Brice suddenly shifts, his clothing shredding as his bones snap and twist and a snarling wolf emerges.
Perth immediately follows suit, his massive red wolf blocking the other from leaping at me. The two wolves start to fight, growling and chomping—forcing all the humans in the space to take a step back as they roll across the floor until all I can see is a blur of fur and fangs. Perth gets in a good bite that makes Brice yelp with pain, and some of his other denmates snarl a warning.
“Out!” Ezra commands. “If you don’t have control right now, you need to get the fuck out!”
Only a few of them listen.
Brice stumbles up and bolts from the room, Perth hot on his tail.
Meanwhile, Milo ducks his head and rushes at Ezra.
Ruger scoops me over his shoulder and turns, sprinting out into the hall. It’s bedlam. Nothing but snarls and mania as I lift my head in time to see Ezra clock one of his denmates in the mouth.
Like a siren’s song calling me to the depths of a cold and deadly sea, my frenzied gaze finds Ellery. A pained howl crawls up my throat, but it doesn’t breach my mouth before I see him sink his teeth into another woman’s skin.
33
NOAH
A red-hot brand of rage sears my chest and head, pressing through my flesh, my bone, my brain. The vision of Ellery biting Zara echoes in my mind, each iteration setting me off more. I howl and scream, my throat raw with wrath. Anger climbs the column of my spine and shoots out to every limb, striking through me like bolts of lightning.
My body cracks as a shift starts to wash over me. The cold kiss of my wolf rushes to the forefront, and I barely hang on to the thin thread of rationality as I fight the change. I don’t pay any attention to where Ruger takes me, too lost in my consuming instincts and wild urges.
Ice cold water suddenly rains down on me.
Frigid shock frees me from the turbulent, violent need to tear everything apart. I gasp, filling my lungs and coughing on the water that slips down my throat.
What the fuck!
Like a rubber band against my skin, reality snaps back into focus with a stinging crack. The bubbling torment I was feeling drops to a simmer.
I look around to find that I’m sitting in a large shower surrounded by black gleaming tile. A freezing stream pelts sense into me from a copper showerhead high up on the wall, and Ruger is crouched in front of me.
His presence makes the oversized, glass-paned stall appear much smaller than it is. He swipes his hand down his face, clearing water from his eyes, while his other hand is pressed against my ribs. I should probably feel some satisfaction that I’m not the only one sopping wet, but I’m not sure yet if I want to thank him or throttle him.
Pinpricks of cold crawl over my limbs. My leggings and hoodie are drenched and sticking to me in a heavy, uncomfortable way. I force myself to take five deep breaths before I speak, sinking my metaphorical claws into the patch of calm I find among the quilt of feelings I’m experiencing right now.
“Better?” Ruger asks, his green eyes shining with concern as they scan every inch of my face.
“Debatable,” I rasp as a shiver crawls over me.
My voice sounds dried up and brittle, and I swallow a sip of water from the downpour to restore it.
“You’re no longer howling like you’re going to kill someone, so I can work with debatable,” Ruger counters, and the enormity of what just happened smashes into me with all the ferocity of a frying pan to the face.
“What. Was. That?” I whisper, horrified, staring at the wall behind him. There’s a trickle of satisfaction twisting through me too, which is nuts. I don’t even know where to begin analyzing the insanity of that gloating. It’s as though a part of me is really fucking proud of that tantrum I just threw and eager to kick off again as needed.
“That was you getting a bit territorial,” he tells me evenly, not an ounce of judgment in either his tone or face. In fact, when I glance up, there’s a smug tilt to his lips and a glimmer of triumph in his eyes.
“Territorial?” I scoff. “You’re really going with territorial to describe the complete batshit crazy that just went down?”
Ruger’s smug tilt turns into a full-blown smile, and he reaches up to turn off the glacial downpour. A heavy silence settles between us as the sound of rushing water disappears.
“Fine, if territorial doesn’t satisfy, how do you feel about the term claiming rage? Because that’s what people around here call it.”
Disquiet starts to flap around in my chest like little sparrows looking for a place to land.
I clear my throat, stalling so I can think and regroup. “Rage feels accurate…” I concede, “but I’m not so sure about the claiming part. I’m not a possessive psycho.”
Or at least I wasn’t before.
Dropping my gaze from Ruger’s, I watch beads of water fall from my leggings to crash against the shower floor like it’s the most profound thing I’ve ever seen. I feel his eyes on me, but I can’t bring myself to meet them when his revelation and my denial hang heavy in the air.
“Not so sure about the claiming part?” he questions, his tone slipping from casual to something far more sensual with each syllable. “Then why do you smell like my brothers and orgasms?”
Startled—and slightly mortified—my wide-eyed stare crashes into Ruger’s confident, assessing gaze. A warm flush works its way up my neck, and I struggle not to open and close my mouth like some hooked trout as I flounder for a response. I smell myself, questioning how he’s picking up any of this after I showered.
“The living room reeks of what you three were up to,” he tells me with a wicked glint in his green eyes. “Smells fucking delicious.”
“There was no claiming involved, just…playing,” I defend and then try not to cringe at how ridiculous I sound.
Ruger reaches up and brushes a wet strand of hair from my face. He traces my cheek and then the line of my jaw with the tips of his tattooed fingers.
“Think what you want, Noah, but your reaction in the room just now has everything to do with claiming and not an ounce to do with playing. Or are we going to pretend that you didn’t snarl words like mine and mindspeak mate?”
I want to deny it. I really want to, but I’m not a liar, so I say nothing.
Ruger chuckles, enjoying my chagrin a little too much.
Ass.
A loud splat next to me makes me abandon my inner turmoil, and I look up to find Ruger is missing his shirt.
His body is as insane as I feel right now. Seriously, who looks like that?