At one time, it’d been all he’d lived for. As one of the warriors that Tiw, the Anglo-Saxon god and Sky Father, had charged to protect mortals from the beasts who hunted them, Dolf was good at what he did. A sword in his hand as he struck down his enemies was when he’d been his happiest—until he’d found Maggie. Walking down one of the streets in Norwich, it appeared to be like any other one found in England. Except around here, one never knew what could be lurking in the dark shadows, ready to spring. It only took a single bite from one of Fenris’ get to change a mortal into what had attacked him. Dolf kept his senses alert to his surroundings, hoping to come across his prey. There was one in particular he wished to find each night he hunted—the bastard who was the pack leader of the enemy. It was because of Stephen, that Maggie, Dolf’s would-be mate, was absolutely terrified of werewolves. That included Dolf, since Tiw had bestowed upon all of his warriors the ability to shift into what they hunted, to give them a better chance of taking down the beasts they faced.
