Wild Table

“Those ‘old knives’ have been serving pack meals since before your great-grandparents were pups,” I growl, snatching my grandmother’s blade from Sean’s clumsy grip. The metal sings against my palm, familiar as a heartbeat. After two weeks in my kitchen, the kid still handles century-old pack treasures like dollar store cutlery. “Show some respect, or I’ll let you explain to my grandmother’s spirit why her favorite blade is dulled.”

Sean’s face flushes red, throat working as he mumbles an apology. I’m about to launch into my standard lecture on proper knife handling when it hits me - a scent that stops my wolf dead in his tracks. Wild roses and sun-warmed earth, threaded through with something electric that makes my skin prickle. Unfamiliar. Dangerous. Intoxicating.

My nostrils flare as I scan the kitchen to pinpoint the source. The usual chaos of dinner service swirls around me - line cooks shouting orders, pans hissing angry protests, plates clattering like broken promises. But beneath it all, that scent lingers, tugging at something primal inside me.

“Chef?” Sean’s voice cracks through my focus. “You okay?”

I focus on my task, though my wolf prowls restlessly beneath my skin. “Fine. Now watch closely.” The knife moves with practiced precision as I break down the heritage squash, each cut clean and purposeful. But even as I demonstrate proper technique, my senses remain locked on that scent.

It’s strongest near the pass, where finished dishes wait for runners. I return the knife to Sean and make my way over, pretending to inspect a plate of seared venison with foraged morels. That’s when I see her.

She stands just beyond the kitchen doors, notepad gripped tight in one hand. Long brown hair tumbles past her shoulders in controlled chaos, and even from here, I can see gold flecks dancing in her hazel eyes. She’s beautiful, yes, but it’s more than that. There’s an energy about her, a barely contained wildness calling to my own.

My wolf recognizes her immediately for what she is - another were. But she’s no pack member I’ve ever met. An outsider. In my restaurant. On tonight of all nights.

I force my hands steady as I adjust the micro-greens garnishing the venison. The delicate leaves tremble under my fingers, mirroring the tension thrumming through my body. My wolf paces beneath my skin, drawn to her scent like a moth to flame.

“Fuck,” I mutter, realizing I’ve smeared the sauce with my distracted plating. I grab a clean towel, wiping the edge of the plate with precision. But even as I focus on the task, my heightened senses track her every movement. The soft scratch of her pen on paper. The quickening of her pulse as she takes in the bustling dining room. The subtle shift of her weight as she leans against the host stand.

“That’s the third time you’ve adjusted those micro-greens, brother.” Sorcha’s low voice cuts through my concentration. “Either you’re losing your touch, or something’s got your wolf’s attention.”

I growl, bristling at the challenge in his tone. “Last I checked, I’m still the Alpha here.”

Sorcha raises an eyebrow, his blue eyes sharp with concern. “And as your Beta, it’s my job to notice when you’re off your game. What’s going on?”

I hesitate, torn between my instinct to assert dominance and the need for my Beta’s insight. “There’s an outsider,” I admit, keeping my voice low. “A she-wolf. By the host stand.”

Sorcha’s nostrils flare as he catches her scent. His eyes widen. “Interesting timing,” he murmurs. “You know we’ve got that food critic coming in tonight.”

The pieces click into place, and I curse under my breath. Of course. The timing is too perfect to be a coincidence. But why would a lone wolf be working as a food critic? And more importantly, why does her presence set my wolf on edge in a way I haven’t felt before?

I finish plating the dish - seared venison loin with roasted root vegetables and a tart cherry reduction—a celebration of our pack’s hunting traditions, elevated for the modern palate. Under normal circumstances, I’d be proud of the balance of flavors and the way the earthiness of the vegetables complements the meat’s richness.

But now, I can only think about getting a closer look at the she-wolf who’s wandered into my territory.

“Send this out,” I tell Sorcha, pushing the finished plate toward him.

I’m still wrestling with the implications when Atley Murray strides into the kitchen, his military bearing as crisp as ever despite the late hour. His steel-gray eyes sweep the room, zeroing in on me with laser focus. The tension in his shoulders tells me this isn’t a social call.

“Mitchell,” he grunts, jerking his chin towards my office. “Got those security reports you wanted.”

I nod, reluctantly tearing my attention away from the mysterious she-wolf. “Sorcha, keep an eye on things out here,” I order, my voice low. “And... keep tabs on our visitor.”

Sorcha’s eyes narrow, but he nods, understanding the unspoken command.

I lead Atley to my office, a cramped space that reeks of old coffee and the lingering ghosts of a thousand menu plans. The door’s barely closed before he’s talking, his voice a low rumble of barely contained anger.

“Three more pack-owned suppliers got visits this week. Not-so-friendly suggestions about ‘modernizing their distribution.’”

“Shit.” I run a hand through my hair, feeling the weight of Alpha's responsibility settles heavier on my shoulders. “The Syndicate’s getting bold.”

Atley’s laugh is harsh. “Bold’s one word for it. I’d go with stupid. They’re playing with fire, pushing into pack territory like this.”

I grunt in agreement, but my mind’s split. Half of me is laser-focused on the threat Atley’s outlining, while the other half is acutely aware of the she-wolf’s movements upstairs. The soft click of her heels on hardwood. The scratch of her pen. The way her scent seems to permeate every fucking inch of my restaurant.

“You hearing this, Mitchell?” Atley’s voice cuts through my distraction. “Or is something more interesting going on upstairs?”

I growl, low in my throat. “I’m listening. Keep going.”

Atley’s eyes narrow, but he continues. “Point is, they’re getting aggressive. Trying to strong-arm our people into their supply chain. Cut us off from our resources.”

“Any direct threats?” I force myself to focus on the immediate danger.

“Not yet. But it’s coming. My sources say they’re gearing up for something big. Some kind of ‘modernization initiative’ for the whole supernatural community.”

I snort. “Modernization. Right. Because erasing centuries of pack tradition is so fucking progressive.”

A crash from the kitchen makes me wince. Sean’s panic and embarrassment flood my senses, but underneath it all, her scent lingers, a constant distraction that’s making my wolf restless.

Atley’s already pulling out his phone, fingers flying over the screen as he starts coordinating with the other packs. I turn to the security monitors, scanning the grainy footage for any sign of trouble. But my wolf fights me, urging me to check on the she-wolf upstairs.

I growl low in my throat, fighting the instinct. There’s too much at stake to get distracted now. I force myself to focus on the screens, searching for anything out of place.

The door swings open, bringing a fresh wave of kitchen aromas and Rexler’s familiar scent. He strides in, his custom suit as impeccable as always, taking in the tense atmosphere with a raised eyebrow.

“Most Alphas would consider a lone wolf food critic the least of their problems right now,” he remarks dryly, the hint of a smirk playing at his lips.

I don’t take my eyes off the screens. “Most Alphas don’t have three Michelin stars to protect along with their territory.”

Rexler moves closer, his reflection appearing on the monitor. “Stars fade. Pack survives.”

I finally turn to face him, my jaw clenched. “And what good is a pack without its heritage? Our food, our traditions - that’s what binds us together. If we lose that, we might as well be human.”

Rexler’s eyes flash, a hint of gold gleaming in their depths. “You’re right,” he concedes. “But we can’t ignore the bigger picture. The Syndicate is moving in on all fronts. We need to be ready.”

I nod, feeling the weight of responsibility settles heavier on my shoulders. “That’s why I called you. We need to pool our resources to coordinate our defenses. If they’re targeting our suppliers, it’s only a matter of time before they come for us directly.”

Rexler’s gaze sharpens. “You have a plan?”

“The beginnings of one,” I admit. “But first, we need to secure our assets. Starting with that food critic. If she’s not one of ours, we need to know who sent her and why.”

On cue, my wolf surges forward again, demanding I seek out the mysterious she-wolf. I clench my fists, fighting for control. Her scent wafts down even here, making my skin prickle with awareness.

Rexler notices, his nostrils flaring slightly. “She’s got you on edge, doesn’t she?” A hint of amusement colors his voice.

I growl, a warning rumbling deep in my chest. “Focus on the problem at hand, Sullivan. We’ve got a war to prepare for.”

But even as I turn back to the monitors, I can’t shake the feeling that the she-wolf is somehow connected. And my wolf won’t rest until we find out how.

“This is why we’re losing our fucking heritage,” I snarl, shoving past Atley and storming back into the kitchen. The scent of burnt potatoes assaults my nose, mixing unpleasantly with Sean’s fear-sweat and the lingering traces of that intoxicating she-wolf.

“Chef, I’m sorry, I-” Sean stammers, but I cut him off with a growl.

“Save it. You had one job.” I grab the scorched pot off the burner, barely registering how the hot metal sears my palm. “This isn’t just food, Sean. It’s our history. Our pack’s lifeblood.”

Sorcha appears at my elbow, his voice low and urgent. “Cavan. The outsider just ordered the Moonhowl Special.”

My head snaps up, momentarily forgetting Sean’s fuck-up. The Moonhowl Special isn’t on any menu. It’s a code passed through generations of pack members—a way for visiting wolves to signal their presence without drawing attention.

“Shit,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair. “Sean, salvage what you can of the colcannon. Sorcha, keep an eye on our... guest.”

I’m halfway to the walk-in, ready to grab the ingredients for the Moonhowl, when another scent hits me. Smoke. Not the acrid stench of Sean’s burnt potatoes, but something deeper. Earthier. Wrong.

“Fire in the hearth!” Atley’s voice booms from below, using the old pack code for trouble.

“Fuck me,” I growl, torn between the urgent summons and the mystery upstairs. My wolf paces restlessly, caught between protecting the pack and investigating the intriguing she-wolf.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to think like an Alpha, not a horny teenager. “Sorcha, prep the Moonhowl. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

I sprint down the stairs, taking them two at a time. The scent of smoke grows stronger, mixed with something chemical that makes my nose burn. As I burst into the basement, I find Atley and two other pack members huddled around an old chest, wisps of acrid smoke curling from its half-open lid.

“What the fuck?” I demand, pushing through to get a closer look.

A small, innocuous-looking device sits inside the chest, nestled among age-yellowed linens and brittle parchment. A red light blinks steadily, filling the air with that chemical stench.

“Some kind of tracker,” Atley growls. “Must’ve been slipped in with that last shipment of heirloom seeds.”

My mind races, piecing together the implications. The Syndicate is pushing into our supply chains. The mysterious she-wolf upstairs. The timing can’t be a coincidence.

I clench my jaw, fighting the urge to glance toward where I know she sits above us. My wolf paces restlessly, clawing at my insides. Her scent is intoxicating, a blend of roses and spice that sets my nerves on fire.

“Fuck,” I mutter, wiping sweat from my brow. The kitchen is a whirlwind of activity around me, but I can only focus on how her lips part as she takes another bite.

His voice cuts through the chaos. “Your wolf’s never disagreed with you about a threat before.”

I growl low in my throat, fingers tightening around the handle of my knife. “My wolf needs to remember who’s in charge.”

The clang of pots and pans and the sizzle of meat on the grill fade away as I watch her close her eyes, savoring the flavors. My wolf howls, desperate to claim her.

“Does he?” Sorcha presses, his blue eyes piercing. “Or do you need to remember sometimes threats aren’t what they seem?”

I tear my gaze away from her, forcing myself to focus on the tracker Atley found. The Syndicate’s encroaching on our territory, infiltrating our supply chains. That’s the real threat here, not some lone wolf food critic with eyes that shine like amber in the kitchen’s harsh light.

But even as I try to convince myself, my wolf snarls in disagreement. He sees her as our mate, our future. The thought sends a shiver down my spine.

“Fire and fury,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. The scent of garlic and herbs mingles with her intoxicating aroma, making my head spin. “I can’t afford distractions right now.”

I turn back to the pass, barking orders at my kitchen staff. But even as I lose myself in the familiar rhythm of service, I can’t shake the feeling that everything’s about to change. The tracker, the she-wolf, the simmering tension with my wolf – it’s all coming to a head.

And I’m not ready for what comes next.