Page 113 of Venomous Throne

Not a heartbeat later, the majestic wolf threw back its head and let out a long, keening howl.

The other two joined in a moment later.

But it took the voice of the first to evoke the primal song.

The tears stopped.

I listened to their melody, pulling from their strength into the well of my soul.

You can.

You will.

You must.

I was Donna Isabella Moretti, boss of the Chicago Underworld. And I would not let life defeat me.

My declaration was punctuated by a gunshot.

***

I yelped loudly. Swayed dangerously. And nearly fell from the tree!

The wolves scattered, bounding and loping into the night.

Even after they vanished into the thick darkness beyond the trunks, the air still vibrated with tension—echoes of their departure and the memory of that terrible gunshot tangled together in my brain until I couldn’t separate them from my own heartbeat.

My hands hurt. My arms hurt. My chest burned as if I’d been running for miles instead of cowering in place.

Ihadwandered miles yesterday. It was little wonder my fatigue hadn’t made me pass out.

The wolves had been terrifying in their predatory certainty; they’d wanted only what nature dictated. But a person with a gun in these woods? That was something else entirely.

Clutching the branch, I was about to call out when I realized I might not want to meet the armed predator that chased off the kings of nature.

I held my breath, ears straining for any sound in the darkness. Another gunshot cracked through the night, closer this time. Twigs snapped beneath heavy footsteps.

My fingers dug into the rough bark until they bled. I pressed myself against the trunk, making myself as small as possible.

Something moved at the edge of my vision—a shadow darker than the surrounding night. I bit my lip to keep from crying out. Time stretched into impressionistic slowness. A muffled grunt was the only tell that the newcomer hadn’t left the vicinity.

I quit breathing altogether.

The moonlight that had betrayed me to the wolves now felt like my only ally, illuminating the forest floor beneath me. The man stopped moving—not more than ten feet from where I perched above him—and crouched low. In his silhouette against weak moonlight, I could make out broad shoulders framed by a heavy jacket, but not the cut of his hair. When he tilted his head up to search, there were thick strands covering his face.

Could it be?

He turned slowly, scanning east and west before peering in my direction—a practiced movement rather than a desperate one. His gun was pointed at nothing in particular while his eyes adjusted to whatever clues he could find overhead.

Panic rendered me weightless; curiosity anchored me in place.

For several seconds, we were two animals frozen by mutual suspicion.

He lowered the weapon slightly and stepped into full view beneath my perch where moonlight exposed his features. The moment he stepped into the pool of silver light, a sob racked my chest.

“Jaxon?” I whispered, afraid to believe my eyes.

He tilted his head, scanning the branches, his familiar profile sharp against the darkness. The gun in his hand glinted dully.