Page 19 of Bad Blood Wolf

Some said it had weakened the pack. Soured them.

But wolves in a pack still felt something, even if they weren’t bound by magic. It was in their nature to bond, to think and hunt as one when they needed to.

They felt the belonging—and they felt when they were shut out of it. Ostracized. Alone.

His wolf wanted to howl with fear and anger.

His chest felt like an elephant was sitting on it. This was different from the cage fights; in a fight, he had to psych himself up. Get his wolf riled.

Here, his wolf was already anxious. Edgy. Too many scents and sounds, too much hostility from the other wolves.

Suddenly, he felt Jasmin’s hand on his back, light and sure. Warmth spread up his spine, blossomed in his chest. The tightness eased, and he could breathe again.

He wasn’t alone.

Bastian came way too close to running the table, sinking five balls.

Damn. Brody had no choice.

He tried to narrow his focus to nothing but the table in front of him, the balls, the tip of the cue and the imaginary lines he was drawing on the table in his mind.

He took three long, deep breaths, lined up his shot, and went for it all.

Lines and angles, forces and trajectories, odds and probabilities. It all clicked through his mind like information on a computer screen.

He paced the table, totally focused. Straight shot, bank shot, double shot, one tricky shot that bounced off the rail and came back to hit another ball and carom into the pocket. Blam. Blam. Blam. In minutes, there were only two solid balls left—the 6, and the 8-ball, sitting in an impossible position, tucked in behind one of Bastian’s remaining balls.

If Brody sank the 6-ball, it would be impossible for him to get to the 8. If the cue ball hit Bastian’s ball before the 8-ball, which he would have to do, they’d lose.

He deliberately missed the six, managing to leave Trace in just as bad a position as he was in. Trace sank one ball, and table scratched instead of trying to separate his last ball from the 8 and taking a chance on hitting it illegally.

Jasmin lined up her shot. If she hit it right, she’d be in a perfect position to sink the 8. Or anyway, as good as it got in this fucked-up game.

She’d put up the money. She deserved the takedown. And she could do it—she was the Demon Queen. He nodded at her. You got this.

She gave him one long, enigmatic look, and shot at the 6.

She missed it.

What the fuck? There was no way she’d lost her nerve. Unless she didn’t think she could make the 8, and she’d deliberately bailed.

Or she was giving him the takedown. But the Demon Queen never quit before the takedown.

Bastian had a choice now. He could go after his final ball and hope he didn’t hit the 8, losing the game. Or he could scratch again, and let Brody have one more shot.

He chickened out, scratching, and it was Brody’s turn.

He was ending this now.

The bar had gone silent. Brody sank the 6 easily, and was left with the 8, still hiding behind the 11-ball.

He caught Jasmin’s eye, and then cut his eyes briefly to the money lying on the side of the table and lifted his chin ever so slightly.

Go get it.

Because there was a damn good possibility that when he made this last shot, they were going to have to run for it, and he sure as hell wasn’t leaving that money behind a second time.

He made a show of walking the table as if looking for a shot, even though he knew exactly how he was going to do it.