Troy
There were at least fifteen dead wolves at our feet. Adrenaline surged through me, but I was losing too much blood. London could barely stand. A familiar male werewolf loomed over us.
“Troy. London.” He spoke with a harsh rasp that further identified him.
Dolan. Claudine’s second-in-command. We never interacted much because Dolan rarely left the territory. Normally, her third traveled with her, something most alphas practiced, but Dolan was a different breed of wolf. Apparently, he enjoyed disciplining. There were rumors that Claudine had wolves in confinement for lifetime prison sentences, and Dolan liked to make them bleed, wait for the heal, and then rip them open all over again.
“I see you left your whipping station,” I said hoarsely as I stood. My legs shook so badly that I
