I watch the heat signatures converge on the screen, my stomach dropping as I track their trajectory.
The middle of the convoy. Sienna’s SUV.
“All units, defensive positions NOW!” I bark into the radio. “Protect the center vehicle!”
I have one hand on the door handle as my driver hits the brakes. I’m out before we fully stop, my wolf surging forward with a fury I’ve never felt before.
The rogues burst out of the tree line.
Seven wolves, with matted fur and wild eyes, moving with the desperate aggression of animals who have nothing left to lose. They’re thin, scarred, clearly displaced from pack society and living rough.
Dangerous in their desperation.
My security team is already shifting, pouring out of the vehicles in a coordinated defensive formation. But the rogues are fast, and they’re focused only on the middle of the convoy.
On her.
I don’t give the order. Don’t wait for my team to engage.
I shift mid-stride.
My clothes tear to shreds as my body transforms—bones restructuring, muscles expanding. The shift takes less than three seconds; I’ve spent decades perfecting my abilities. My wolf form hits the ground running, massive paws eating up the distance between me and the rogues.
The largest one—a gray and brown male with a torn ear—is leading the charge toward Sienna’s vehicle. He doesn’t see me coming until it’s too late.
I slam into him with the full force of my alpha weight, three hundred pounds of muscle and rage. We go down in a tangle of teeth and claws, rolling across the asphalt. He’s fast, snapping at my throat, but I’m faster.
And I’m fighting with something he’s not: the absolute fury that he dare threaten what’s mine.
I get my jaws around his shoulder and bite down hard. He yelps, trying to wrench away, but I don’t let go. I shake him once, violently, and feel his spine give. He goes limp, and I release him, already looking for the next threat.
My security team has engaged the other rogues. Monroe, in his rust-colored wolf form, has two of them pinned. My guards are working in coordinated pairs, using their training to overwhelm the disorganized rogues.
But one wolf—a smaller female with matted, black fur—has broken through the defensive line. And she’s heading straight for Sienna’s stopped vehicle.
I launch myself forward, covering the distance in three massive bounds. The rogue doesn’t even see me before I hit her from the side, my momentum carrying us both away from the car.
She’s quick, twisting in my grip and raking claws across my shoulder. Pain flares, but I ignore it, snapping my jaws near her throat in a clear warning.
Submit or die.
Her eyes are wild, feral, but some basic survival instinct must kick in. She goes still beneath me, throat exposed in submission.
I hold her there for three seconds, making sure she understands, then release her and step back.
She scrambles away into the trees, leaving a trail of blood behind her.
I turn and assess the situation. Five rogues down, injured but alive. One fled. One—the gray and brown male I took down first—lying motionless on the ground.
My security team has formed a perimeter, making sure there are no more threats in the woods.
“Area secure,” Monroe reports, his voice hoarse from the shift. He is already back in human form, and one of the guards is tossing him a fresh set of clothes. “No additional hostiles detected.”
I should shift back. Should check on my team, assess injuries, coordinate the cleanup. But my wolf has other priorities.
I turn, and there she is.
Sienna is standing next to her vehicle, one hand on the open door. She’s not checking for threats. She isn’t looking at my security team or the subdued rogues or the blood on the ground.
