The little white fox had saved his life. It knew it was no match for the big black wolf, but it fought to the death anyway.
For Ben.
Ben bowed his head as he cradled the fox, letting the strange feeling of regret and melancholy wash over him.
And then, something even stranger happened.
The bundle of blood-stained white fur twitched in his arms.
He opened his eyes and stared down in disbelief.
But sure enough, the fox yipped and opened its eyes, pitch black with a ring of gold at the very edges. It opened its mouth in a panting smile and licked at Ben’s face delicately.
Like a foxy kiss.
“You’re alive,” Ben breathed, completely stunned.
Against all odds, it was. For it bounded up and out of Ben’s arms and wagged its bushy tails.
Ben counted.
There were now eight tails instead of nine.
~ * ~* ~ *~ * ~* ~ *~ * ~
My name is Sin.
Not mangy cat or flea-bitten mongrel.
Use it when you address me.
The liger’s telepathic thoughts wouldn’t stop transmitting into Zai’s very reluctant head. And the commanding tone in which he communicated made Zai fear he would grind his molars into nubs before the end of the day.
He wished he could tune the Beast out, but for some gods-bedamned reason, he could hear the male loud and clear, his voice husky deep, always tinged with an undertone of a growl or a purr depending on his mood.
Zai was becoming very familiar with the liger’s moods.
He wanted to bang his head against a tree until their connection was severed, and his mind was his own again.
What are you called, Hunter? I gave you my name; give me yours.
Commands. Demands. Orders.
The liger was clearly used to being at the top of the food chain, despite having been hunted by Dark Ones, imprisoned and tortured.
There was an indomitable will and fierceness about him. A savagery that would never be tamed.
If Zai didn’t know better, he would have assumed that the liger was the King of the Beasts of earth. He was certainly powerful enough to lead the prides of predatory felines. When he regained his full strength and body mass, Zai had no doubt his size would equal the Tiger King, Goya.
But here, their similarities ended.
Goya was known for his relative pacifism, unless his territories or those under his protection were threatened. This liger was all aggression, filled with vengeance and fury. His massacres of Dark strongholds over the past twenty years were legendary.
And he did it all on his own. He never ran with a pack or pride. He didn’t seem to care for his own life, never mind others.
Determinedly, Zai ignored him, walking briskly through the woods.
He didn’t give a flying fuck what the Beast called him. Dark One. Dark Hunter. Dark vermin. Didn’t matter.