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Discipline kept the wolf from emerging as he leapt off the edge of the roof. Clearing the mess of the lodge’s front gardens with a few feet to spare, he landed on his feet and rolled to protect his joints. They would heal if he damaged them, of course, but he needed them to get to Mercy.
He was conscious of Peter’s shout as Adam started sprinting through the deep snow. Without the thirty-odd feet of elevation, he couldn’t see the creature—and he’d never seen Mercy at all. But he knew where it was. He’d have to run around the edge of the lake.
He thought about traversing the lake. This side—he was on the far side of the lodge from the hot springs—was frozen solid, scored by drifts of snow. He might cut the distance by a third if he ran on the ice.
But werewolves can’t swim. If he fell through, he would never make it in time to help Mercy. He vaulted over assorted raised flower beds and fences until he was running along something that might be a path that edged the lake, where there were no trees or shrubs to hinder him. Like the rest of the ground, though, it was full of treacherous drifts that he had to break through or jump.
The wolf’s paws would be faster than his clumsy human feet that had no claws to dig into the snow. That knowledge burned in the magic in his blood. But he couldn’t afford the time it would take him to shift.
Someone from the lodge was running behind him, calling questions. But Adam’s wolf had risen in his heart, and he was unable to understand the human words. Adam didn’t slow himself down by looking behind him.
As he ran, Adam continued to reach out for Mercy through their mating bond. But none of the tricks he’d learned did anything to let him break through.
His wolf pulled on the pack bonds—which were of more use. From that pathway, he could tell she was in a lot of pain. Not quite enough to register in the pack without someone actively seeking her out. She wasn’t dying. Not yet. He didn’t kid himself that she was okay.
Something was hurting her.
Everything slowed down, as it did in the middle of battle—as if there were seconds between each of the beats of his heart. Someone had hurt his mate.
He would stop them.
His human body was too slow. He was armed, but that wasn’t enough for the wolf inside him. He needed to have access to his teeth and claws.
He needed to not be too late this time—as they had been too late before.
A flash of Mercy’s garage as it had been, blood and bits of flesh that used to be a human man. Mercy had already killed her attacker, and all that Adam could do was tear the body to bits. He had not been fast enough.
And on a barren vineyard just two months ago, he’d writhed in the understanding that if Bonarata had wanted to kill Mercy, there was nothing that Adam could do about that.
Adam knew that he didn’t have time to change. Even if his pack had all been present, there wasn’t time to change. Changing would make him slower. With the pack so far away, he wasn’t even going to be half-shifted by the time he got to the place where he’d seen the creature. Adam could fight as human or wolf—but mid-change, he was clumsy and slow.
He understood that.
But someone was hurting his mate and he needed to not be too late. The wolf answered that need and ignored logic—because this was not time for logic, or for human calculations. The wolf was ascendant now and Adam had lost his chance to stop it—if he had ever had one.
He shed his clothing as quickly as he could, with no thought of wearing any of it again—including his boots. He didn’t even notice when the climbing harness was ripped to pieces. He retained enough presence of mind to throw his gun at the lake.
He threw it like he’d have thrown a baseball. It broke through the ice and fell into the water—where it was less likely it could be used by his enemies. He quit fighting then, and gave himself over to the wolf.
But Adam despaired, even as the wolf pulled on the pack ties. He felt the strain of harvesting the pack’s strength from such a distance, but anything that sped up his change might be the difference between life and death. As Alpha, he asked and they gave—and then there was a sudden hard surge of power, different from the pack magic, that brought Adam down to the ground in a spectacular tumbling fall.
Sherwood’s wild magic freely sent.
He thrust himself to his feet again, needing to run as long as he could. As he did, he howled through his still mostly human throat with the agony of that burning power that neither Adam nor the wolf had the ability to use. This was wild magic, unfettered power that didn’t come willingly to his call the way the pack magic came.
But there was a part of him that could use it. The part that had allowed him to break Mary Jo free of Ymir.
Let me, suggested the Beast that lived inside him.
Neither Adam nor his wolf trusted that creature. This wasn’t their pack home, where he could count on others to help if the Beast was freed.
The creature a witch had cursed Adam with was horrific, swift, and deadly. But when it was in charge, it fought only by instinct—and instinct had not been enough to win against Bonarata.
Brute strength had not kept Mercy safe then. Adam didn’t think it would be enough now. Worse, he didn’t know if the Beast would even pick the right target.
He still had nightmares about the time when it had nearly killed Mercy.
But the Beast didn’t require Adam’s consent. It fed from the power Sherwood gave them and used it to peel off Adam’s human body with the same ease and care that Adam had used to shed his shredded coat—and in about the same amount of time.
