Evelyn
We’re halfway across the prairie, the Royal Guard poised as we approach them, the rebel werewolves fleeing in every direction behind us, when I finally say, “Please tell me you have antidote on you.”
A few arrows fly from the Royal Guards, presumably taking down werewolves trying to head back into the camp.
“The Royal Guard is a symbol more than anything else,” Alexander says. “We all know I am what the rebels truly fear. I cannot reveal that I’m wounded or this whole thing falls apart.”
My breath comes heavily as I lean on my mate with every step. My walk is very awkward with my casted left leg.
“I’m sorry,” Alexander and I say at the same time, our mutual guilt tangible through our connection, too.
“What are you sorry for?” I ask, surprised. He has just rescued me after all.
