Wildfire Rekindled

GW

A sharp pang slices through my side as I blink into the dull gray morning outside my bedroom window. My hand moves to the knife wound—still fresh and burning. I trace the edges of the cut with my fingertips. Should’ve healed by now.

Last night was one of the most brutal fights of my life. Human hunters hit the pack hard yesterday, part of a nationwide strike against supernaturals.

Leaning forward, I rest my elbows on my knees and cradle my throbbing head in my hands. I should be immune to hangovers by now.

After the fight, I gave my cowboys the night off and unlocked the kegs of elvish beer. I should have joined my pack, but Phillip, my best friend, was killed by the hunters. They took out him, his mate, and his youngest son in the California attack. When I saw it come over the news, I drowned my grief in the fairy whiskey he gave me for my birthday.

I have no idea what time Luke brought me home. It’s become a routine, a way to numb the pain that simmers just beneath the surface. The pounding ache echoes the turmoil inside me. A mirror of the emotional chaos I’ve been drowning in.

Once, mornings meant warmth—her warmth, her scent on the pillow, her breath against my skin.

Now, the bed is cold. The air is stale. And she's...gone.

The ache in my chest gets worse every day. The weight of it pins me to the mattress. Every breath feels like dragging a boulder uphill. Staying here would be easy. Let the ranch, the pack, the whole damn world take care of itself.

But I can’t.

Inhaling deeply, I press my hand over the wound and stand up. The room spins, nausea claws at my stomach, and whiskey stings my tongue like regret.

I make my way to the bathroom, swaying slightly as I go. The cold tiles beneath my feet send a shiver through me, grounding me in the present moment.

The cold water from the showerhead rains down over my tired, aching body, washing away the stench of whiskey from my skin. The water mixes with my tears, a silent release for the grief I’ve been holding back these past five years.

In addition to the pounding inside my skull, there is pressure from Luke, my Gamma and head warrior, trying to mindlink me. I block him out, not ready to face the day.

After the shower, I stare at my worn reflection in the mirror, pushing my disheveled dark hair back. My eyes are lifeless, shadowed with dark circles that mark sleepless nights haunted by the memory of warmer, happier times in that cold, empty bed.

In human terms, I might appear to be in my late thirties but this morning I feel every one of my almost two hundred years. A heaviness weighs me down.

“Alpha,” Luke’s voice breaks through, low and urgent. “We need you on the northeast border.”

Fuck. My shoulders slump. I lean over the sink and breathe deep. Inhale to the count of four. Exhale to the count of four. I do this four times. It's a trick my daughter taught me.

I straighten, the motion stiff and mechanical. I'll have to forego shaving this morning, but it's only a day's worth of stubble. I let my beard go for months after she left.

I tug on a pair jeans and pull on a black t-shirt that clings to my skin. My boots hit the floor with a thud. And just like that, the weight of duty settles over me, heavier than the hangover.

Downstairs in the kitchen, I pour a cup of strong black coffee, sipping while I gaze out the window at the expansive view beyond. The sun sits high in the sky, casting a warm light over the landscape. 850,000 acres. And all of it--mine.

Slipping on my black Stetson Diamante hat, I step outside to find Luke leaning against my black Silverado. His slow headshake and the disappointment in his eyes twist something inside me.

“Alpha,” he greets me casually, but I can sense the concern beneath his words.

“Luke,” I reply with a nod. The weight of his gaze lingers on me.

“If you ask how I'm doing this mornin, I’ll rip your god damn throat out!”

He grumbles softly under his breath. All I catch is something about wasting half the day. No alpha should take that from their gamma, but I know my actions have consequences beyond myself.

I stomp towards my truck. "Well, what's so gods-damn urgent?"

“We’ve got refugees crossing the northeast border.”

I stop cold. Refugees. Already? Fuck.

“Survivors from the Oklahoma packs,” Luke continues. “Women and pups.”

The air leaves my lungs. Survivors. The word feels heavy. I don’t have the capacity for this. Not today. But I’m going to have to find it, because I'm the Alpha.

“Why not let me drive?” he suggests as I shove him aside and climb into the driver's seat.

“Why should I?” I counter, my voice edged with a touch of defiance. I’m not ready to relinquish control, not yet.

Luke eyes me cautiously. “You had a lot to drink last night, Alpha.”

A low growl rumbles from my throat. “Watch it Luke. I’m not in the mood for any sass today, not even from you.”

He lowers his gaze. "Sorry, Alpha."

I give him a curt nod. "Get in."

As soon as he's in the passenger seat, I press the start button, shift into drive and stomp on the gas. The truck surges forward, leaving my empty house behind in a cloud of dust.

I watch the house fade into the distance through the rearview mirror, and my thoughts inevitably drift to her – my mate, my Luna. The ache in my chest intensifies, a physical reminder of the longing that has become my constant companion. But the sharp pain in my side pulls me from my memories.

Grimacing, I clutch the wound, emitting a sharp hiss.

Luke glances my way. “You okay Alpha? Maybe we should have Doc take a look at that wound?”

I shake my head. “I’ll manage. Doc’s got his hands full with the survivors.”

Luke nods, his gaze drifting to the window. The truck hums beneath us. I keep my grip tight on the wheel. Dust kicks up in a haze, streaking the windshield. The ache in my side pulses with every bump. The leather seat creaks under me, the faint smell of motor oil and blood are still fresh from last night.

“Think they’re from the Red River pack?” Luke asks, breaking the silence.

“Probably,” I reply, my voice rough. “Hunters hit them hard. Made an example out of them.”

Luke doesn’t respond, but his jaw sets. He’s thinking what I am—there’ll be more. Strays crossing our borders, looking for protection I can’t guarantee.

His face scrunches. “Owen’s mindlinking me.”

I reach out, linking with them both: Owen, report.

Owen’s voice cuts through the connection, sharp and panicked: It’s bad, Alpha. Rogues on the oil field. They’re armed—trying to set the rigs on fire.

Gods dammit. The Lonestar wells are our lifeline. Without them, we’re finished.

Luke glances at me, his face grim. “What’s the call?”

I don’t hesitate. I start to pull the truck over skidding onto a side road, gravel spraying as we veer off course.

I'm already wrenching the door open as I slam the brakes.

"Meet me at the field.”

He nods, sliding over the driver's seat. I watch as he takes off, leaving me in a cloud of dust.

The shift comes fast, my body twists and contorts with agonizing precision. Fur erupts across my skin as my wolf form takes over. The pain burns, familiar yet exhilarating.

As soon as my paws hit the ground I launch into the underbrush. Each step pounds with urgency. I get to the oil field in where smoke clings to the air, acrid and sharp, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. Rogues circle Owen and the three oil workers standing behind him.

The rest of the crew are on the ground, lying in puddles of blood.

Those motherfuckers!

My wolf snarls in response.

My truck screeches to a halt behind me, the sound jarring against the chaos. Luke's out and shifted, flanking the rogues, slipping into the shadows.

Stay back until I give the signal. I order through the link.

Yes, Alpha,

Closing the distance, I surge forward, the cool dirt biting against my paw pads. The first rogue doesn’t see me before my jaws clamp around his throat, the sickening crunch of bone vibrates through my jaw.

Another rogue lunges at me, his foul breath hot against my fur. I meet him mid-leap, the impact sending a sharp jolt through my side as my claws rake his flank, tearing him down in one clean motion.

Luke’s wolf barrels into a rogue as it lunges at me, his growls blending with the chaos. A gunshot rings out, grazing my flank. The silver burns like fire, but I ignore it. My pack needs me. Pain is secondary.

The fight ends almost as soon as it begins. The rogues are down, their blood soaking the earth. My breathing slows as my wolf recedes. But the shift comes with a cost—pain flares in my side, sharp and unrelenting.

I grab spare clothes from the back of the truck and dress. Owen approaches, pale and winded.

“Well?” I ask, my voice steady despite the pounding in my chest.

“They got two rigs burning, but the flames are contained,” he says. “Those rogues—some didn’t shift, and they had silver rounds. Alpha, you ever seen anything like that?”

I shake my head. Luke steps forward, his brow furrowed. “Rogues armed with silver? Since when? Think they’re working with the hunters?”

“Maybe,” I mutter.

Too reckless. Too unpredictable. My gut says no, but the pieces don’t fit. Someone’s behind this. And whoever it is, they made an enemy out of me.

I glance at the black smoke twisting into the sky. “We’ll get answers later. For now, let’s put out the damn fires.”

Luke’s brow furrows, his head tilting—a sure sign he’s mind-linking. “Alpha, there’s more trouble brewing.”

“For fuck’s sake, now what?” My voice comes out harsher than I intend, but I don’t care.

“It’s Jimmy, one of the cowboys patrolling the northeast border. It’s about the refugees. He says they got another wave—more women, pups, and seniors. Over a hundred so far.”

My pack is the largest and wealthiest in Texas, but resources will be stretched thin after last night. A hundred extra mouths to feed? Fuck. My chest tightens.

They’re coming here because they have nowhere else to go. And I’ll be damned if we turn them away.

“I'll send a crew to help you put out the fires and clean this up,” I tell Owen, forcing my voice to stay steady. “And keep it quiet. We don't need the governor's office getting wind of this.”

“Yes, Alpha.” He hesitates, glancing at the bodies of the rogues.

“What about them?”

“Throw'em in the ravine with the hunters we took out yesterday,” I snap. “Let the carrion take care of them.”

Luke raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say a word. Before Owen can move, his expression shifts again—another mind-link.

“Jimmy says old Alpha Tom and his son, Tommy, are pulling up. Looks like Tommy’s spoilin’ for a fight.”

I let out a slow breath, scrubbing my face with one hand.

And the hits just keep coming.

“The fight with the hunters wasn’t enough?”

Luke shrugs, following me as I stalk toward the truck.

“Guess not.”

I wrench the door open and climb in, the ache in my side flaring with the motion.

“Tell him we’re on our way. If Tom's boy wants a fight, I'll teach him a lesson he won't forget."

Luke doesn’t reply, but I catch the ghost of a smirk as he sends the message.

The truck roars to life, the engine growling like my wolf. Tom’s boy's tantrum should be the least of my worries. But I’ll handle it if he wants to add to the chaos—one crisis at a time.