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his way.
    As Malcolm swung around again, Jeremy leapt to his feet and dove out of the path of his charge. Jeremy barely had time to recover from the dive before Malcolm twisted around and rushed him. This time, though, when Jeremy tried to evade, Malcolm was ready. He swerved in mid-lunge and caught Jeremy by the hind leg, throwing him down.
    As much as I wanted to believe otherwise, I knew Jeremy was no match for his father. At forty-seven, Malcolm was a werewolf in his prime, having the experience of age yet none of its disabilities. The only wolf in the Pack who could beat him was Dominic and even that was starting to be questioned as age slowed Dominic’s reflexes. Mutts came to Stonehaven for one reason: to challenge the best. That "best" was not, and never would be, Jeremy.
    Although I knew this, I waited out the first few minutes, hoping I was wrong, and afraid if I jumped in, I’d get in Jeremy’s way. Jeremy recovered from the first throw-down, and managed to slice a gash in Malcolm’s foreleg but that was the only hit he scored. Within five minutes, Jeremy was bleeding from his hind leg and his left ear, and the froth around his mouth was tinged with pink.
    I knew then that no amount of luck was going to get Jeremy through this. Nor was staying out of his way going to help. So I leapt in, snarling, and threw myself on Malcolm’s back. For a full-grown wolf, this is a good offensive move, pitching your weight onto your opponent and bringing him down. For an eighty pound pup, it was like dropping a terrier onto a bull Mastiff. I executed my leap perfectly, and landed square on his back, fangs finding purchase in the loose skin behind his neck. And all Malcolm did was huff in surprise, then fling me off.
    When I got back to my feet, I changed tactics. If I couldn’t be formidable, at least I could be annoying. While the two wolves fought, I darted around Malcolm’s legs and tail, nipping and tripping him. It distracted him enough to prevent a quick victory, but not enough to let Jeremy win. Finally, Malcolm tired of snarling and snapping at me. With one full-on charge, he knocked Jeremy flying into the undergrowth. Then he turned on me.
    I should have run. I know that. But running would mean leaving Jeremy behind, and I couldn’t do it. I pulled myself up to my full height, braced my forelegs against the ground, lowered my head between my shoulder-blades and snarled at him. Malcolm stood there for a moment, watching me, head slightly tilted, an unreadable expression in his eyes. Then he lumbered over to me, lowered his head until we were muzzle to muzzle, and growled. I growled back. Malcolm met my eyes and I swear he smiled. Then Jeremy hit him from behind, knocking him away from me, and the fight began again.
    Any hope we had of besting Malcolm faded fast. Jeremy was hurt, and getting more hurt by the minute. I was only wearing myself out. Soon Malcolm had Jeremy pinned by the neck. I went wild then, attacking his head with every ounce of strength I had left. He just pinned Jeremy with his forepaws and threw me off. By the time I recovered, he had Jeremy by the throat again.
    Jeremy’s eyes were closed. When I saw that, everything in me went cold. Then I saw that Jeremy’s chest continued to rise and fall. Malcolm loosened his grip and lifted his head. The fur around Jeremy’s neck was wet, but with saliva, not blood. Malcolm hadn’t bitten Jeremy, only choked him until he lost consciousness. Malcolm backed off then, gaze fixed on Jeremy.
    Had he realized, in that last moment, that he couldn’t kill his son? Yes. But only because, if he did, he would lose everything. Edward Danvers’s will not only gave Jeremy Stonehaven and all its assets, but stipulated that on Jeremy’s death—no matter how he died—the estate would go to charity. And, perhaps even worse, a letter would be delivered to Dominic or his successor, detailing crimes that would guarantee Malcolm’s execution. Should Jeremy not die, but