Eira’s senses stirred sluggishly, dulled by the haze of some unknown drug. Her head throbbed, her limbs felt heavy, and her entire body ached in a slow, deep way that made her stomach twist with nausea. Everything was restrained. Her arms were pinned tight against her torso by coarse cords, knotted with precision and malice, the kind of binding done by someone who knew exactly what he was dealing with. Her wrists were tied down against her stomach. She couldn’t move them even an inch.

  Her muzzle, had also been bound. The same rough cords, were tied tight and looped painfully across her snout, keeping her jaws clamped shut. As she tried to open her eyes, she realized she was blindfolded. Rough fabric was pulled tight over her face blocking her view.

  Every instinct in her screamed, and all she could do was lie there, breathing shallow, trying to remain still.

  She realized she was being dragged. The jostling bumps and shifting pressure beneath her told her that much. Each movement of the ground made the litter she lay on, scrape and shudder. The wooden frame catching on rocks and roots as whoever was pulling her hauled her through the forest. She could smell the woods around her. Damp earth. Cold pine. The rot of old leaves. Blood. Some of it hers, most of it probably his.

  The man muttered to himself.

  "One foot in front of the other," he hissed. "You made it this far. Just keep going."

  The words were spoken in English she realized. Low and bitter, filled with pain and frustration. She didn’t understand all of them, but she knew enough. Enough to recognize the accent.

  An American. His accent however, was more distinct. Drawling and rough, like gravel being scraped across concrete.

  The realization made her stomach churn with anger. The Reich had trained them to fight every known enemy within reach. But Americans? They weren’t part of this front. They were distant, a threat for another battlefield. Just not this one. Her immediate enemies were the Soviets.

  An American here, now, on the Eastern Front. Dragging her through the forest like a carcass, was not just unexpected. It was surreal.

  She turned her attention to her bindings, but they were too tight to slip. But she tested them anyway. Flexing her wrists. Shifting her shoulders but found no give. She stopped struggling before he noticed. She needed to conserve her energy. Wait. Listen. Let him get sloppy.

  She slowed her breathing, and tried to think. The memory of the fight came back in fragments. The Russians. The counteroffensive. The fire. Then that stinging impact in her shoulder. It hadn't been a bullet. She knew that now. Something that knocked her out but didn’t kill. That alone told her more than anything else. She wasn’t a trophy. She wasn’t a casualty. She was cargo.

  She felt her blindfold suddenly snag on something. A branch, probably. It dragged across her face with a rasp, and she winced, feeling it shift. Slowly, carefully, she blinked beneath the edge of the blindfold as it slipped askew. Her vision came back in slivers. Snow and mud beneath her. The rutted trail made by the litter. Trees like jagged black teeth against the overcast sky.

  She tilted her head slightly, angling her view without making it obvious. She caught a glimpse of the man dragging her. Tall. Broad shoulders. Green uniform streaked with filth and blood. His helmet looked battered, his hair poking out from beneath it in a chestnut tangle. His face, what little she could see, was stubbled and gaunt. The uniform wasn’t standard. It was more like hers. Specialized. Purpose built.

  He stopped suddenly. She felt the litter tip and then drop, hard. The impact rattled her bones, and she barely managed to muffle the pained grunt that escaped her. She heard his feet shift, and she could feel him standing there, looking at her. He let out an annoyed huff, then his boots crunched in the snow as he walked away.

  She heard the snapping of branches. The sound of something being dragged. Then the strike of a lighter. The smell of burning wood filled her nostrils as she inhaled. He was making a fire.

  She opened her eyes more fully now, careful to keep her body still. Just watching. He had his back to her, feeding bits of bark and twigs into a growing fire. The flames crackled softly, casting orange light on the snow.

  She studied him for as long as she dared. He shifted slightly, and her eyes closed again in an instant. Playing dead. Waiting for the right moment.

  He cursed again, something sharp and angry under his breath, and she heard his boots crunching toward her once more. The litter shifted, and she was dragged again, pulled closer to the fire. The warmth hit her face. She tried not to react, but when he dropped her again, she couldn’t hold in the grunt. The impact had rattled her teeth.

  He paused. She could hear him standing over her. Breathing. Thinking.

  "In a minute," he muttered. Then he turned and walked away again.

  She lay still. Watching. Waiting.

  The chill seeped into Emmett Granger’s bones as he crouched against a boulder. He had made a crude camp, little more than a shallow fire dug into the snow and dirt. Further shielded by rocks to keep its light from carrying. The flames crackled faintly, casting flickering shadows across the rough surface of the stone. He had debated even lighting a fire, but the necessity of tending to his injuries outweighed the risk. He needed the warmth and the light. If only for a little while. He just hoped that no one would notice the smell of smoke.

  His jacket lay draped over a nearby log, the sleeves caked with blood and grime. He sat on a cleared patch of frozen ground, shirt sleeves rolled up, grimacing as he inspected the damage. The she-wolf had done a number on him. His arms and chest bore angry red slashes, most shallow, but a deep one along his left forearm oozed steadily, refusing to clot.

  "Damn mutt," he growled under his breath, voice rough from exhaustion.

  He scrubbed the wound with snow and pulled a needle and thread from his field kit. He began stitching the wound with grim efficiency. Each jab sent a spike of pain up his arm, but he didn't flinch.

  By the time he tied off the thread and cut it with his blade, his fingers were slick with blood and trembling from exertion. He let out a long exhale and leaned back against the rock, letting the cold sink in for a moment.

  Just as he reached for a ration bar, something in the corner of his vision caught his eye. He froze. The hybrid.... She was watching him.

  Her head hadn't moved. Her body hadn't shifted. But her eyes had. He was sure of it. Then, a soft sound, like a sigh. Her eyes opened fully, icy blue and full of something he didn’t expect. Not rage. Not fear. Amusement.

  He stared at her, trying to read the expression. It wasn’t smug, not entirely. But it was damn close. She looked calm. Too calm, considering she was trussed up like a hog.

  Her appearance still unsettled him. That white fur, streaked now with dirt and dried blood. The long limbs, built like a runner. Her almost feminine body, the distinctly lupine head. And that strange bun of white hair that gave her just enough of a human edge to make the whole package more unnerving.

  Her uniform, cut in the style of Wehrmacht garb was adapted to her frame, with a camouflage pattern. The fabric was torn in several places, matted with grime and blood, but the shape of it remained.

  Emmett stood slowly, stiff from the cold and his injuries. For a moment, he considered hitting her with another dose and saving himself the headache. But she would need food. especially Water.

  He grabbed his knife and walked toward her, the fire casting his shadow long across the snow. Her body tensed visibly as he approached.

  "Listen," he barked in German, tone clipped and cold. "I'm taking the strap off your muzzle. I’ll give you water. Maybe food. But if you scream or try anything stupid..." He tapped the flat of his blade against his eyepatch. "I’ll take an eye. Understand?"

  Her ears flicked, and after a long pause, she gave a slow nod. Emmett wasn’t convinced, but he knelt beside her anyway and began loosening the bindings. He kept his gaze locked on hers, watching for any sign she was about to try something. The strap came free with a tug, and she stretched her jaw with a soft grunt of relief.

  He held up his canteen. “Open your damn mouth. I’ll pour it in.” He said flatly.

  To his surprise, she spoke in English. "Where are you taking me?"

  The accent was thick but clear. Her voice had an edge. Not quite a snarl, but not far from it.

  Emmett blinked, then smirked. “Well, look who’s been takin’ English lessons.” He said, his tone dripping with mockery.

  He shook the canteen again and gestured impatiently. “Now open your yap.”

  She stared at him for a moment longer before complying. He poured carefully, and she drank greedily, water running down the side of her muzzle.

  When she finished, she licked her lips and looked at him again. "Where are you taking me?"

  Emmett scowled as he capped the canteen. “Where we’re goin’ ain’t any of your damn business.” He snapped. “All you need to worry about is doin’ what I tell you. And remember…” He leaned closer, fixing her with a glare. “I only need to bring you in alive. They didn’t say anything about keeping you in one piece.”

  Her ears flattened slightly, but her gaze remained steady. Then, to his irritation, she smirked.

  “One of us did that to you, yes?” she asked, gesturing with her muzzle toward his eyepatch.

  For a moment, Emmett’s expression was unreadable. Then he smiled coldly, his lips curling into a predatory grin. “Yeah.” He said, his voice low and dangerous. “But you wanna know what I did to him?”

  He held up his knife, the blade gleaming faintly in the firelight. “I slit his throat.” He said with chilling indifference.

  Before she could respond, his hand shot out, gripping her muzzle tightly. His fingers dug into her fur as he brought the tip of the knife close to her eye.

  “And I’ll gouge out yours without a second thought,” he growled. “I’ve been havin’ a real bad couple of days, and makin’ you blind might just improve my mood.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  He released her muzzle with a rough shove and turned back to his pack. He heard her growl low in her throat, but he ignored her, tearing open the ration bar.

  "Eat. Then nap time."

  She hesitated. Then opened her mouth. He dropped the food in like feeding a dog, not bothering to hide the disgust in his expression.

  Once she finished chewing, he turned, grabbed the tranquilizer gun, and shot her without fanfare.

  She gasped, body twitching. But before she went under, her lips curled.

  "I will kill you in your sleep," she whispered, slurring.

  Emmett snorted, shaking his head as he watched her slump into unconsciousness. “Sure.” He muttered.

  She finally went limp, eyes rolling back. He tossed the gun beside him and rubbed a hand over his stubbled face. He stared into the fire, eyes distant.

  "What a nightmare," he muttered, shaking his head.

  The wind stirred the flames, and the forest pressed in dark around him. He chewed his ration bar in silence, alone but never quite at ease.

  Emmett worked quickly, his breath puffing out in short, white clouds as he scraped snow aside. The collapsed trees provided decent cover, their trunks already half-buried from days of heavy snowfall. It took effort, but he managed to dig out a hollow between them just deep enough to fit the litter and its unconscious occupant. The hybrid was still out cold from the tranquilizer, which helped, though he kept glancing back at her face, half expecting her eyes to snap open.

  He grunted as he shoved the stretcher into the gap. Then came the fun part. Hiding her. He first piled dead branches over the gap. Followed by pine needles, bits of bark. Then he covered it all in a layer of snow. The forest offered its cloak freely, and he used every scrap. When he was done, she was completely concealed.

  Emmett stood, brushing snow from his gloves. He scanned the area and started covering his tracks, backtracking in wide, looping circles, using a pine branch to sweep the snow behind him. The steady snowfall worked in his favor, gently erasing the evidence of his passing. He checked his watch. The hybrid had woken up at least two hours ahead of schedule last time. Lucas had said the dose would last eight to ten hours. Emmett revised that estimate down to six to eight. Which he was still in that window.

  He clenched his jaw and turned toward the direction of the landing strip. Getting this deep into Russian-held territory had been easier than he expected. Traveling mostly by night slowed his pace, but it kept him alive.

  Now, he was a mile out from the strip, and he needed to see it for himself before dragging the cargo any farther.

  He checked his Grease Gun, slapped the receiver for good luck, and moved out. The forest swallowing him home.

  He moved fast and low, ducking under branches, feet crunching softly through the snow. The closer he got to the airstrip, the quieter everything became. No voices. No vehicles. Not even the distant pop of gunfire. Just dead silence and the soft whisper of snow falling on pine needles.

  As he crested a low ridge, the strip came into view. His stomach dropped. Something was wrong.

  At first glance, the dirt runway looked intact. He spotted a few Russians milling around, two trucks parked near a shack. But then he saw it. The craters.

  "No..."

  He dropped to the ground, fumbled for his binoculars, and brought them to his eyes.

  "No, no, no..."

  Half the runway was a smoking ruin. Deep, jagged craters gouged out the surface from a successful bombing run. Probably Luftwaffe.

  "Ah, fuck me," Emmett groaned, letting the binoculars fall into the snow as he rolled onto his back, his eye turning up to the gray sky.

  "Fuck!" He snapped. A little louder than he should’ve.

  He wanted to yell. Break something. Throw his fist into a tree. But instead, he just lay there, breathing hard, snowflakes landing on his face.

  After a long minute, he dug into his coat, and pulled out the pack of Pervitin. He popped one of the little tablets between his teeth and crushed it down. Bitter. Sharp. But it helped clear his head.

  Options. He needed options.

  He retrieved the laminated map from his coat pocket and spread it across the snow. His gloved finger traced the route from the destroyed airstrip to the fallback point. The other airstrip, deeper into Russian lines. Command had called it the last resort.

  It would take a full day to reach it on foot. Maybe longer with the litter. And as he got deeper into Russian lines, he could only travel at night.

  "Get the bitch to the plane. Get a ride home."

  The original plan had been simple, but of course complicated in execution. Once they'd reached the strip, the men would load the hybrid into a pre-staged crate. From there, the aircraft would carry her back to allied lines, while the rest of the team would melt into the woods and make the long trek out on foot, navigating by map and compass until they reached allied-held territory.

  But now it was just Emmett.

  He figured he could squeeze into the crate with her. It’d be cramped, miserable. But better than marching God knew how many miles through Soviet patrols. If the fallback strip was operational, and if they hadn’t abandoned the plan entirely, there might still be a chance.

  A slim one. But better than nothing.

  He folded the map and tucked it back into his jacket. He watched the Russians a moment longer. Two of them stood by a crater, tossing rocks into it like bored kids.

  "Fuck it."

  He turned and made his way back through the forest, moving faster now. Bitter wind bit at his face, but he didn’t slow. He’d already done the impossible. Captured a hybrid.

  All that was left was to deliver her. Just needed to dodge the Red Army a little longer.

  By the time he returned to the makeshift hide, night was creeping in again. The trees cast long shadows over the snow, and the air felt heavier, colder.

  He checked for signs of tampering, then started uncovering the hybrid. Branches and snow came away in clumps. She was still, her chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths.

  Emmett crouched beside her and cruelly pinched her nose hard between his thumb and forefinger.

  No real reaction. Just a faint twitch of the ears. The eyes fluttering beneath the lids but didn’t open.

  He checked his watch. It was time to dose her again.

  He pulled a dart from his pouch and jabbed it into the side of her neck. She twitched again but didn’t wake.

  He grabbed the end of the litter and began dragging her free of the hollow.

  "C'mon, bitch," he muttered, breath fogging the air. "We got a plane to catch."

  Eira stirred.

  A pulse of nausea twisted through her gut, rising like bile in her throat. Her jaw tried to open, only to be stopped by the tight strap, clamped around her snout. The strap dug painfully into the fur, and her ears flattened reflexively as the pressure made her temples throb. Her breathing grew shallow, labored through flared nostrils as she fought the mounting sickness. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Again. Slowly.

  Her eyes fluttered open, greeted by the dim, gray light filtering through a canopy of skeletal trees. A soft snow fell, coating everything in ghostly white. She winced as her head pounded like a war drum. Her stomach lurched again. She shut her eyes tight, fighting it back, willing her body to stillness.

  She became aware of movement. A dragging sensation. Her body was in motion, jolting occasionally as it scraped over uneven ground. She was still on the litter. Still bound. Still a prisoner.

  Then came the grunt.

  A sharp inhalation, followed by a sudden slip. Eira felt herself lurch, then drop. The litter hit the earth with a bone-jarring thud that sent a sharp ripple of pain down her spine. She bit back a growl. The impact left her ears ringing, and for a second, her nausea surged again. But she didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just listened.

  The man was cursing under his breath.

  Heavy panting. A grunt of pain. The sound of him shifting.

  Then a telltale crinkle. The soft tear of a wrapper.

  Something crunched between his teeth.

  Silence followed, thick and bitter. Eira lay still, listening to his chewing slow, then stop. A few more moments passed before she felt the litter jerk as he gripped the handles again and resumed dragging her.

  She opened her eyes slowly, cautiously. No blindfold this time. That was something. The forest loomed tall around them. Dark trunks and skeletal branches silhouetted against the snowy twilight. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that held its breath. Only the distant wind and the rasp of boots through snow disturbed the silence.

  Eira sniffed the air, slow and deliberate. Beyond the cold and pine and earth, she caught the scent of him.

  Sweat. Metal. Blood. Frustration.

  It hung around him like a storm cloud.

  Something had happened.

  She didn’t know what, but it was clear. He was rattled. Angry. Afraid? Maybe. Something had gone wrong while she was out. That much was certain.

  Her thoughts turned to the muzzle strap still biting into her muzzle. He’d clearly been dosing her regularly. If she’d woken up too early, it meant the last dose had either been weak. Or he’d made a mistake.

  She tested the strap, flexing her jaw subtly, slowly. It gave a little.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  Carefully, she began working her jaw back and forth. Every movement sent a spike of pressure through her temples, but she didn’t stop. The bindings practically groaned under the strain. She squeezed her eyes shut from the effort, and finally felt the material slip. Her jaws parted, barely an inch, but enough.

  Her tongue darted into the gap, hooking the leather and pulling it to the side. She began chewing methodically, furiously at the strap. The bitter taste of worn leather and salt filled her mouth, but she kept going.

  Then to her relief, the binding gave way.

  She exhaled quietly, letting her mouth hang open for a moment. The cold air stung against her dry tongue and gums. She flexed her jaw, rolling it. It ached, but she could breathe freely now.

  Her eyes flicked down to her wrists. Still strapped tight to her torso. She strained, trying to sit up, but the straps across her chest, kept her pinned flat. She couldn’t reach the bindings with her teeth.

  "Verdammt," she growled softly under her breath.

  She settled back against the litter and stared upward at the sky above the trees. Gray. Snow still falling. Wind whispering like distant ghosts. She let her eyes drift shut again.

  Did they think she was dead?

  Her unit. Her brothers and sisters.

  Dieter…

  If anyone had disobeyed orders to search for her, it would’ve been him. But she couldn’t rely on it. She had to assume she was on her own. Captured. Isolated. Bound and being dragged to God-knows-where by an American with one eye and an obvious vendetta.

  She needed information. She needed leverage. She needed him to talk.

  Her ears twitched as she tilted her head. Her captor trudged forward, back turned to her. Broad shoulders. Soiled uniform. The faded olive green now darkened with dirt, blood, and sweat. The M3 Grease Gun bounced rhythmically on its sling with every step.

  He was limping slightly now. Favoring his left leg. His coat was torn near the side. She imagined he hadn’t slept well. Or at all. She could see it in the way he carried himself. Like gravity was trying to drag him underground and he just hadn’t let it yet.

  She watched him silently. Observing. Calculating.

  He was tired.

  He was hurt.

  He was alone.

  And she smiled.

  "You know what is funny?" she said suddenly, her accented voice cutting through the brittle hush of the forest.

  Emmett didn’t stop, but she saw it. His shoulders suddenly stiffening. He kept his focus ahead, boots dragging through half-frozen mud.

  "You cannot kill me," she continued, her tone lilting, almost playful.

  "Don’t tempt me," he growled back, low and clipped.

  She chuckled softly. There was something dangerous in the sound. "Ja, you can hurt me. But..." Her voice turned almost sweet. Mocking. "I can kill you. And I only need one chance."

  The litter came to an abrupt stop.

  Emmett stood frozen, staring into the trees for a long second. Then, with a growl, he dropped his end. The wooden frame landed with a thud. Eira winced as the impact jarred her body, but she kept her expression level.

  His boots squelched as he stepped around to face her, each stride filled with tightly leashed frustration. He crouched beside her, his one good eye locking with hers. Green. Piercing. Filled with disdain.

  "You think that’s funny?" he asked. Voice low. Voice sharp. But under it, something almost amused.

  Eira tilted her head slightly. Her cold blue eyes glittered. "A little."

  Emmett leaned in, breath warm against her fur. "You know where I’m takin’ you, mutt? To some scientists. Allied ones."

  He jabbed a finger against her brow. "They’re gonna treat you like the lab rat you are. Cut you open. See what makes you tick."

  Her smirk flickered. A crack. But it returned just as fast, curling into a sharp grin.

  "Better a lab rat than a tired, broken man who’ll die alone in these woods," she spat.

  Emmett didn’t blink. He leaned in closer, whispering, “You think you scare me, mutt? You’re just another problem to solve. And the best part of this little adventure?” He leaned back slightly, his expression hardening. “No matter how much of a pain in the ass you are, the light at the end of the tunnel is handin’ you over to the men in the lab coats.”

  He straightened. Pulled the tranquilizer gun from his side. The strap came loose with a soft rustle. A snap of the safety disengaging.

  "Night-night, bitch," he muttered, and fired.

  The dart hit her in the chest.

  She gasped, jerking in the restraints, a snarl caught in her throat. Her vision doubled, blurred. Emmett stared down, silent.

  Her lips curled as the drugs pulled at her. "I will kill you... in your sleep," she murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

  Emmett snorted. "Sure you will."

  He waited a moment, watching her eyes flutter shut. Then he tightened the tranq gun's strap, grabbed the litter, and heaved it up again.

  The forest stretched on. Cold. Silent. Endless.

  Emmett’s boots squelched through the slush as he moved forward, but his mind wasn’t in the snow. It lingered on what he’d told her. The part about the scientists. About being cut open.

  He hadn’t lied, not exactly. But he hadn’t told the whole truth either.

  He was handing her over to be interrogated. Thoroughly. Viciously. Whatever intel she carried in that skull of hers. Names, locations, anyone who might be involved in the creation of the mutts. They would carve it out of her if they had to. And when they were done? She’d spend the rest of her miserable life in a locked cage somewhere. Maybe they'd even dissect her. Tear her open, piece by piece, to see what made her tick.

  The thought put a crooked smile on his face.

  Let her talk tough. Let her mouth off. It didn’t matter. Either way, she was getting cut open.