Rejected By My Pack, Claimed By The Lycan King

len

and mud into the storm drains. Justin Frye didn't move. He remained frozen in the driver's seat,

oice barely carrying over the downpour, ye

te of the Navigator swung upward. I gestured to the six u

. He finally found a shred of his misplaced Omega courage. "

muddy boot and drew a slender, six-inch needle. It gleamed under

by the collar of his uniform, and pressed the tip

ench of burnt skin. Justin let out a blood-curdling scream, his body convulsing as his inner wolf howled in pure, un

ng the needle a millimeter

ey wanted the rogues to terrify you, to break your spirit! They need you docile, a broken little wolf

stop the searing, though the angry red b

ordered. "Loa

task of dragging the massive, dead-weight rogues into the spacious t

ng thumb onto his phone's sensor to unl

is temple. "Call her. Tell her the job is done. Tell her I'm a broken doll crying in th

y. He dialed the number,

rred through the line, dripp

ently from the lingering terror of the silver. It was the perfect pe

rfect. Take the cargo straight to the airport. The p

hoved Justin toward the

Justin started the engine, my military-grade burner phone vibrated in my pock

94, Mile 30. Weapon: Silver-lace

in North America, ruled by Lycans. A silver-laced neurotoxin was a highly specialized,

yes locked on the screen. "Get

iew mirror, his eyes wide. "But

his protests. He swallowed hard, shifted the SUV into drive, and spe

flannel shirt I had used as a disguise. Underneath, I pulled on a black tactical hoodie, slipping my han

white on the wheel. The sheer impossibility of what he had w

oice trembling with a new, pr

in the glass, adjusting th

he cle