h4Chapter 318: The Fury of a God/h4

    strongJacob~/strong

    Iy sprawled across the bed, the sheets still a mess from where Easter had stormed out, her fury lingering in the air like a summer thunderstorm that had cracked open right above me. The room felt too big, too empty without her in it, and the silence pressed down on me until my chest ached like someone had set a stone right where my heart should be.

    Gods, I felt like hell. I’d ripped away her memories—torn them clean out—just to keep her alive, and now, spilling the truth had been like slicing open a wound that had barely started to heal. Watching her eyes when I told her... that hurt more than anything.

    But regret saving her? No. Not for a single heartbeat. If I could roll the clock back, I’d do it all over again, without hesitation. Her life, Rose’s life, and now the new baby’s—those were non-negotiable. They came before anything else. Memories? Those were delicate, fragile things. They could be rebuilt, re-shaped. I’d just tried to do exactly that.

    I’d take her anger a thousand times over if it meant she kept breathing, if her children keptughing, if the world still had her in it.

    Still, guilt is a stubborn beast. It gnawed at me in the quiet, sharp as a wolf’s teeth, as Iy there staring up at the ceiling—drowning in my thoughts, wondering if there was a way to fix what I’d broken without losing her all over again.

    I kept my senses locked on her energy threads—those unseen, silken strands that bound us together. They pulsed softly with her essence, like quiet heartbeats in the dark. I’d learned to read them like anguage: their colors, their rhythms, the subtle shifts that told me everything without a single word. Right now, they glimmered faintly, a muted blue for her sadness, threaded with flickers of deep red—the lingering burn of her heat.

    But then—damn it—they spiked. No gradual build, no warning. Just a violent re, all-consuming, screaming red, the color of fresh blood spilled under a merciless moon.

    The world around me blurred. My vision tunneled, dragging me straight into her reality. She stood in the skeletal remains of some half-built neighborhood, empty houses crouched like hollow-eyed ghosts in the dark. And she wasn’t alone.

    Five men—hulking shadows, reeking of arrogance—closed in on her like a pack that thought it had found its prey. Their hands reached for her with a hunger that made my skin crawl.

    One of them—a scar-mapped brute—was faster. His filthy hand mped over her breast, squeezing with the entitlement of someone who thought she was nothing but a thing to be imed.

    The sight ripped something open in me. My blood went molten, my chest a furnace. The rage wasn’t just hot—it was blinding, searing through thought and reason until all I saw was red and the absolute need to destroy.

    I didn’t think. Didn’t grab a shirt or shoes. Teleporting was instinct, a rip through space thatnded me right there, barefoot on the cold, jagged pavement, the night air biting my bare chest. I materialized between them and Easter, my body a shield, arms spread wide to block their view of her.

    "Jacob!" Easter gasped, her voice a mix of relief and residual fury. Shetched onto my arm immediately, her fingers digging in like ws, trembling but fierce. I could feel her heat, her fear, pulsing against me.

    The men stumbled back, their eyes widening in sudden fright, boots scraping against the unfinished road. They were a pack of thugs—scarred, tattooed, reeking of musk and malice. The one with the jagged scar across his cheek, blood still fresh from where Easter had wed him, recovered first. He clutched his face, ring at me through bloodied fingers. "Who the hell are you? And how’d you just... pop up like that? You some kinda wizard or somethin’?"

    One of his buddies, the greasy ponytail guy, sniffed the air warily, his nose twitching. "Nah, he ain’t no wizard. Don’t smell like one—those sparkly types got that ozone stink. This guy’s... different. Wolfish, but... ancient."

    I didn’t entertain their babble. Fury vibrated through me, every muscle coiled, my skin prickling with the power surging in my veins. My vision tunneled on them, the world narrowing to their smirking faces, their filthy hands that had dared touch what was mine.

    "How dare you," I thundered, my voice booming like a god’s decree, echoing off the empty houses with a resonance that shook the ground beneath us. It wasn’t my everyday tone—this was the ancient timbre, the one that carried the weight of centuries, the essence of the Wolf Spirit itself. "How dare youy a finger on my mate?"

    Easter tightened her grip on my arm, whispering urgently, "Jacob, be careful. There are five of them—they’re strong, and they’re... like us."

    The scarred one—Scarface, I’d call him—tried to puff up, forcing augh that sounded more like a bark. "Your mate? Oh, that’s rich. Look at this guy, boys—thinks he’s some big bad protector, showin’ up half-naked like a damn stripper. Parlor tricks don’t scare us one bit. Teleport all you want; we’ll rip you apart and take turns with your little bitch anyway."

    "Yeah," Ponytail chimed in, his voice cracking just a hair despite his bravado. He flexed his ws, half-shifting, muscles bulging under his shirt. "We smelled her heat from a mile away. She’s fair game, strayin’ out here alone. You should’ve kept her locked up if she’s yours."

    The bearded brute chuckled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Parlor tricks? Ha! I’ve seen street magicians do better. Come on, wizard-boy, show us what you got before we make you watch."

    Their words were tough, but I could feel it—the acrid tang of their fear seeping through the air, mixing with their sweat. I smirked, delving deeper, my mind piercing theirs like fangs into flesh. I sifted through their thoughts, the dark recesses where they hid their sins. Killers, all of them—memories of bloodied victims, screams echoing in their psyches. Rapists, too, reveling in the power of vition. Thieves, abusers, a litany of crimes that made my blood boil hotter.

    "You really don’t know who I am, do you?" I said, my voice low now,ced with a dangerous calm. My smirk widened, predatory. "Allow me to educate you. I’m Mist, the Wolf Spirit. Father of your kind. And tonight? Not one of you leaves this ce scot-free."

    Easter’s breath hitched beside me. "Jacob... what are you going to do?"

    The men burst intoughter, forced and hollow, echoing like nervous hyenas. Scarface pped his knee, though his eyes darted side to side. "Father of werewolves? Oh, please. That’s a fairy tale for pups. You’re just some freak with a godplex. Boys, let’s tear him—"

    Then I felt it—their fear—sharp and sudden, slicing through the night like a wolf’s cry under a blood moon. It hit me deep, not as a warning, but as fuel. I let it surge through me, hot and electric, until it filled every breath.

    My hand rose on instinct, palm open to the night, and the old power stirred—ancient, untamed, older than the soil beneath our feet. The ground shimmered, the air thickening with a chill that bit to the bone.

    One by one, shapes took form. At first, they were only whispers of beasts—translucent shadows padding across the earth. Then, with a pulse of power, they became solid.

    Five wolves stood before us, but not alive. Their fur hung in lifeless mats, dull as ash. Their eyes were cloudy, ssy orbs that reflected nothing. Bodies sagged under their own weight, like the abandoned hides of creatures long gone.

    The air around them felt wrong—too still, too cold—like the world itself was holding its breath.

    "What the—?" Ponytail stammered, his tough facade cracking. "Those... those ain’t real. Some illusion, right?"

    "Holy shit," the bearded one muttered, backing up a step. "They’re... dead wolves? This guy’s nuts!"

    Scarface’sughter died, his face paling under the blood. "This some kinda joke? You think summonin’ corpses scares us?"

    They turned to bolt, feet pounding in panic, but I lifted my hand again, freezing them in ce. An invisible force pinned them, muscles straining uselessly against my will. "From now on," I dered, my god-voice rumbling like thunder, "none of you will be werewolves. Your beasts? They belong to me now."

    Easter’s eyes widened, her voice a whisper of awe and horror. "Jacob, no... this is too much. They’re monsters, but—"

    "Watch," I murmured to her, my tone softening just for her ear. "They deserve this."

    I pointed at bearded one first, letting the scarface—the one who’d dared grab her—watch. "Your wolfe out."

    He gasped, eyes bulging. "What? No—get out of my head! You can’t—"

    To everyone’s shock, a shimmering spirit emerged from his chest—a ethereal wolf, snarling and translucent, paws scrabbling at the air. It howled silently, twisting free. I directed it with a flick of my wrist, guiding it into one of the dead wolves on the ground. The lifeless body shuddered, fur rippling as if electrified. Then, it stirred—eyes snapping open, glowing amber. It rose, shaking off the dust, and let out a bone-chilling howl that pierced the night.

    Scarface screamed, copsing to his knees as the others joined in a chorus of terror. "No! That’s my wolf—give it back! What have you done?" The bearded man cried.

    Ponytail thrashed against the invisible bonds. "This ain’t happening! Make it stop!"

    The scarface, no longer acting though, whimpered, tears streaming. "Please, man—Wolf Spirit or whatever—we’re sorry! Don’t take mine!"

    Even Easter screamed, her hand flying to her mouth, body pressing closer to me. "Jacob! Oh my God, it’s alive!"

    The newly awakened wolf prowled forward, growling low, its gaze fixed on its former host. The men’s cries echoed into the darkness, a symphony of fear and regret.