the wind shifted.

a sharp spike of fear sliced through the cool night air—sudden, absolute, followed almost instantly by the hot copper burst of fresh blood and the warm musk of hare. zharille’s ears snapped forward. her nostrils flared wide, pulling the scent deep. somewhere just ahead, in the tall, frost-dusted heather, another wolf had struck.

she altered her path without hesitation, lowering her great frame further and gliding forward with predatory intent. the grasses parted around her heavy chest as she emerged into a small clearing bathed in moonlight. there, low to the ground, was the stranger—for an instant zharille thought she saw her own reflection there; large and strong and masculine, jaws already locked tight around a hare that had been squealing only heartbeats ago. its body gave one last feeble kick before going limp between the other’s teeth.

zharille stopped.

not from caution, but because the sight sent a hot, possessive surge rolling through her chest.

the hare’s blood-scent flooded her senses, rich and tempting, mingling with the unfamiliar winter-sharp scent of the other wolf. hunger twisted viciously in her gut, deeper now, more demanding. there was certainty—this land, this kill, this moment—all of it was hers to claim if she wished.

a low, guttural grunt rolled from deep in her chest, heavy and vibrating through the cold air like distant thunder. her massive shoulders bunched as she took one deliberate step forward. then another. the moonlight caught across her broad back, making her appear even larger, more solid. she loomed now, head lowered, beady golden eyes fixed on the stranger and the fresh kill still twitching between their teeth.

zharille’s jaws parted slightly, tongue curling against her teeth as hot breath curled into the frigid night. she did not speak. she simply stared down, waiting—a mountain of muscle and lingering triumph—to see whether this one would prove as meek as the mountain-men. she had taken life for less.