I stared at the heavily stained denim dress in the dark. The cold ealry morning air of the forest, now smelt faintly of ozone and something clean, a scent I realized must be my own wolf, Freya, was a total opposite to the heat of the bloody massacre I'd caused. I had run. Not back to the Pack house, not to Dawn, but deeper into the woods until the metallic stench of the dead rogues was a far away from memory. I cleaned the blood off my skin with damp leaves and dirt, which was frantic and clumsy, before finally sneaking back into my quarters just before dawn.
I was utterly numb. The silver eyes, the lethal claws, the raw power, and Freya's satisfaction of me committing that massacre was all an impossibility I couldn't face. Or maybe I didn't want to face it? I needed Dawn. Not the Alpha, but the man who had promised me safety, the man whose darkness he had claimed was controlled by my one word, "Ice." I needed to tell him what was going on with me.
