Kian shrugs, his expression hard. “It means they have a sense of self-preservation. Like a virus in a host.”
“They don’t do anything out of a sense of loyalty,” Malix adds, a muscle in his cheek jumping as he clenches his jaw. “They just hurt us. Constantly. In so many ways.”
He doesn’t elaborate on that, but I don’t need him to. He’s probably thinking about the sister he lost, or his mother, who’s dead now just like Kian’s and Frost’s.
These men have had so much good taken from them and so much pain forced upon them by their old alpha. He created them to fulfill a purpose none of them asked for; one they probably never would have actually wanted to begin with. And because they were born part shadow, part wolf, they’ve lived their lives in extended torment.
The thought of Frost down in the basement, so full of shadows? Fuck, I hate it. I know it’s probably torture for him. Or at least it will be when he wakes again.
I pick off a corner of my fourth Pop-Tart as I ask, “Do you think it was the pain that made him act like… like that? Or the shadows? He was so vicious. Like a wild animal.”
“Like a monster,” Malix says grimly.
“None of you are monsters,” I shoot back, my voice taking on a heated edge. “You’ve been dealt a shitty as fuck hand by a man who wanted to use you, and now we have to figure out where we go from here.”
Malix looks like he doesn’t believe me, but instead of arguing, he just scrubs a hand over his sculpted jaw. “The pain is probably the big reason Frost freaked out, yeah,” he confirms after a moment. “It’s more than just pain though. That much shadow inside him? It’s probably chaos. Like I said, the shadows have no loyalty, and they operate by their own rules. Right now, his shadow side outweighs every other part of him. So that’s the side that dominates.”
My stomach clenches, and I set the Pop-Tart down. “Could we find some way to pull the excess shadows from him?”
Kian shakes his head, his gaze flicking up to me for a second before returning to his food. “If there was a way, we’d have found it by now.”
Of course. It only makes sense that they’ve tried to find a way to expel the shadows from themselves—without tearing themselves into pieces. After years of searching for a way to breach the divide between the shadow realm and earth, something that would finally bring them peace, I’m not surprised they attempted to find other means of easing their torment.
We fall silent for another couple of minutes as I process everything that’s just been said and search for a loophole that I know doesn’t exist.
I finish off my last Pop-Tart while Kian refills his coffee, and Malix stares at the last few bites of his beans and salsa like he wants to toss it all in the trash. Somewhere outside, birds chirp in the trees, and the muffled sounds filter in through the windows. The peaceful, happy sound is a strange contrast to the situation we’ve found ourselves in.
It makes me wish this were real life—not the beans and stale Pop-Tarts, but the cute farmhouse, the sunshine, a home and family and no shadows trying to destroy us from all angles.
When Kian returns from the coffee pot, he sits heavily on the chair and mutters, “What Quinton did to Frost… he said it was an experiment. And as far as he’s concerned, it worked. He could do that to the whole pack.”
Malix’s violet gaze flashes in the sunlight. He shoves his half-finished bowl away and straightens, resting one elbow on the edge of the table. “Yeah. I’ve thought of that too.”
Picking up my mug and cradling it against my chest, I slouch back in my seat. The heat from the coffee warms me even as my skin prickles with a sudden chill. “What do you mean?”
Malix huffs out a breath. “Quinton never had the ability to ‘force’ shadows into someone before. He created us, using magic to make it so that we were born with shadows already inside of us. Already a part of us, even before birth. But it seems like he’s leveled up. He figured out some way to force shadows into a fully grown shifter. He could turn anyone in the pack now.”
Kian growls, his hands curling into fists. “He could create a whole fucking army.”
But I shake my head, picking out a flaw in their theory. “No way. He can’t create an army that way. It would never work. What Quinton did almost killed Frost. I mean, it did kill Frost. His heart stopped beating. He’s only alive right now because you fucking resuscitated him. There’s no way a weaker shifter could survive that.”
“Maybe,” Malix agrees. “Or maybe not. We really don’t know anything at this point. Except that Quinton would definitely be willing to risk killing some of his pack members if it meant he could have an entire army of feral shifters at his fingertips. And that makes him more dangerous than ever.”
In the beat of silence after that grim declaration, something clatters beneath us in the basement.
We all freeze, and my skin prickles with unease.
A howl rises up, the sound unearthly and terrifying. Then more clattering and several heavy thuds, accompanied by angry grunts.
My stomach clenches, all four of the Pop-Tarts I just ate threatening to make a reappearance.
Frost is awake. And he’s clearly not in a good mood.