clamp down on the front of its throat just under its jaws and wait patiently as the mountain goat’s struggle starts to wane until it’s lifeless on the ground.
My wolf tips her head back and howls in victory, my own chest leaping with the accomplishment. We did it. We fucking did it!
We may have only just been joined for a few days and never hunted alone before, but we managed to work together and take down this animal high up on the dangerous cliffs and bluffs of this mountain, with no one to help us but ourselves. It might not seem like a lot, but it proved that we can hone our focus, we can use that edge of rabid need to work toward a controlled purpose.
Once we catch our breath, our exerted body cooled by the chilling mountain air, we look down at the impressive kill at our feet. Then, we clamp our jaw down around its neck, and we start to drag the big fucker.
Down the steep mountainside. Past craggy cliff sides and sliding rocks. It’s not pretty, but we lug the dead animal behind us like it’s all the baggage we’re carrying, refusing to give up beneath its staggering weight.
We can do this.
I have the strength to stop complaining and start moving forward, heavy circumstances and all. I have the ability to turn this around. It’s a different life than I would’ve planned, but one my wolf and I can thrive in if we seize it.
Down the mountain we go, nearly falling more times than we’d like to keep track of, until we finally make it to flat ground again. But that’s almost harder. Now we have to haul our burden without gravity aiding us, guided only by our sheer determination and need to fix what we can. Every strenuous pull and struggled inch is a living, breathing metaphor, and we need to succeed physically so that we can cross that line mentally.
My wolf is panting, legs shaking, teeth feeling like they’re ready to fall out by the time we stop. We drag the mountain goat into the clearing of Ruin Falls pack land, past shifters who stop in their tracks and turn curiously to watch us. We don’t stagger beneath the weight of their stares or the animal in our maw. Despite how much our body aches with exhaustion, we don’t collapse.
Instead, with our head held high, we drag our offering all the way to the alpha house, where Tyran is standing stock still. Shirt off, pants slung low on his hips, muscled arms crossed in front of his chest. He’s wearing a face that’s stony and unmoved, though there’s a gleam in his eye.
We drop the kill right at his feet and look up at him, unable to hold in our panting, not caring that our fur is covered in dirt and pebbles, teeth soaked in goat’s blood from our exertions.
Dusk’s descent has curled all around us, hugging the land with gray twilight as a fog threatens to roll in from the hills. I’ve been gone for hours, practically battered the poor goat’s body beyond immediate recognition with the drag, but when we look into Tyran’s eyes, it’s with the pride of one and a half violet irises...and a jagged glacial blue dissecting the eye on the right.
I feel the rest of the pack watching this exchange as we stand there before him, waiting to see what he’ll do, both of us looking out through our eyes at the male my wolf chose.
After what feels like an hour of agonizing wait, Tyran’s lips curl into a smile. “There’s the wolf I claimed.”
Pride lifts our chest, and then my wolf settles down while my spirit rises up. I shift, with the taste of mountain goat still in my mouth and its blood caking my chin and chest. Crimson war paint to signal the battle that was fought and won over the sharp rocks of a steep mountain, all to save the jagged shards of my soul.
His deep brown eyes drag over my nudity with heat sparking in their depths. I know I look a mess with scratches, mud stains, and wind-blown hair, but he says, “Savage looks sexy on you, Vicious.”
I stomp down on the tentative smile that wants to creep across my face. I don’t want him to see just yet what his words, his approval, means to me. I’m not quite ready to hand over those powerful reins just yet. There are things to