The wolf's gaze was fixed on her, unblinking, sharp with focus. The snapped twig lay beneath one of its paws, half-hidden in the undergrowth. Its head was lowered, ears pricked forward, body tense in that dangerous, watchful way that meant it was deciding whether she was a threat, a meal, or simply entertainment.
Aveline knew very little about wild animals.
But she knew hunting dogs.
She had been thrown into their pen before, made a plaything for creatures that had no mercy and even less patience. More than once, she had come away bleeding. More than once, she had learned the hard way how to keep her body moving, how to make herself less easy to catch.
Her muscles tightened on instinct.
She took position.
The wolf did not retreat.
Fear crept cold and slow through her chest. The old terror returned with it—the memory of being trapped, helpless, stared at by teeth and hunger and nothing she could bargain with. Her throat tightened.
No.
She would not die here.
