Wolvenguard by Sarah Westill

Author:Sarah Westill [Westill, Sarah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sarah Westill

15

Sweat rolled down Deklan’s forehead to his nose, splashing on the floor beneath him. He ignored the sting of salt in his eyes and the protesting muscles of his arms, forcing himself into yet another push-up. The burn in his shoulders, stomach, and lower back temporarily drove away the frustration he couldn’t stop focusing on without a distraction. So, he distracted. Pushing his body to the limit.

Izia lay resting in the corner on a fur rug. In the greenhouse, the doors open to the humid indoor garden, Neva and Nikita howled. Deklan had silenced the bond between the two playing wolves but left the connection open to Izia in case he needed anything. The injured wolf had been the one to realize Cia had snuck away upon their arrival. No word of goodbye. No thank you. No apology. No waiting to disclose the information she’d potentially uncovered.

Gone.

If uninjured, Deklan didn’t think he’d have been able to stop his gray wolf from chasing after the young interceptor. The knowledge was yet another thing for him to worry about. For him to physically exhaust himself to keep from dwelling in apprehension.

Booted feet appeared in his line of vision. Deklan continued the controlled lower and rise of his torso. A small puddle formed on the hardwood beneath his face. The soaked fabric of the shirt he hadn’t bothered to remove clung to his back. Joints popped as his visitor sat cross-legged in front of him. Clasped large hands with silver rings and wrists wrapped in familiar leather bracers replaced the boots.

“Hello, Ahtyshka,” Deklan greeted mid-push.

“You have found her,” his father said. Despite decades spent in Sziveria, a Ruthenian accent still flavored his words.

“I have found no one,” Deklan huffed, increasing speed, demanding more from himself.

Markus remained silent. Waiting. Aggravation slid through Deklan, and he shoved off the floor back onto his haunches. Ignoring his father would only prove the truth of his words. Markus handed him a towel. Deklan pressed his face into the soft, clean-scented fabric and resisted the urge to growl. When had he lost control of his future? Oh, yes, he remembered. When he rescued a wayward guardian from herself. Now, he was the one needing rescued from himself.

“Who told?” Deklan asked, sighing in resignation.

“Why does it matter?”

Deklan dropped the towel and stared at his father. Gray streaked through the dark red hair Deklan and most of his siblings had inherited. Markus’s golden stare held a level of patience only three decades of parenting could master. A suspicion rose in Deklan, and he narrowed his eyes.

“It was Tate, wasn’t it,” Deklan guessed.

Instead of confirming or denying, Markus asked, “Why are you fighting this?”

Deklan shoved off the floor, draping the towel around his neck. He hopped onto a curved, manual treadmill. Excess nervous energy still thrummed through his veins, made worse by his father’s questions. Using the rails at the side, he pressed his weight into the treads, forcing them into motion. Once the belt glided effortlessly beneath his feet, he let go and ran, his speed increasing with each footfall.

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