Porcupine Ridge they call holidays an option for a reason,

She didn't balk. He drew to a halt a few lengths away, lifting his chin so that the differences between their respective heights were even more pronounced. His eyes were playful, mocking -- at least until she spoke. They hardened and froze quite quickly when she questioned him.

He wasn't thinking about Rusalka. In Verx's mind, everything he'd done to and with them had been justified. Caiaphas had unknowingly struck a nerve because the most massive fuck-up of his life had been letting his son fall into harm's way, and --

No, Vercingetorix said shortly, frowning. No pain beyond death will be what I deserve. Probably hella cryptic to Blackhead, but crystal clear to him. He thought of the ruddy young man, the one wolf he hated more than her. . .but then, hadn't she gone one worse? Hadn't she committed the ultimate crime, while the brute who'd taken Dragomir escaped it (though merely by chance)?

He bared his teeth, all sense of humor gone. You're a fucking baby killer, he growled, voice choked under the strain of restraining himself from ripping her to shreds without a second thought. He saw the mountain savage in her place, suddenly, and felt his jaw twitch. You deserve far worse than death.

Maybe he should give it to her. But then, would it be fair, with her in such poor shape?