Emmett crawled as flat to the ground as a man could get without digging a trench. The cold snow and mud, soaked into his coat. Biting through the fabric and clinging to his ribs. Each inch forward was a deliberate push, elbows driving into half-frozen mud as he inched along like a slug in misery. His M3 Grease Gun was clutched in both hands, hugged tight to his chest like a lifeline. The weapon’s metal body was frigid against his gloves, but familiar. Comforting even.

  His breath fogged in front of him in thin, ghostly wisps, vanishing into the air, just as quickly as they came. His eye squinted against the wind as he pressed his cheek into the frozen ground, edging forward through a crust of half-melted snow and dead grass. Everything ached. An ache that even the Pervitin wasn't quite helping. But he didn't stop, didn't slow.

  Not now. Not with the prize tied up in the woods behind him and his ticket home somewhere beyond this ridge.

  He crested the low ridge, pushing through a crust of snow with his elbows, and slowly raised his head just enough to peer through the brush. His heart was hammering. Not from exertion, but from a sick anticipation. Then he saw it.

  His gut twisted.

  The airstrip below was crawling with Soviets. Maybe hundreds of them. The noise of it. Engines roaring, trucks growling, boots thudding against the frozen earth assaulted his ears like a distant war drum. Planes taxied and took off, trails of smoke and snow whipped into the sky behind them. Soldiers moved like clockwork, unloading crates, shouting orders, slapping the sides of trucks to get them moving. Barracks tents lined the perimeter like teeth in a hungry mouth.

  This wasn’t just an airstrip.

  It was a full-blown staging ground. A forward operating base for whatever the hell was next.

  Emmett let out a long, low groan and dropped his face into the mud. The cold soaked into his cheek, but he didn’t care. His pulse pounded against his skull like a hammer.

  "Goddamn it," he muttered through gritted teeth.

  He forced himself to look again, pulling up his binoculars with shaking, frozen fingers. The lenses wobbled until he got them steady. He scanned past the chaos of the Soviet war machine, and then he saw it.

  His breath hitched.

  There, among the controlled madness, was a gray-and-green shape that didn’t belong. A C-47 Skytrain. American. Olive drab. Faded white star on the fuselage. It sat near the far edge of the airstrip, rear cargo door open. The twin props were still.

  His ticket out.

  Emmett's eye widened. His brain kicked into overdrive. Could he bluff his way in? His Russian was rusty at best. A few curse words, basic phrases. Maybe enough to pass if he got a uniform. Hell, if he could even get close...

  Then the left prop began to turn.

  He froze.

  "No..." he whispered, barely audible.

  The right prop stuttered, then caught. The engines coughed, spat, and roared to life. Ground crew scrambled around it, performing checks, barking orders, finishing whatever last-minute preps they needed.

  "No, no, no..."

  He sat up, binoculars pressed tight to his face.

  The rear door slammed shut as the aircrew boarded.

  Russian soldiers moved to guide the plane forward.

  Emmett dropped the binoculars and stood to a crouch, fists clenched.

  "I'm here!" he said in a low disbelieving tone, his voice cracking. "I'm right here!"

  The Skytrain taxied to the runway, props now spinning with hungry speed. Black smoke belched from the exhaust as the pilot gunned it down the runway.

  "Come back!"

  The plane lifted into the air, climbing steadily, leaving a tail of smoke and snow in its wake. Emmett watched as it vanished into the southern sky, getting smaller and smaller until it was just a dot, then nothing.

  He stared at the horizon, frozen in place. He’d missed it. He had just missed it.

  His knees hit the snow with a soft crunch. He slumped forward, hands braced in the dirt, breathing hard.

  "You stupid bastards," he muttered.

  He had the hybrid. He had the target. He’d survived, he had completed the mission. And now the ride home was gone.

  His mind turned inward. Dark thoughts bubbled to the surface. His growing anger, exhaustion, and sense of betrayal pointing directly at the creature he had left in the woods.

  What if he just... Ended her. Flip the litter, and slam her down in the muck, and carve her open like the animal she was. Slit her throat deep and slow, hold her down while she struggled, while her eyes bulged with realization. Watch her choke on her own blood, gurgling, drowning, helpless. He could strangle her if he had to, feel the life drain out of her twitching body under his hands. Let her final moments be filled with fear and pain. She wasn’t human. She was a monster.

  He could almost see it. The way her eyes would widen. The panic. The gurgle. It would feel... righteous.

  But he shook it off with a frustrated groan.

  He wasn’t done yet.

  There was still one more path. One more desperate, grim, slim chance.

  "Fuck it," he muttered.

  He put his binoculars away and stood. Adjusting the Grease Gun on his shoulder. The weight was comforting.

  Then he turned, trudging back toward the treeline.

  Back to the thing he'd dragged out of the woods like a cursed relic.

  When Emmett returned, the hybrid was awake, her icy blue eyes glaring daggers at him from beneath the foliage he had used to conceal her. Her expression practically screamed fury and defiance, like a chained wolf daring its captor to step closer. He brushed off the leaves and twigs, ignoring her muffled growls, and gave her a glance that was more weary than angry.

  Sinking onto a nearby log, Emmett took off his helmet and ran a hand down his face, fingers dragging through the grime and over the rough stubble along his jaw. He exhaled through his nose, the breath fogging in the air as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

  His mind raced through the chaos of what he’d just seen. That damn airfield. The Soviets were swarming it like fire ants on a carcass. If they caught him, he probably wouldn’t get the courtesy of a bullet. He’d be dragged back to Moscow, interrogated, then dumped in a gulag or worked to death in a mine somewhere.

  “This isn’t going to work,” Emmett muttered, more to himself than to her. His voice was hoarse, dry, and ragged. He stared at her, and her cold eyes stared right back. No fear. Just a promise of retribution.

  “If I had any damn sense,” he said, straightening up and folding his arms, “I’d slit your damn throat right here and be done with it.”

  Her ears flicked. She gave a muffled grunt that almost sounded amused, like she agreed with him. The defiance in her gaze never wavered.

  “But no,” he growled. “I’m supposed to deliver you. Hand you over in one piece. Or mostly, anyway.” He jerked his chin toward the direction of the airstrip. “That? That was our ride out. Gone. Thanks to some really rotten luck."

  He stood, walking in a tight circle before crouching beside her. “I can’t drag that damn litter another mile. My back’s done, my legs are shot, and I ain’t dying out here because your royal ass refused to carry your weight.”

  She stared at him, unmoved.

  He sighed through gritted teeth, pulled his knife from his belt, and began cutting through the straps that held her to the litter.

  “So here’s the deal,” he muttered, slicing methodically. “You’re gonna walk. You don’t get a say in it, and if you so much as think about running, you’ll regret it. Clear?”

  The wolfwoman growled low in her throat but didn’t resist.

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  Eira trudged ahead of Emmett, her wrists bound and her tail flicking behind her in a rhythm that radiated annoyance. Her jaws were still strapped shut. And to her fury and utter humiliation, a rope was now looped around her neck like a leash, the other end held firmly by that bastard of a man. She was, quite literally, being walked like an animal.

  Emmett trailed a few paces behind her, his boots crunching softly against the damp forest floor. Snow clung to the edges of the trail, but the path itself was a mess of churned slush and sticky mud. He watched her with the quiet caution of a man expecting a trap. Every few steps, he gave a slight tug on the rope, keeping the slack just uncomfortable enough to remind her who was in control.

  "Walking the dog," he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for her sharp ears to catch.

  Her ears flattened against her skull, and she let out a low, muffled snarl through the muzzle strap. Rage boiled beneath her fur, and her pride, what little she had left, burned. But she kept walking, her steps deliberate, controlled. She couldn’t let him see how much it cut.

  This was worse than the litter. Worse than being drugged and dragged. This was control. Mockery. Humiliation. And yet, even as her heart pounded with fury, some part of her mind ticked over the facts. She was no longer drugged into stupor. No longer bound head to toe. She had her legs. She was closer now to striking back than she'd been in days.

  She knew he meant it when he said he’d hurt her. But she also knew he wouldn't likely kill her unless he had no other option. He was too invested now. Too far in to throw away his prize. But she? She only needed one chance. One moment of carelessness. One slip.

  For a second, she considered letting him shoot her with that damned tranquilizer again. Slow him down, make him use his supplies. But then she remembered what he’d said about the Russians. She had no illusions about what would happen if they got hold of her. They’d kill her on sight, or worse. For now, she would get her bearings.

  The rope jerked suddenly, snapping her out of her thoughts. She stumbled slightly, glaring over her shoulder.

  "Quit slowing down," Emmett snapped, his voice harsh and tired.

  She growled again, the noise guttural and vibrating through her chest. She wanted to insult him. Wanted to tear out his throat. Wanted to bury her claws in the last eye he had and blind the son of a bitch. The image of him stumbling through the snow, blind and bleeding, brought a flicker of satisfaction to her.

  Emmett caught the shift in her posture. He could see it. She was scheming again.

  He tugged the rope harder, yanking her head slightly to the side. "Whatever's going through that thick skull of yours, don't even think it," he growled. "I can get awfully creative."

  Eira threw a glare over her shoulder.

  "So can I Schweineficker," she thought.

  She'd carve it into his chest if she ever got the chance.

  Emmett smirked darkly. Her defiance amused him in some sick way. He used the hand holding the leash to fish the tattered package of Pervitin from his coat pocket, awkwardly working a tablet free with his thumb. With the leash still taut in his grip and the tranquilizer gun steady in his other hand, he popped the tablet into his mouth.

  The bitter tang settled on his tongue as he tucked the package away. His gaze never left her. He knew this wasn't sustainable. She was going to try something, he just didn’t know when. But when she did, he'd be ready. Or so he told himself.

  The forest around them remained quiet, snow drifting through the branches like ash. Somewhere in the distance, the dull thrum of Soviet engines rumbled.

  He gave the leash another tug. "Keep walking, mutt. We ain't got time for your drama."

  She kept her eyes fixed forward, snarling in response. Her thoughts turned to the strap around her muzzle. She needed to speak. She needed to aggravate him. She couldn’t reach her muzzle the way he had strapped her wrists to her gut. She worked her jaw again in a similar manner as she had before. Unfortunately, this time the cords didn't loosen. He had made sure they wouldn't come free this time. Emmett had noticed she was fidgeting.

  "Whatever you're doing, quit it," he snapped.

  Eira let out a sigh. She knew she had one option, as much as she hated it. She suddenly stopped.

  "The fuck are you doing?" Emmett snapped, sounding furious.

  She calmly turned around, fixing her eyes on his remaining eye. She dipped her head closer to her bound wrists, and cupped one of her hands, and as best she could she mimed pouring water into her mouth.

  "No, I will fucking not," he said, glaring at her.

  She made the motion again. This time more impatiently. She made a muffled, insistent sound, refusing to move. She looked at him for a long moment. Her expression neutral.

  Emmett leveled the tranquilizer pistol at her chest. He clicked the safety off and fixed her with a stern glare. She met his gaze, not even blinking.

  Emmett eventually lowered the tranquilizer.

  "Fuck you," he snapped. He knew they couldn't just stand around like this.

  "Turn around and kneel," he said in a low, dangerous tone.

  She complied, turning from him and kneeling down. Emmett walked up behind her slowly, taking up the slack on the rope that she was leashed with. She heard a rustle as something was pulled free. She felt something press into her shoulder.

  "I have a pistol in your shoulder. Not the damn tranquilizer. You try anything, and I'll plug you with a bullet. Understand?"

  She nodded her understanding, acting calm and unbothered.

  She saw his hand reach out, and he grabbed the knot that kept the rope around her muzzle. He pulled, and the cords came loose. She let out a sigh of relief.

  "Danke," she said, almost pleasantly.

  "Not a damn word," Emmett quickly responded.

  She heard something unclip, and she felt something shoved into her hands. She looked down to see the man’s canteen.

  She pulled at the bindings still keeping her hands to her stomach.

  "My hands," she said simply.

  "You'll figure it out, or you won't drink," Emmett growled, backing away. She sighed, and moving into an awkward position, she managed to pour a trickle into her mouth. She drank half the contents, sighed contently, and recapped the canteen. She turned, lifting the bottle, giving an innocent smile.

  "Drop it," Emmett commanded. She shrugged and let it fall to the snow.

  "Face forward. I'm muzzling you again."

  She didn't turn away.

  "That will not be necessary," she said simply.

  "You don't get a say. Face forward or I'll cut your tail off."

  Eira chuckled. "I know where we are. I know who these woods belong to. Believe it or not, I wish to live." She paused and grinned. "And are you really so eager to have your hands so close to my teeth?"

  Emmett opened his mouth, his face turning into a furious scowl, about to say something, but she quickly interjected.

  "You may muzzle me later if that is what you wish. I will not create any problems in the meantime. Afford me this much," she said, her expression still neutral.

  Emmett's expression remained fixed in its hateful glare, then he suddenly yanked on the rope, almost making her fall over. She let out a surprised gasp.

  "On your feet," he snarled.

  She nodded and rose to her full height, then started walking. Emmett followed behind grabbing the canteen from the ground which he slipped back into it's pouch.

  For a moment, she held her tongue, just relishing the moment that her muzzle was free. Then finally, she broke the silence, her thick German accent cutting through the air.

  "Who are you?"

  Emmett grunted, clearly annoyed by the intrusion into his grim thoughts.

  "None of your concern. Keep walking, you fucking bitch," he growled, jerking the rope for emphasis.

  Eira gasped slightly, more out of surprise than pain, but she didn’t falter. She straightened her back, her tail flicking again in irritation.

  "What's your name, then?" she asked after a pause, her voice calm and lilting, almost curious.

  Emmett groaned audibly, his frustration barely contained. "I should stitch that damn yap shut. Why the fuck do you care?"

  A grin spread across Eira's face, one that she kept turned away from him as she trudged forward. "I want to know the name of the man I'm going to kill," she said sweetly, her tone dripping with mock sincerity.

  That struck a nerve.

  Without warning, Emmett yanked the rope hard, jerking her backward. She stumbled, just as his boot drove into the back of her leg, forcing her into a kneeling position. The cold metal of his pistol pressed firmly against the side of her head.

  "Please," he said, his voice low and menacing. "Give me another reason to pull the trigger."

  Eira's response was a laugh. A sharp, mocking sound that only fueled his rage. With a growl, he kicked her over onto her side.

  "Get on your fucking feet," he snapped, his voice rough with anger.

  Eira struggled but managed to push herself upright, the bindings on her wrists making the movement awkward. She stood shakily, mud clinging to her, but her grin hadn't faded.

  "You aren't a pleasant person," she said, her tone teasing and smug. "Since you refuse to give me your name, I think I shall name you... Schei?e. Or, ah..." She smirked wider. "Schwein."

  Emmett's jaw tightened, his lips curling into a snarl. "Fine!" he shot back. "Then I'll call you 'cunt.' That work for you? You damn mongrel."

  Eira tilted her head slightly, as though considering the insult. She was quiet for a while, her tail flicking thoughtfully. Then she sighed dramatically. "We might be enemies," she began, her voice calm but still dripping with amusement. "But let us be at least courteous enough to be professional." She glanced back at him, her icy eyes glinting. "My name is Eira."

  Emmett didn't respond immediately. He let the silence stretch, his scowl deepening as they walked. Finally, he let out a long, frustrated sigh. He needed to muzzle her again, but not right now.

  "Fine," he said, his tone sharp and exhausted. "It's Emmett."

  Eira nodded as though she had won some small victory. "Emmett..." she said slowly, rolling the name over her tongue as if testing it. "I would prefer to call you Schwein, but I will be better. Emmett is... a good name."

  He grunted in irritation, shaking his head as he continued forward. He didn't bother responding, but she wasn't done yet.

  After a moment, her ears twitched, and she asked, "How many of those... darts do you have left?"

  Emmett scowled, his grip on the rope tightening. Her laughter, a low, mocking chuckle filled the air, grating on his already raw nerves. He briefly considered cutting off her tail just to shut her up, but instead, he kept walking, muttering under his breath.

  "You better pray I never run out, Bitch."

  She laughed again, the sound sharper this time, carrying a cold amusement that made Emmett's skin crawl. His teeth ground together, the temptation to shoot her becoming less hypothetical by the second.

  "Shut your damn trap," he hissed.

  Eira took in a long, exaggerated breath through her nose. "Worry not. I don't smell any Soviets. If that is your concern." Her voice carried a cold sarcasm. "I wish not to be captured by them, and I suspect neither do you, ja?"

  "Shut the fuck up."

  But she wasn’t done.

  "What do you intend, Herr Emmett? Are you really planning to march me all the way to your lines? That's quite the journey."

  "How we get there is none of your concern," Emmett snapped, his voice fraying. Days of exhaustion and failure clung to him like a wet coat. "All you need to worry about is doing what I tell you." He yanked the rope again, rough and impatient.

  Eira stumbled slightly, teeth bared in a silent snarl.

  "And right now, I’m telling you to shut your damn mouth."

  She didn’t respond immediately. Her playful tone faded, replaced by something flatter, cooler. Calculated.

  "Allow me to offer you something, once, and only once. Untie me... and we go our separate ways."

  Emmett scoffed, the sound harsh and disbelieving.

  But Eira pressed on.

  "What you propose... it is admirable, perhaps. Determined. But it is impossible. I will make it impossible."

  She let that hang in the air between them, like a blade waiting to drop.

  "Release me, and we both vanish into the woods. No blood. We travel our separate paths."

  Emmett was silent for a beat too long. For the first time, she wondered if maybe, just maybe, he was weighing her words.

  Then he spoke, and there was no doubt left in his tone.

  "If we go our separate ways," he said coldly, "it’ll be me leaving your corpse in a ditch with a bullet through your skull. You’ve only got two options. Do as I say, or I leave you in a ditch."

  Eira smiled thinly, her ears twitching.

  "You are mistaken," she replied. "There is a third option."