Chapter 1
The smell hits me first—iron and wet pine.
Rogue.
I don’t need the growl rippling through the patrol line behind me to know my wolves have scented it too. The air is sharp with the metallic tang of blood, faint but fresh, threading through the early morning mist that clings to the treeline. The forest at the edge of Silver Crest territory is never quiet, and tonight is no different.
“Fan out,” I murmur through the pack link. “Check the east ridge and report movement. Don’t engage unless I give the go-ahead.”
Six minds flicker in acknowledgment, moving away silently and efficiently.
My boots crunch lightly against the damp earth as I step over a half-buried root. The moon is a cold coin overhead, fractured through the bare branches. It’s early spring—still too chilly for comfort, the kind of night where my breath fogs the air and nerves ride close to the skin. I pull my jacket tighter, eyes scanning the shadowed brush.
Something’s wrong. The boundary markers here are freshly reinforced, silver-threaded stakes hammered deep, wards etched by our witches last full moon. A rogue shouldn’t have made it this close without bleeding for it.
“North quadrant’s clear,” Owen’s voice crackles through the mental link, steady but alert.
“Copy,” I reply.
I move forward, deeper into the dark. My wolf prowls under my skin, restless. The static tension in the air keeps her from settling.
A twig snaps to my right.
I pivot, low and fast, the small blade in my hand catches the moonlight—the scent sharpens, hot and rank and unmistakable.
Rogue. Male. Starved.
He lunges from the shadows in a blur of movement and teeth. I twist aside, the knife flashing. Finding my mark, my knife slashes deep enough to have him jumping back. He’s massive, half-shifted, claws scraping the ground as he spins back toward me.
“Contact,” I send through the link. “West perimeter.”
I let the shift wash through me in one practiced breath. It feels like a bone-deep ache, skin rippling, my vision sharpening around the worlds textures. My hands become claws, my breath now steadier, my world clear.
The rogue charges again, but this time, I meet him halfway.
Our collision sends a crack through the clearing. He’s wildely snarling, uncoordinated—but strong. I duck under a swing meant to tear my throat out and ram my shoulder into his chest. We hit the ground hard. Mud sprays, his teeth snapping inches from my neck.
He smells of rot and desperation.
“You’re trespassing,” I snarl, voice half-human, half-wolf. “You know where you are?”
He just lunges and tries to bite me again. I drive my elbow into his muzzle, hearing the successful crunch of bone. He howls, thrashing, and I pin him with my knee, knife pressing against his throat.
“Where did you cross into Silver Crest territory?” I hiss.
His eyes roll white. “No Alpha. No pack. No rules.”
Figures. A true rogue—feral and untethered. Still, something in his scent doesn’t sit right. There’s silver burn scarring along his ribs, and faint scent traces of isopropyl alcohol.
Before I can press further, Owen and two others burst into the clearing, shifting mid-stride. The rogue takes the distraction to shove hard. I roll off, knife slipping from my grasp.
“We need him alive—” I bark out.
Too late.
Owen’s wolf had snapped down on his throat in one clean motion. A spray of blood painting the mud black.
Silence fell, thick and heavy.
I straighten slowly, wiping a smear of blood from my cheek. My pulse steadies even as the ache of the near-shift hums under my skin. Owen lowers the rogue’s corpse to the ground and steps away with flattened ears.
“My apologies, Beta,” he says, shifting back to human form, voice raw. “I acted without waiting when I saw him go for you.”
I study the rogue—already reverting to human, skin pale and twisted. “I know.” I sheath my knife, exhaling. “He certainly won’t be the last rogue we come across. But be sure to wait for my command in the future.”
I kneel, brushing back the dead man’s hair to expose a thin, blackened mark on the side of his neck—burned into the skin. A crescent moon within a circle.
The others arrive, forming a loose semicircle to follow my gaze. Their eyes flick from me to the dead rogue, then back again. I can feel the unease settling over them, prickling through the bond.
“Recognize this?” I ask.
“No,” Owen says, frowning. “Looks recent. Maybe branded?”
I nod slowly. “Get a photo, send it to Bronson. He’ll want to see it.”
At the mention of his name, there’s a flicker through the link—my Alpha’s presence brushing against the edge of my mind like a warm hand through water. He’s felt the disturbance already.
“On it,” Owen says, pulling his phone from a stashed bag, the screen casting a ghostly blue glow.
I stand, taking in the surrounding woods. The wards still hum softly at the boundary line, intact. The rogue didn’t breach them. Possibly driven in through the gates.
The loose ends of this situation are what worry me.
“Burn the body,” I say. “Standard protocol. I’ll debrief Alpha Bronson.”
The men move to obey, efficient and quiet. I take one last glance at the corpse before turning toward the path that leads back to the main compound.
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By the time I reach the central clearing, dawn is threatening the horizon. Silver Crest’s territory stretches for miles—dense pine forests, open hunting grounds, and the low sprawl of the main pack village nestled near the lake. Smoke curls from a few chimneys, accompanied by the faint sounds of morning rousing.
I shift back fully, the aches settling into my muscles, and head for the main building where I know I’ll find Bronson. It’s still half-dark, but light burns behind the curtained windows of his office.
He’s waiting for me.
Bronson stands at the map table when I enter, shirt sleeves rolled up, eyes flicking to me immediately.
“You’re bleeding,” he says, voice low.
“Not mine.” I close the door behind me, my eyes falling on his broad, muscular frame. He's dressed casually in sweats, presumably still in his pjs. “We found one rogue on the west perimeter. Lone wolf, half-starved. He didn’t cross the wards.”
His gaze sharpens. “Then how did he get that close?”
“That’s what I’m wondering.” I move beside him, tapping the map spread across the table. “Here. Just below the packs territory boundaries. We found a faint brand on his neck—crescent and circle. Owen sent you the photo.”
Bronson’s lips purse into a frown as he pulls his phone from his pocket and scrolls. “Hm. Never seen that mark before.”
“Me neither.”
He exhales, running a hand through his dark hair. It’s longer than when we were kids—and messy from his fussing. The bond between us hums faintly, that constant pulse of shared awareness that never quite goes silent. It’s comforting, even when I don’t consciously notice it.
“He wasn’t feral enough to be long without a pack. I assume, someone branded him recently.”
“I’ll consult my father, see if he recognizes it. If not, we’ll bring it up at the next regional conference. Put it on the other alphas’ radar.”
Bronson looks up at me then, a beat of silence stretches between us as his eyes travel down my body.
“You did good,” he says.
“Always do,” I reply, tossing him a cheeky wink.
That earns me a mischievous grin—the one that used to make my stomach flip when we were teenagers.
He steps closer, the space between us shrinking, the familiar scent of cedar and smoke curling around me.
“That’s true,” he murmurs. “I can’t think of a single thing you’ve ever been bad at.”
His breath grazes my cheek, warm and deliberate. All I need to do is turn my head thirty degrees and our lips would meet.
But he doesn’t wait.
Bronson’s mouth finds mine with a quiet certainty that steals my breath. His hands slide up my sides, firm but reverent, drawing me closer. The contact sends a pulse through the bond—heat, want, everything pooling in my stomach.
I breathe him in, wrapping arms around his neck and tilting my head to the side for easier access. The air between us hums, thick with desire.
He then steps back, breaking the kiss with practiced ease. He studies me for another moment, then lowly murmurs, “You should rest. I’ll have patrols doubled on the west border by mid-day.”
“I can think of something I could use more than rest.”
“Blythe.”
The way he says my name—Blythe, low and rough—sends a ripple through the bond, an echo of warmth. For a second, I almost reach back out, but I stop myself.
I meet his gaze with a quirked brow. “I’m kidding, Bronson. Really. You look like you could flourish with a few more hours of beauty sleep. I wouldn’t want to keep you up any later.”
He snorts, then looks toward the window. The faint light of dawn catches on his profile, soft lips and stubble.
I turn toward the door, before he can reply—keeping my movements languid, with just a bit of sway in my hips.
“You’ll update me if anything changes?” I call over my shoulder.
“Always.” Duty first. Everything else later.
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When I get to my rooms I immediately rinse the evening from the surface of my body.
Bronson never fails to leave me confused. Our mating bond snapped into place when I turned twenty, and yet we still haven’t held the mating ceremony. That was six years ago.
I throw on a loose cami and a pair of flannel pants that sit low on my hips before tossing two hot pockets in the microwave.
I’ve heard of human couples having long engagements, but it’s unheard of in were society. Bronson always says we have all the time in the world—or that he just wants to get the pack to a higher ranking before moving on to the next chapter: mating and pups.
We’ve had brutal fights about it so many times that I’ve stopped pressing, for now.
The microwave beeps. I inhale both hot pockets, scalding my tongue in the process before finally crawling into bed.
He is my Alpha. My… almost mate.
And infuriating, none the less.
