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Iolanthe shoved Orlando back against the wall, allowing her canines to punch through her gums and hang over her bottom lip. "Stand down, dear brother. The pack is no longer yours."

If this wasn't a sign of the times, Zoe didn't know what was. She kept her guard up, arms at chest height and finger on the trigger guard. With the safety off, her Desert Eagle with its custom grip would do Orlando a world of hurt if he tried to pull something.

"It will always be mine. A female cannot —"

The sound of bones breaking reached Zoe's ears a second before she realised what had unfolded before her. Iolanthe's hand was buried to the elbow in Orlando's chest. She'd presumably punched through his rib cage, and was now doing . . . something.

Their story began in Ireland: a hunter tracking a rogue werewolf based on a tip. Once Zoe got close enough, she'd gone to put six bullets in the rogue's heart. For some reason, she hesitated, and found a framed exile.

Blood coated her arm all the way to her elbow as Iolanthe raised his still-beating heart above her. The few electrical impulses left in its muscles quickly died, leaving only the smell of freshly drawn blood and raw flesh to permeate the air. "The King is dead. Long live the King."