One hundred and eighteen

 The gray wolf darted to the spot where his mate should have been waiting. He needed to follow her scent in order to find her. Near the tree, he picked up four scents: one belonged to his mate, two belonged to humans, and the last scent was that of a shifter. It was a scent that the wolf knew…a scent that belonged to a wolf who should be dead.

 Sansa knew Nick would come for her. Knew it. But she truly didn't want him to. Not when it was obvious that she was bait—a bait that was sitting on the floor with her wrists tied behind her back, held captive in the "hut" on the other side of pack territory by a trio of mentally unhinged males. Worse, one of said unhinged males was pointing her own rifle at her.