DOM
The wind shifted again—northeast, just like before.
The scent was faint, but it was him.
Marcus.
I crouched low near the edge of the ravine, my fingers brushing the dirt, the pine needles, the remnants of dried blood too old to be fresh but too recent to forget. Grace was still, just behind me, her senses honed, her pale eyes sharp in the dusk. Lucas moved like a shadow through the trees, silent and sure, his rifle slung across his back more for ceremony than need. If Marcus showed his face, I'd rip it off before he had time to blink.
He'd taken too much already. He wouldn't take anything more.
"We're close," Grace whispered, her voice tight. "The wards are thinning here."
Lucas cursed under his breath. "He's smart. He's moving in patterns—disrupting territory, pulling us wide."
"He's stalling," I muttered. "He knows we're circling in."
Grace nodded. "Or he's baiting us."
A silence passed between us.
We all knew he might be.
