I rolled to my side and forced myself upright. My body, human now, was a patchwork of old scars and newer tattoos, the cuts and lines snaking over arms and chest, telling a story no one wanted to read. My knees were muddy, shins cut from the last dash through the bramble, but I was already healing. The change always did that, burning out weakness with its own special brand of pain.
I found the jeans I’d stashed under the root of a fallen oak—always plan for the walk of shame, Vin used to say—and dragged them on. My hands trembled as I buckled my belt, still strung out from the adrenaline, but I welcomed the tremor. It reminded me I wasn’t just the wolf. Not yet.
I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand, spat, and started toward the light bleeding out of the open door. The clubhouse waited, full of ghosts and brothers and all the laws we made for ourselves.
But for now, I was only what the night made me: muscle, hunger, and bone, standing at the edge of the world, breathing in the taste of rain, and ready for whatever came next.
Inside, the world shrank. The place was always close, choked with the stink of bodies, old wood, motor oil, and a haze of cigarette smoke so thick you could tongue it off your teeth. The “church”—as Vin called the briefing room—looked like the holding pen for a bomb shelter, every wall lined with American flags, club patches, and the heads of animals no one in here could have ever hunted legally. I stepped in and let the door thud closed behind me, every eye flicking my way, measuring. Most nights, I didn’t mind the attention. Tonight, it pressed like a bad tooth.
Vin stood at the head of the table, reading glasses perched on the nose he’d broken five times, always the same way: by headbutting someone bigger. He wore his cut like a skin graft, old denim battered by a hundred rainstorms, RBMC logo faded but never once stitched over. A battered Louisville Slugger leaned against the wall beside him, a souvenir from the last time a rival club tried to torch our place.
He saw me, didn’t smile, just nodded. I nodded back. Protocol. The other brothers—eight tonight, including fresh meat and a couple of crusty ex-cons—had circled the table on whatever they could drag in from the curb: folding chairs, broken recliners,two plastic milk crates. Moab, my right hand when he wasn’t trying to steal the left, sprawled over a chair the color of old puke. He was carving his initials into the edge of the table with a switchblade, face blank, but eyes bright with something like amusement.
I grabbed a stool in the far corner, beneath a mounted buck head with glassy eyes and one snapped-off antler. The air around me pulsed with stale beer and sweat, so thick the wolf in me wrinkled its nose.
Vin clapped once, sharp as a pistol shot. “Got two items and a favor tonight. First, the Louisville Kings put a scout in our backyard last Thursday. Near the quarry, north trail. Shivs—” He flicked his eyes at me. “—you saw the tracks?”
“Yeah. Dumb fucks were wearing Red Wing boots. Same size, both sets. Drank Pabst, pissed all over the place.” I didn’t mention I’d followed the trail for miles, found their camp, left them a little present in the form of two shredded tire valves and a patch of fresh blood on their tent. Let the others figure out how I knew.
Vin grunted. “We escalate?”
I shook my head. “Scared. Not looking to fight yet.”
He considered this, jaw working. “Second—” He pulled a sheet of paper from his cut. “—there’s a new player. Maybe a sponsor, maybe a fixer. Reports say she’s got cash and no fear. Name’s Hart. She’s buying up property between us and the distillery.”
A murmur. I listened but didn’t care. The wolf inside me was pacing again, hating the smallness of the room, the way everyone here smelled tired and old. My knee bounced, jittery, and I made myself stop, fingers curling into a fist so hard I felt the old scar in my palm light up.
Vin talked for a few more minutes, laying out routes, watchwords, and who was running with whom. I heard every word, but none of it stuck. All I wanted was the run, the air, thehunt. But there was protocol, so I stayed, watched the way the others watched me.
Sometimes I wondered if they’d have let me in if they’d known from the start. It wasn’t like you could take out a Craigslist ad—“Wolves only, no fakes, must enjoy violence and late nights.” I’d proved myself the usual way. First as a prospect, then by sending a couple of Louisville Kings home in body bags. The other half came out after a party, when someone slipped me a blend of molly and god knows what else. Moab and I were the only ones left conscious when the cops came, and I woke in a holding cell. That was the night Vin found out. He just shrugged, said, “Guess you’ll be point on night ops from now on.” Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The club made room for me because I did what others wouldn’t. Sometimes that meant a little extra teeth in the fight. Sometimes it meant nothing more than sitting in the woods and listening, waiting, knowing what would happen before anyone else did. But it never meant belonging.
Tonight, every minute inside was a battle. I could feel it in the crackle of the bones in my hand, the way my molars ached against each other, the slow creep of hunger at the back of my throat. I clenched and unclenched my jaw until I thought it’d break.
Vin finished, waved us off. “No drinking till the second watch. Shivs, Canon, you two stay back. Got something needs doing.”
Everyone else filtered out, some heading to the garage, others to the game room where the soft blue flicker of a TV played over the walls. Canon lingered, folding his switchblade and slipping it behind his belt.
Vin waited till the room was clear. He looked at me, then at Canon, then back to me. “That restlessness getting worse?”
I didn’t answer.
Canon grinned, sharp. “He’s been like this all week. Like a dog in heat, can’t sit still.”
I shot him a look. He shrugged, unrepentant.
Vin leaned on the table, voice dropping. “If you need to run, run. But keep your leash short. Hart’s people are in town, and they’re watching for… unusual.”
He didn’t say “wolves,” but I heard it anyway.
“Got it,” I said.
“Good.” He turned to Canon. “And you—don’t let him eat anyone important.”
Canon laughed, low. “No promises.”
Vin left us, the click of his boots fading into the back hall.
