Calex

"Something doesn't feel right," Flynn urges.

I don't disagree. This is the second wolf this week prowling around town, sniffing where it shouldn't be. If it weren't for one of my rogues snagging a piece of his shirt—or Flynn suggesting we scope out the area early—we could've lost his trail. One day later and he would've vanished. Trespassing through territories is one thing, but risking exposure is a line neither of us dares to cross.

If I hadn't caught wind of him—or Flynn's desperation—I wouldn't have come.

"Because he's growing restless, and something—"

"Doesn't feel right," I finish, scowling down the barely lit street.

From the moment I set foot in town, alarm bells have been ringing in my head. I can feel the pull of the moon just as much as Flynn can. He's being more thorough than usual, snapping at me if I even think about skipping a section of our patrol.

Something has that male on the move, and my gut tells me it's not anything good. Whatever's drawing him here, I need to find it before they do.

But what is it?

Grumbling under my breath and glaring at the buildings lining the street, I roll my shoulders, focusing on the shadows rather than the piercing streetlamps. This place is a mess of pollution. It reeks of humans, garbage, and fumes. Seedy alleyways, pristine facades, unnatural light—disgusting. Nothing about it feels natural. My lip curls in a snarl at the thought of pummelling the male for luring me away from the woods.

"Exactly. It's like I can't rest. My stomach's in knots, and dare I say it—the moon feels stronger." He pants, pacing. "I need to stretch my legs."

"After we sort this out, you can run all you want."

I can already imagine the appreciative huff before he even lets it out. Letting him out now would be a risk—to ourselves and to anyone who steps outside on a whim. With the way Flynn's acting, he knows it too. But knowing him like I do, his distractions always lead us in the right direction.

The breeze whirls around me, filling the void between my heavy footfalls. It's too quiet—

"Calex, you smell that?"

Inhaling deeply, I push past the stench that's plagued me since arriving—humans, garbage, concrete dust. Then I draw in another breath, and something new hits me. At first it's faint, but then the air thickens. A metallic tang strikes the back of my throat, and my limbs lock up. Flynn's pacing intensifies, and the panic radiating off him twists my gut.

The trespasser has attacked someone.

But something deeper—an instinct, a gnawing pressure in the back of my mind—urges me forward.

"Move, Calex!" he growls, and my feet obey before I can think, launching me into a sprint.

The wolf's presence grows stronger. The stench of blood is suffocating. The metallic tang churns my stomach, and my legs falter as dread roots itself in me. It's been over a decade since such an emotion took hold. Memories swarm my vision, blurring my thoughts—until I snarl and force them back where they belong.

The anxiety bouncing between us shatters the moment we turn the corner into the alley, only to melt into blinding fury.

Flynn bursts forward, and I surrender just enough control to feel our bones snap out of place, jerking into new angles. Muscles stretch to their limits. Nails lengthen. Teeth split through our gums. Seeing red, we lunge at the male, barrelling down the narrow passageway.

The moment we hit him, a feminine whimper follows—and it shocks us both.

We throw him into the wall. A satisfying crack and a yelp ring out, morphing into a hoarse howl as we drive him into the ground, muzzle-first. He swings backward—we catch his arm and yank until a loud pop echoes from the socket. Flipping him over, we slash through the flesh of his abdomen. He roars in pain, shielding his wound. We retaliate. Landing a blow to his jaw, we follow the momentum with our teeth, sinking them into his jugular.

Rage fuels us both.

Blood fills our mouth. Skin tears under our claws. Flynn revels in the victory. Deep inside, I feel the echo of justice.

The smell of blood is overwhelming, choking out every other scent. Laboured breaths break the silence, and the weak heartbeat that follows snaps our attention toward it.

She's sprawled on the concrete, motionless—until she realizes we're looking at her. Her head rolls back, eyes drifting toward the sky. Her chest rises and falls too slowly for my liking. Her scent is mangled with acrid fear, and it consumes her the closer we get.

"Mate. It's her," Flynn howls, sorrow seeping into his voice. "We must save her."

Growling, we slide our hands beneath her, and the bond sparks to life at the touch. She whimpers, and I'd give anything to hush her worries. But I can't—and Flynn knows it too.

I rest her against the wall, narrowing my eyes at the wounds littering her small frame. Crimson stains her leg, stomach, arms—pooling thickly near her shoulder, dangerously close to her throat.

How did she last this long?

Her hair is matted with blood and sweat. Her skin is pale, eyes shadowed by dark circles. The second we loosen our hold, she trembles. I can't forget how he shook her like a ragdoll, how he took pleasure in her pain...

It makes me feral. I want to kill him all over again.

"We should have made him suffer," Flynn snarls, pacing back and forth. "Slowly."

The sound of another male's name falling from her lips draws a growl from deep within us. The possessive need to claim her edges closer to no return.

I'm the only male she needs. I'm the male that's going to save her. . . What if I'll be the male she rejects?

"L-let me go. . ." The words are barely audible, but I heard them. There's still time.

She exhales a ragged breath, head lolling to the side. She tries to wriggle free. I'm proud of the strength she manages to summon—but it leaves her fast the moment her skin brushes against our muzzle.

A part of me wants her to keep fighting, just so I know she'll do whatever it takes to stay alive. But after what she's endured, she did fight—with everything she had. Now I need her to cling on, to hold onto the little piece she has left to make it through the night.

I'm not going to lose her.

Applying a tender kiss to the underside of her jaw in hopes of comforting her, we wrinkle our snout at the taste of her blood on our tongue. Sinking my teeth into the fresh incision on her neck—despising the small shriek she lets out—I suck. The unconscious cry she emits hurts our ears, and I work harder, trying to draw out the venom.

"Calex, it's not going to work."

"It has to," I snarl, giving it a second attempt.

Flynn's right. I can still sense the venom in her system.

Dragging my tongue across the opening, trailing it down the length of her arm, I adjust her to tend to the rest of her injuries. A thin coating forms below where her original layers of skin should be. I know this will keep her going—at least until the venom spreads enough for her to heal on her own.

Our bones crack and slide back into place. Flynn hands over what control he had left, sitting in the background, watching over her. I never thought we'd find our Mate—not like this. Barely alive, bloodied, and beaten. . . Now she's going to change.