Moonlight illuminated the bloodbath where Deklan stood among several carcasses.
Each one was mangled, torn, but not from the sharpness of the blade.
Judging by the scattered chunks of flesh—and the brutal, messy wounds carved into the carcasses, these wolves hadn't been killed by weapons. Instead, whoever struck them down had done so—with nothing but raw strength.
Bare hands tearing through fur and bones alike.
And it was obvious who it was.
Deklan was looking down at another wolf, hands gripping its lower and upper jaw tightly.
He forced it to keep its maw open while his leg stepped on its chest, pinning the wolf to the ground.
And with its back against a tree, it couldn't break free at all.
