This Dark Wolf (Soul Bitten Shifter #1) - Everly Frost Page 0,31

picturing someone in place of the target.

“Her ex-boyfriend. He taped her mouth shut so she couldn’t use her scream to defend herself and then beat her to a pulp. He left her for dead.”

“Fuck,” I whisper, leaning against the glass, feeling the rage and pain vibrating through it. “How did she survive?”

Iyana presses her forehead against the transparent wall, closing her eyes, pensive and subdued. “The same way we all survived. Tristan Masters found her, killed that son of a bitch boyfriend, and brought Danika here. Helen healed her.”

I stiffen. I can’t keep the shock from my voice. “Tristan saved her?”

Iyana nods. Still facing the firing range, she says, “He saved us all, Tessa. There isn’t a woman in this place whom he didn’t pull out of some hell and bring here to safety.”

Inside the firing range, Danika lowers her weapon, grips the edge of the bench, and leans forward, hanging over the space as if she’s trying not to throw up. The air becomes still again, but the silence feels charged as she collects her weapons from the bench and stumbles to the door.

My hands clench and unclench. There’s no way Tristan Masters saved these women out of the goodness of his heart. “What was his price?”

Iyana draws away from the wall, casting me a curious glance. Her lips part in puzzlement. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what does Tristan want in return?”

Her forehead creases. “Nothing, Tessa. He doesn’t—”

The glass door hisses as Danika pushes it open and leans against the open doorframe.

“Fuck.” Her hands shake as she presses the back of her hand across her forehead, a gun still gripped in it. “He can’t die twice, can he?”

Iyana swings away from the wall. “He’s dead for good, sweetie.”

“For better.” Danika picks herself up off the doorframe and wobbles toward me. “I’m sure Iyana has told you what she can about me, but just in case… I’m a hawk shifter. Twenty-four years old. I don’t like mornings.”

“I’m Tessa,” I say. “Wolf shifter. Twenty-three.” My father died last night.

I fall silent, but Danika gives me a nod of acceptance without asking for more information. My heart opens a little that I can trust these women to understand some things are too painful to talk about.

Danika sways in the direction of the weapons room. It looks like she’s struggling to stand up, but even so, she takes care placing the pistols safely back where they belong. Then she drags herself up the stairs.

Iyana exhales slowly as she watches Danika go. “Don’t let Danika near your room when Ella’s counting canaries. Hawks and canaries are predator and prey.”

Now that Danika’s gone, I lean against the glass wall, still fighting the pain inside my body.

I accept Iyana’s verbal attempt to lighten the intensity of the mood around us and respond just as lightly. “I bet.”

Iyana holds the door open for me. “Come on. I can teach you how to handle a gun.”

“Who says I don’t already know?” I ask, my defenses flying up again.

Iyana’s lips rise into a sly smile as she reaches for me and wraps her fingers around my arm. She keeps the door open with her foot. “Honey, if you knew how to shoot a firearm, you would have picked your weapon of choice already.”

I swallow a moan as pain shoots through me when her fingers close around my bruised bicep. Leaning more heavily against the glass wall to support myself, I abandon my false bravado.

I desperately want to learn how to handle a gun—I need to learn everything I can from anyone who is willing to teach me—but I shake my head. “Honestly… I don’t think I’m up to lifting a weapon today.”

Iyana’s forehead creases as she studies me. “What do you mean?”

I point to my face with a dry laugh. “This is everywhere—shoulders, ribs, hips. I’m having trouble rotating my shoulder. I don’t think I have a hope of extending my arms to fire a gun.”

Iyana purses her lips, tilting her head to the side. “You’re in pain right now?”

My laugh becomes sarcastic. “No, I’m not in any pain at all.”

“Damn. I thought you looked pale. I assumed it was your normal shade.” She carefully removes her hand from my arm as if she’s only just now realizing how much she’s hurting me. Her shoulders are tense, her grip on the box of bullets in her other hand tight enough to crinkle the cardboard.

“You shouldn’t be in pain right now,” she says, peering at me, her gaze passing