Rain's POV
The next morning, the world looked like it was grieving. A thick fog hung in the trees, curling around us like a warning. I could smell the damp earth, the metallic tang of blood still clinging to Batista's skin, and the bitter stench of the witch's lingering magic.
We were on the edge of the pack's boundary — the exact spot where the land changed, where the shadows stretched longer and the trees bent like they were whispering secrets to each other. Batista, Eric, Mara, and I stood there. Well, they stood. I paced.
Batista looked half-dead. His face was pale, sweat beading on his forehead, his breathing shallow and ragged. The poison was eating him alive, and the attack last night hadn't done him any favors. The guy was barely holding it together, leaning against Eric like a limp rag doll.
I could feel their eyes on me. Expecting me to play hero. Like hell.
I turned to Eric.
"I'm done," I said flatly.
Eric frowned. "What do you mean you're done?"
