Page 39 of Stolen

Gunn bit his lip, shaking his head. “Looks like it.”

The old man coughed again, then opened his eyes and looked directly up into Gunn’s. “Gunnar. Take… this.” His hand closed around the golden star amulet he always wore—the one that disappeared somehow when he became a wolf, but reappeared when he became a man.

It was ancient—his most prized possession.

“I can’t,” Gunn said.

“You… must.” The old man’s hand fumbled at the chain, and loosed some kind of hidden catch. The chain slithered from around his neck. “You… must.” His voice grew louder, and he thrust the amulet into Gunn’s hand before sliding into a bout of coughing.

Gunn impatiently thrust the amulet into his pocket before trying to give Gregor some more water.

At that moment, the truck reached the end of the forest and came out into the open, on the edge of the shallow, grassy bowl that held the main compound of Outlaw Ridge.

Ranged across the road was a group of men and wolves—at least half the pack—armed and snarling, poised to attack.

Sanchez stepped forward, dressed in ragged fatigue pants and army boots, fur sprouting on his arms and upper back, his face half-wolf.

“Fucking Gunn,” he said, his voice thick and raspy, forced out through a throat that was half animal. “You’re back. What the hell did you do to our alpha?”

Those that were men raised their weapons; those that were wolves bared their teeth. And the whole pack began to snarl.