Dark Wolf (Claimed by Wolves 3)

“Dad!” Archer appears out of the thick smoke in human form, bare feet slapping the ground as he rushes to his father’s side.

His face is anguished as he bends down and presses a hand to Malcolm’s neck, searching for a pulse. But I can see Malcolm drawing ragged, painful breaths, so I know that whatever hit him didn’t kill him. His expression grim, Archer slides his arms under the old man’s shoulders and starts dragging him toward the nearest cabin. A second later, Dare shows up in human form and takes Malcolm’s legs to help Archer carry him.

Amora steps up beside me, and the sharp crack of her rifle makes my ears ring. The smoke billows in the wake of the bullet, and the witch I was fighting earlier falls, magic fizzling out at her fingertips.

“We’ve got to get Malcolm inside,” she yells, raising her voice to carry over the din of the fight around us. “I’ll help you cover them.”

I nod, keeping my hands raise

d and hurling magic at any witch who gets too close. We all follow Archer, keeping him protected as he gets his dad out of harm’s way. Trystan’s still in wolf form, sticking close to Dare, Archer, and Malcolm as they move quickly. Amora and Ridge are both human, naked, their guns held at the ready and looking for all the world like trained soldiers instead of shifters.

A second after we enter the cabin, an unfamiliar brown wolf comes hurtling down the street and lunges through the door after us. She shifts in mid-leap and lands on two strong, sturdy legs.

It’s Hope, Malcolm’s nurse. She must have been following him. The way she looks equal parts angry and terrified tells me the old alpha didn’t ask for permission before he raced into battle. She takes Malcolm’s legs from Dare, and then she and Archer vanish into the back of the house with his father.

Dare bounds back out of the cabin, magic already shimmering over his body as he shifts back. His dark haunches disappear, nearly the same color as the black clouds obscuring our view. I can’t spare too much thought right now for where he’s going or why. Not with Malcolm hurt.

Ridge, Amora, and Trystan step outside the door to guard the house as the battle rages on, but I follow Archer inside. I doubt there’s much I can do to help, but I can at least be moral support. Malcolm is Archer’s whole family, his best friend. My heart pounds wildly at the thought of something happening to tear the two men apart.

Archer and Hope lift Malcolm onto the couch where she begins to look over the alpha, searching him for wounds. But even from my place by the doorway, I can see that the magic didn’t leave a single mark on his body. It’s all inside him, the spell moving and undulating like a demon beneath his skin.

The magic is eating at him from the inside out. There are no injuries that Hope can bandage. No physical wounds she can heal.

As that thought sinks into my shocked mind, I realize I hate it. I hate magic. I’d give anything for a life with my mates where I’m just a shifter. Where there’s no dark magic fighting for control of me. Where there’s no threat of witches getting control of my mind.

“Go!” Malcolm croaks, shoving Archer toward the door. “Protect... our p-people.”

“I’m not leaving you!” Archer growls, stepping back up to the side of the couch like a boomerang returning to the person who threw it.

Malcolm’s pained face turns hard. “Would you deny your alpha’s orders?”

I look between the two of them, struck by how much they look alike: the way their chins jut out, the way their brows pull together and their eyes glint like steel. Like father, like son.

“Go,” Malcolm says again, and this time, he means it.

“Don’t fucking die.” Archer’s jaw clenches as he looks down at his father, his eyes shining. Then he turns on his heel and strides past me back out into the smoke.

I shoot another glance at Malcolm. His breathing is labored, his skin ashen, but he’s in good hands with Hope. He’s conscious, he’s not bleeding, and he’s cognizant… for now anyway.

And he’s right. We have to keep fighting, or this will all be for nothing.

Squaring my shoulders, I follow my mate back into the battle.

Between the thick black smoke and the constant sounds of growling and shouting, the streets are chaotic. I lose sight of Archer in the melee and turn my efforts toward the scuffles breaking out near me, trying to harness my power and remember every sigil I ever studied. I blast a witch with a small binding spell, just enough to give Trystan an opening to finish her. Then I throw up a barrier between a male witch and Amora before his magic can get anywhere near her. I let the shield drop before she pulls the trigger on her gun, and blood blossoms on the man’s chest as he keels over in the street.

Archer appears beside me and aims his rifle as he gazes through the thick smoke. It’s almost impossible to see through, but takes a shot at a witch hiding between two houses in the distance. He misses, and I hear him growl as he tries again.

Despite the sure way he holds and uses the gun, and the way his beautiful face is set in stone, Archer’s cheeks are streaked with tears. My heart cracks into pieces for the pain he must be feeling. The blast Malcolm absorbed was huge, and he was already weak to begin with. The raw pain on my mate’s face mimics my own.

I don’t know if his father will survive this.

And I can’t fix it. I can’t fix it and save Malcolm’s life. I can’t erase that bone-deep agony on Archer’s face. I’m powerless to stop the hands of death, just like I’m powerless to stop the magic that tries to take control of me, that awakens in the night and threatens the men I love without my knowing.

All around me, gunfire and magic fill my senses.

Snarling wolves.

Howls.