Smoke billowed through the Boarlander woods, but as she shook her head to clear her blurred vision, she saw him. Mason’s enormous black boar looked like a monster from legend. His eyes blazed with blue fury as he dragged his black hoof through the dirt, kicking dust over his dark bristled fur. The longer fur along his back was spiked up in agitation, and when he blasted a snort, smoke swirled from his breath. Long cuts decorated his body, pink from how deep into the muscle they’d gone. Along his ribs, she could see the white of his bones. But if he hurt, she couldn’t tell. His long tusks had been stained burgundy, and when the red boar across the clearing bolted for Mason, her mate bunched his powerful muscles and charged.
She’d never witnessed such raw power or raw beauty as Mason blasted across the firefly clearing these animals had stolen from them. Mason was violence in motion, a promise of agony, a bringer of destruction. The red boar must be Jamison, Mason’s brother. Their shape was the same, much bigger than the other boar-warriors. She would bet her flight feathers he was the Croy who had destroyed Mason’s life.
She didn’t regret taking his eye.
Her heart pounded against her breastbone as they neared each other. Faster and faster they ran, and when they clashed, a wave of power pulsed from their collision, causing Ally to stagger backward and clutch Beck harder against her chest, hands tight on her wings.
“Oh my gosh,” Ally whispered in awe as the boars battled, slicing, ripping, shredding each other mercilessly in a fight that would end in one of their deaths. There was no other way.
Behind them, Damon landed in front of the flames and roared a deafening, prehistoric roar that rattled the earth.
And with one last blurred, flurry of ferocity, it was done.
Mason stood over Jamison’s limp body, swaying on his hooves, but victorious. And all around them, chaos reigned as the boars disengaged from their battles and fled. Animals rushed by them with their giant, bloody tusks low as they escaped. Kirk blocked them with his body, shielding Ally and Beck from the panicked boar shifters.
Mason blasted a snort and dragged his feral gaze away from the dead, red boar. How gutted he must’ve felt in the moment he locked eyes with her. He’d just killed his brother to end the war and save them all.
Beck cried out and tested her wings, but her left one wouldn’t work right. She needed to be with him, to touch and reassure him that everything was going to be all right. Someday, everything would be okay again.
“Give her to me,” Willa’s mate, Matt, said. He pulled a struggling Beck from Ally’s arms and pressed her onto the ground, then felt around her wing. He was naked and covered in soot and blood. His bright blue eyes got a faraway look as he pressed around the blindingly painful part of her outstretched wing. “Gray Backs fight all the damned time. We could set bones for a living. This is going to”—crack—“hurt.”
Beck shrieked in agony. Where was Mason? He wouldn’t let her feel pain like this. Mason!
She turned her head to the side and forced her eyes open. Smoke and fire billowed behind Mason as he went to his knees with a grunt. No. No, no, no. He was going to be okay. He had to be.
But his wounds didn’t make sense. She couldn’t comprehend how she could see so much injury yet he still looked at her, resolve pooling in his eyes.
“Oh shit,” Matt said. “Damon! We need help!” Matt bolted for Mason, skidded on his knees in the dirt next to him as Mason fell to his side. Dust rose around him with the force. Matt was working on him, and then Beaston was there, and Harrison and Bash. As they covered Mason completely from her sight, Clinton appeared through the smog, covered in streaks of ash and long, seeping gashes. He was gripping the back of his hair, and his bright gray eyes were rimmed with moisture. He paced tightly, eyes never leaving Mason.
“Come on, you mother fucker,” he screamed. “Live!”
A sick hollowness filled Beck’s chest. If she lost him, she would never be okay. It wasn’t like with Robbie. Mason was really hers. Hers to love, hers to protect, and she’d failed him. If she’d have been stronger, more thorough raking her talons down Jamison’s face, Mason wouldn’t be in the dirt now.
Desperate to be with him, she struggled out of Ally’s grasp and hopped through the grass.
“Keep her back,” Harrison ordered, pointing a blood-soaked finger at her. “She doesn’t need to see this.”
His eyes were scared. She’d never seen Harrison scared, and Bash was pressing all his weight on his hands, holding together the skin on Mason’s ribs. A tear streaked down the soot on Bash’s face.
Ally scooped her up before she could reach him, and Beck went mad. Just…insane, trying to escape her hold. She clawed and beat her wings against the woman, shrieking out in fury because Mason was hers. Hers!
And then Damon was there, human, holding a giant bag of first-aid supplies, and the Ashe Crew and the Gray Backs formed a loose circle. Clinton was screaming curses at Mason, and Harrison’s voice was panicked as he gave the others orders.
Beck tried so hard to Change back, but she couldn’t. She was stuck and helpless, and Ally was carrying her toward the four-wheeler now. Kirk was blocking the others from her sight with his massive shoulders, and Beck hated everything. A long, mournful cry left her beak, followed by another and another. Her broken wing had been nothing compared to the agony that stabbed at her heart.
For the rest of her life, this moment would be etched into her mind. The sadness in Kirk’s eyes as he watched her cry out. The glimpses of the crews trying to save Mason. The fire and the smoke. The way her lungs burned and her chest constricted with the first thoughts of how dark her life would be if she lost her mate.
She stopped fighting Ally. What was the use? Beck was nothing but a weak and broken shell now.
She needed to go to Ryder. If Mason was really gone, the heartache would resonate through her son’s life, too.
She needed to hold him and reassure herself she still had purpose because, right now, she felt as if her heart had been plucked from her chest.
Beck closed her eyes against the unending pain in her middle.
She needed Ryder to remind her to breathe.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Mason groaned and squinted his eyes at the sunshine blasting a laser beam of light onto his closed eyelid. Something was scratching his stomach. It was a strange sensation, like the tingling he got when his leg fell asleep. His throat was dry, and his body felt like Damon had burned him to crispy bacon. But when he forced his eyes open and looked down at his chest, half hidden by bed sheets, he realized it wasn’t fire that had nearly killed him. The boar war came back to him in a flood as he beheld the long, half-healed gashes that covered his torso. Between two scars was a field mouse with giant testicles, walking over his stomach like he was searching Mason for potato chips.
“Hi, Nards,” he croaked in a hoarse voice.
The mouse looked up at him with those round eyes of his, wiggled his nose and whiskers a few times, and then hopped off him and down the comforter to the floor.
Mason frowned up at the saggy, white ceiling of 1010. Why wasn’t he in his own trailer recovering?
“I made them take you here for the magic mojo,” Bash said from a chair next to the bed. The titan looked exhausted and was fully bearded. How had he grown so much facial hair so fast? “You been out four days. We been taking turns watching you. Beck won’t hardly leave you, but she had to take Ryder out for a while. He was going wild all cooped up.” Bash scrubbed his hand down his face, and his usual smiling green eyes looked hollow. He dipped his voice to a ragged whisper. “I thought you left us again.”
The raw vulnerability in Bash’s admission unfurled a new ache in Mason’s chest cavity. “I told you, Bash Bear. I’m not leavin’ again.” Mason struggled upward and clutched his head when a bout of dizziness took him. When the blanket slipped to his hips, he froze at the sight of his stomach.
“You look like one of them tic-tac-toe boards with a bunch of Xs,” Bash said, the hint of a smile returning to his tone.
A moment of insecurity took him when he thought of Beck looking at him like this.
“She’s been tracing them while she talks to you.” Bash rested his elbows on his knees and clenched his hands. “If you’re worried about Beck wantin’ to fuck you still, you don’t have to. She don’t see your scars at all. She just sees you.”
Mason swallowed hard and nodded his thanks to Bash. “She’s okay then? Is everyone okay?”
“We got new scars decorating our bodies, but yeah. Everyone lived. Your people are fucked up.”
Mason let off a long, relieved sigh and closed his eyes against the weight that lifted from his shoulders. “They aren’t my people anymore, Bash Bear.” He stood on unsteady legs and stumbled into the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror was haunting, but he was still alive. Alive. He’d thought there hadn’t been a shot in hell of his survival after he’d fought Jamison. As he’d felt his life slipping away under the frantic attempts of his crew to save him, he’d thought he would never know if Beck lived, or if Ryder would grow up okay. He’d fought to stay awake, desperate to live for them. He owed the people who had worked so hard to put him back together again. And now Bash said Beck was okay, and suddenly, he didn’t have to worry about the boar people anymore. He’d hidden for so long, but no more. They wouldn’t come after him again. Not without Jamison leading them on his quest for vengeance.