He didn’t try to smother his satisfied growl as the pack worked as a unit, dodging hooves and gouging antlers, to cull the injured deer from the rest. The animal panted, chest heaving with the effort of keeping up. Weakened, the deer still would’ve been faster than any shifter on flat ground. This part of the Urals was jagged with stony outcroppings and boulders, though. They ran so far and fast Arit’s heart threatened to explode with exertion, but victory came with the four-pointer’s increasing distance from the herd.
Isolating their prey, however, was no guarantee of a successful hunt. Arit’s growl reminded the others to be wary of the animal’s kicking hooves, a blow that could break bones. Stabbing antlers could still pierce and slash. Shifting repaired some of the damage, but Arit didn’t relish the idea of informing the tribes he’d managed to put the crown prince or his brother in the hospital. Relief shuddered through him at Nick’s cagy wariness while they circled the buck and Rolan’s caution, too. As one, they harassed the deer, darting in when the animal was most vulnerable to bite then dashing free of pummeling hooves. Arit drew first blood, a deep bite in the meat of the buck’s left haunch that streamed red. The coppery scent tickled Arit’s nostrils and stirred the pack’s greedy excitement.
With each foot of ground and every wound they landed, the deer tired.
Finally, the buck tripped, going down on one leg. Braced for just such an eventuality, Arit leapt forward and clamped his jaws around the deer’s muzzle. The bite wasn’t a death blow, but hanging on and thereby neutralizing the risk from the buck’s antlers, Arit provided a chance to make the kill.
Nick seized it. While the others ripped at the barrel of the buck’s body, Nick sprinted toward Arit and bending low, tore out the deer’s throat. Blood gushed, metallic in the frigid air, splashing Arit’s fur. He released the deer’s nose. Retreated. No point risking a kick during the beast’s death throes.
Some capitol shifters couldn’t take the brutality of hunting large game, and Arit tried not to hold their queasiness against them. A few locals in the valley also found the most effective strategies employed by packs bringing down a deer or elk disturbing and not a little repugnant. They wanted a clean death. Too bad that was too dangerous. Smarter to run prey down, exhaust it, bleed it out. Better to let a big target die of shock or blood loss. Messier. But safer.
Milling around the dying buck, this tour group didn’t flinch from the savagery. The white wolf stood tall on four paws, posture erect and alert, ears peaked, tail straight. If Nick paid any mind to the sticky blood coating him or the gore flooding from the deer’s wounds, Arit couldn’t sense it. Arit growled low when Rolan approached Nick, paws dragging in the pink snow, and he didn’t choke off that sound of fierce displeasure until Rolan hunched his shoulders to make himself appear smaller and timidly licked blood spattering the snowy crest of Nick’s chest.
Turning away from the submissive pose, Arit scanned the surrounding area to ensure no other predators dared poach the pack’s dinner. Other animals didn’t steal their kills often, but it happened. Mountain cats especially could be vicious. That lynxes and mountain lions didn’t usually wander this far from the heights in early winter did not lessen Arit’s wariness. He wanted this hunt, above all others, to be perfect—purportedly the white wolf’s first since childhood.
With the flick of an ear, Arit directed Chree and Jesyn into position around the dying deer to stand guard with him. The buck stopped twitching, and the barrel of its chest no longer rose and fell with its last labored breaths. Arit let loose a rumbling bark. Irritation bloomed inside him when the tour group failed to obey his signal, stares focused instead on the white wolf.
Who regally nodded.
The pack leapt at the buck. Some lapped at the hot blood spilling from their prey’s neck while others tore into the animal’s flanks to rip free chunks of meat. Rolan targeted the buck’s vulnerable belly, opening up the abdomen so the pack could reach tender internal organs, the sweetmeats prized by pack hunters. The crown prince’s brother stepped away as soon as the deer’s guts slipped from the gaping wound he’d slashed, air steaming near the gash to indicate the protein-rich heart, liver, and intestines were still warm and flush with the deer’s living blood.
The white wolf finally joined the pack at the carcass, nosing aside ropey strings of the animal’s guts to nip at his prey’s juicy liver. Nick pulled the organ free and ate it in a few greedy gulps. He woofed, snout dripping wet crimson, and returned to the delicacies the pack had offered him by choosing the deer’s heart next. The locket dangled from Nick’s throat into the mess, blood smearing the cheap gold plating. Gore pasted bristles from the deer’s pelt to it and stringy sinew clung to the locket, but the crown prince seemed to neither notice nor care.
Arit’s curiosity at the puzzling locket might drive him mad, but he dug his paws into the snow, held his ground.
Positioned around the deer to provide a guard, none of Arit’s staff joined the feast, but Arit wasn’t sure Jesyn and Chree wouldn’t have also yielded the choicest bits of the kill to Nick had they opportunity. Arit trained his staff to award the most tender cuts of their prey to guests. He’d fire any guide who failed to control his beast when game was still warm on the ground. Their duty was to watch for danger while weaker and less experienced hunters celebrated their success with a banquet of meat, Arit and his staff eating only after their guests had their fill.
His staff didn’t watch Arit alone for the signal to join the other wolves, not for this hunt. They watched Nick.
The white wolf was truly high alpha and proved it by approaching Arit with half of the deer’s heart held in his ruddy, dripping maw. He didn’t shrink, nor did Arit. Pride kept Arit’s gaze high and fastened on the white wolf’s yellow eyes, streaked with black and chocolate brown flecks. He didn’t back down when Nick reached him or shy from Nick’s snout grazing his. Tail straight, ears perked, Arit accepted the choicest of the sweetmeats from Nick in the spirit in which the offering was intended—as a mating gift. Arit chewed, the iron-rich morsel bursting with salty flavor, and shuddered as Nick’s tongue licked the rim of his mouth.
Arit needed no special bond or link to understand what this meant.
Nick couldn’t have made his designs plainer if he’d rented a billboard or screamed it from the top of the Urals.
He wanted Arit. He announced his interest in a traditional gift of meat in front of his pack. Arit could have rejected him, stayed vigilant at his post, guarding his guests. Probably should have. Giving Nick any sign or hope of success wasn’t wise. In his human form, Arit was confident he would have stood firm against Nick’s ploys and cagy seduction.
The wolf wanted what the wolf wanted, though.
So Arit ate.