The Apocalyptic Queen's Werewolf Journey (Thora and Darius) novel Chapter 145

**Shadows Hearts by Joseph King**
**Chapter 145: The Plague of Chaules**

As the attackers believed they had achieved victory, they began to retreat, one by one, their confidence visibly waning.

“Darius!” Thora’s voice cut through the chaos, a blend of urgency and fear.

But there was no reply.

Her heart raced as panic surged within her. Without a second thought, she rushed toward him, desperately tearing at his clothing to assess the injury that had silenced him. Just as her fingers brushed against the fabric, a large hand closed around hers, halting her frantic movements.

Startled, she looked up into a pair of fox-like eyes that glimmered with mischief. “Thora, it’s broad daylight, and there are people everywhere. Can’t wait to rip my clothes off? Bit shameless, don’t you think?”

Thora felt her breath catch in her throat, her mind racing. “You’re not hurt?” The disbelief in her voice was palpable.

With a smooth motion, Darius stood upright, dramatically ripping open his jacket to reveal a bulletproof vest beneath. The sight was both relieving and alarming. The bullet had not penetrated his body, but the impact had left a shallow gash beneath the armor, a stark reminder of the danger he had faced.

Yet, as she examined the wound, her heart sank further. The round that had struck him was a custom silver bullet, specifically designed to inflict pain on werewolves. Blood oozed from the injury, refusing to clot, a troubling sign that left Thora’s mind racing with concern.

“Looks like this vest still needs work… That kind of impact shouldn’t have made it through like this,” Darius remarked, his tone oddly clinical as he inspected the wound, as if he were critiquing a product rather than assessing his own injury.

Thora stood frozen in disbelief. Was he actually evaluating his gear at a time like this? What was wrong with him? And why did she care so much about his well-being?

For once, the normally stoic Thora couldn’t help but roll her eyes, the absurdity of the moment striking her.

Just then, the thunderous roar of engines shattered the tension in the air.

A fleet of sleek black cars arrived, gliding into formation with precision. The doors swung open, and a battalion of men clad in black tactical gear emerged, each armed with submachine guns. They moved with military precision, encircling the area in a tight perimeter, their presence commanding respect and authority.

Each soldier bore the Nightclaw Pack insignia embroidered on their coat hems, a clear indication of their allegiance. They were Phantom, Darius’s elite unit, a force to be reckoned with.

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