night. But now… walking towards the moment he'd always prayed he'd never be asked to face, Reth understood.

And he knew that there really wasn't another option. It was a provision from the Creator that these males had been captured. An opportunity to discover things about their enemy that could not only save lives, but possibly win a war.

He knew he had to do it. He would not ask another Anima to do a job he was not prepared to do himself. And he would not put blood on the hands of someone who served him because it turned his stomach.

No. He would do this, though he may have his own nights in front of the fire after. But the one thing he would be absolutely certain of was that he did not enter this weak, or fragile.

So, as he turned his mind to what was to come and stalked the rest of the way to the trees where the males were being held, he spent every last breath becoming as full of himself as he was capable.

He wanted them to smell him coming. So as he walked, he scanned back through his life, remembering every victory. Every challenge he'd met, every enemy he'd faced down—or killed—and let himself feel his full authority. He remembered the call of his Pride, and the roar of taking his mate. He remembered every moment he'd ever succeeded, every mountain peak he had climbed—literal, and figurative—to reach where he was today.

He was King.

He was Clan Leader.

He was Alpha of all.

And he was more than a match for two **ing wolves.

His breath was deep, but quick, his body pulsing with the Alpha power, the scent of which wafted off of him in waves and… for the first time since Elia had entered Anima, he let himself become truly angry.

These males had invaded his home, attempted to kill him—and almost succeeded in killing his best friend and second. Had his mate been there, they would have taken her—were likely a part of the group that had tried to in the past.

There was a flash in his head of Elia in the meadow the night those three wolves had tried to take her—the fear and fragility on her face, the way she'd clung to him later, her body trembling. Her frantic need to get stronger, ever stronger, because she was so desperately aware of how weak she was in comparison to the Anima.

She did not need strength. He had strength for both of them, and these two were about to find that out the hardest **ing way in creation.

He gave in to the urge to roar, to tell his enemies that he knew them and was coming for them, letting his call echo out over the entire WildWood so Lerrin could hear it too. Then he let it putter out into a growl that he held as he walked.

Fucking wolves.

Fucking war.

Stealing his mate from him. Stealing his people. Stealing his soul.

Then he caught scent of the imprisoned wolves—their sweat, their fear, their defiance—and he began to prowl.

By the time he stalked out of the trees into the small clearing where the first storage tree stood, he throbbed with so much Alpha power, the guards were fighting the urge to submit purely at the sight of him.

He hoped these **ing wolf cunts pissed themselves when they smelled him.