Blood & Wine

47 | Iris

Chaos had ensued, but, through it all, I kept my eyes on my Mate.

I wanted to join the fray and fight, but if Eden had told me to stick by Dasher, I would. It didn't take me much convincing either.

Eden. She had survived, and one of the witches had healed her enough to hobble her away from the fight and back inside the Coven House where she would be protected. I had saw her protest, attempt to fight her way out and help us, but everyone assured her she had done enough. Now she had three members from the pack and Fynley's grandmother keeping her inside. The witches had also locked her inside with their magic.

The witches were currently kicking ass without much magic. Those training lessons in Fynley's front yard had paid off. They were currently fighting with weapons—daggers and knives, shoving them through werewolves. And when that didn't work, they burned them or drowned them with their own blood. Smothered them. Threw large rocks at their heads. Did spells to break their bones and let the werewolves finish them.

The werewolves, all of us, were showing up in our own right, though. They fought and bit and growled and killed until Rogue blood spilled onto the ground. Fynley's advice to not die was only slightly working. Not everybody was going to make it, and we knew that—and, yet, they had chosen to fight anyway, had chosen to give up their lives so that others would be free.

Even the vampires and come through. They moved quickly, quicker than us, and the forty of them here were doing their own amount of damage.

In the end, the Queen Mother, the King of Werewolves, and the Leader of the Rogues were the ones outnumbered.

Speaking of the King...

I looked to the side in time to see Fynley shove his fist through his father's chest and emerge with his heart. It was the ultimate sign of power amongst us—and for him to do it. He had conquered his fear, conquered his father.

I always felt that slip of power leave his father and drop onto Fynley's head. He would not be King, and we would drop to his feet at the first chance we got and pledge our allegiance to him first and foremost.

Fynley swallowed, staring over his dad's dead body with no amount of slight satisfaction.

He turned to the clearing, and his voice was quiet but it boomed through our heads. If you came here today under my father's command, he is dead. That command is dead. If you wish to live, either pledge allegiance to me and fight the Rogues—or run home and become one. Because we will emerge victorious, and whoever is caught against me will die a slow, tortuous death. With that, he turned on his heel and headed into the Coven House—perhaps to find his Mate.

I knew he would be back out.

At his declaration, some of the other werewolves, those from packs who had been directly under the King, turned and ran free. Others stopped were they were, backing off from those on our side. Switching allegiance just like that.

That was a little over one fourth of the werewolves we were fighting against.

As long as Dasher could defeat his dad, we could win this.

I brought my attention to Dasher. His coat was lined with blood. His father stood in front of him, marred and bloodied, but not as much. Dasher was growling and snarling, but it was nothing more than a puppy throwing a fit. He was no match for his father. I knew that, and, yet, I could do nothing from where I was—nothing at all.

If I got too close, Dasher would get hurt trying to defend me.

If I tried to attack his dad, he would kill me.