Again, I'm pissed off because the myth of Icar is not matching reality.
"Elsa."
"Yes, Inspector." If he hadn't given up, he'd insist I address him by his name only—the way he does for me. He explains it as seeing me as his daughter. I don't buy it. He sneaks glances at my ass when he thinks I'm not looking.
"How have you been?"
"Fine, sir."
He sighs. I feel more questions about my well-being coming and I scramble for a topic change but he chooses silence and I'm relieved.
Soon, he stops walking and I stop.
Then darken.
What stands before us at the end of the vast field is a podium carrying a guillotine.
"Public execution." He says. "A deserving fate for monsters."
"We haven't trailed him, sir."
"Unnecessary. He will perish for his sins. Forget stupid human laws here, Elsa."
I swallow.
"Get some sleep. You'll need it for tomorrow," he says, and walks off, leaving me to stare at the torture weapon designed to decapitate a werewolf. Bile folds my stomach as I imagine Icar dying like this.
My wolf protests within me.
I hate the thoughts running through my mind right now. I turn my back on the torture device and make my way back. Nearing the cold room, the door hisses open.
Icar is being pulled out by two hefty guards, shackled and bound as they manhandle him toward his cell. His eyes are hollow, and it takes all my willpower not to stop them recklessly. What infuriates me more is the fact that he isn't even fighting back. I see it clearly in his body language—a hollow acceptance of his fate.
When I get home, I ram my fist against the wall. It cracks, and my knuckles throb. I ignore it and hit the wall again before screaming out in fury.
I refuse to believe it. The legendary Icarus Morvan—dead tomorrow and not doing anything about it. I know escaping, for the bastard, is something he could most easily accomplish. Is he tired of playing our game? Has he truly given up on his plan of revenge? Will he just accept death like that?
These thoughts carry me through my nightly shower. The restlessness doesn't come when I fall into bed; instead, a heavy exhaustion wracks my bones and carries me to dreamland.
I dream of Icar, as always. Standing tall even with the chains binding him. He's whipped and dragged to the guillotine. He does not flinch or scream. His eyes are devoid of humanity.
I almost buckle when he looks at me—his gaze piercing through my soul.
He opens his mouth, and before he can speak, his head is severed cleanly from his body.
A geyser of blood spurts, then recedes, revealing the Inspector General's wolf—cold and darkly satisfied.
No!
My scream is a throaty growl. The pain splits me in half. Nobody seems to see or hear me. I am that human girl again—overlooked and forgotten.
My eyes snap open. I'm breathing hard, and sweat rolls down my skin, dampening my clothes. I sit up. There is no moon in the sky, and I frown. My heart hammers so loudly I turn deaf.
Before I know it, I'm sprinting through the night and leaping from rooftop to rooftop. I land at the facility where they keep Icar and enter easily with my card.
The guards are not sleeping. I slow down and stick to the walls. I listen for footsteps—loud, then smaller and smaller. That's my cue.
I walk out of my hiding spot—and freeze.
A guard stands in front of me.
He looks at me and frowns. This one is different. He's not shy. A Nightwolf. His height is intimidating. I stand firmly.
"Move."
"I'm afraid I can't do that, ma'am."
"That is an order."
"I'm under direct orders from the general not to let anyone pass until the criminal is safely executed."
I make a fist.
"I would advise against that."
I knee him anyway—right at his family jewels.
My grin falters when he remains rooted like a tree. No sign of pain. Impossible.
I draw back my leg and swing again, striking between his legs. My shin makes satisfying contact through his uniform—harder than the first strike. His face turns red.
The animal within him snaps, and his giant arm grips my neck and lifts me. His claws elongate and graze my skin. His forearm bulges with muscle and fur.
My life flashes before my eyes. I can only hold his wrist and flail my limbs, sucking in oxygen that won't come.
Bang!
The loud noise snaps his concentration, and his grip loosens. My wolf takes over, and everything goes black.
When light returns, my right hand is bloodied, holding a piece of his flesh. I look down at his splayed form—the crimson hole between his legs. I drop what I'm holding and keep going.
I have to find Icar before it's too late.
It's not too hard. There's a commotion—louder as I near.
And then I freeze.
Icar.
Except he isn't ripping men apart like I expected.
They're torturing him. Worse—flaying him. He's in excruciating pain. My wolf wants out, and I let her.
I open my eyes to three officers with limbs separated from their torsos. Dead—while Icar stands in the middle. He's safe. Badly injured, but safe.
I walk over to him.
"No," he warns me. "Don't come close."
Now I'm puzzled—and exhausted from transforming twice in under five minutes.
"I need to get the wolfsbane off you. It's the only way you'll heal."
"I don't need your help."
This bastard. What the hell is wrong with you?
I don't even voice my frustration anymore. I just rush over to him and deactivate the shackles. He doesn't even push me away.
A beat later, I understand why.
Icar tackles me to the ground, his bloody body on top of mine. I watch his ghastly wounds close rapidly. He snarls at me.
"You made a terrible mistake."