From Ashes to Alpha

I stand at the threshold of the abandoned warehouse, my heartbeat quickening with each step deeper into the building.

The scent of danger permeates the stale air—a mixture of sweat, anticipation, and something uniquely primal that only those with my... condition... would recognize.

"Keep moving," a gruff voice commands from behind me.

Two burly men flank me, their muscular frames barely contained by their leather jackets. The one on my left—Bear, they call him—has a poorly concealed pistol under his arm.

The other, silent and scarred, simply goes by Knife. Fitting.

"Is this really necessary?" I ask, maintaining my composure despite the unease crawling up my spine. "I've done business with Morgan before."

Bear chuckles, the sound devoid of humor. "Fresh meat always gets the full tour, pretty boy."

We descend a series of stairs, each level taking us further underground and away from the world I've been trying to navigate since my family cast me out.

The familiar weight of shame presses down on my shoulders—the runt, the embarrassment, the weakling who couldn't even transform properly until sixteen.

"You nervous, Davis?" Bear asks, noticing my clenched fists.

"Just eager to meet the man who's been taking thirty percent of my earnings," I reply smoothly.

We reach a metal door at the bottom of the stairs.

The scents intensify here—wolf, human, fear, violence—all mixed together in a potent cocktail that makes my wolf stir uncomfortably within me.

Knife raps on the door with a specific pattern: three quick knocks, a pause, then two more.

"Enter," a muffled voice commands from inside.

The door swings open to reveal a surprisingly well-appointed room.

Plush leather chairs, a polished mahogany table, and crystal decanters of amber liquid stand in stark contrast to the dilapidated exterior.

Three men sit around the table. My eyes immediately go to the center figure—Morgan, the black market kingpin of the eastern territories.

Despite being well into his sixties, his shoulders remain broad, his posture perfect. His fingers, adorned with gaudy gemstone rings, drum rhythmically on the table's surface.

Flanking him are two others: a tall, skeletal man with cold eyes, and a younger, muscular individual whose hungry gaze makes my skin crawl.

"Davis." Morgan's deep voice fills the room. "Your reputation in Shadow Fang Alley is growing quite impressive."

I keep my expression neutral. "I'm just doing what's expected, Mr. Morgan."

Morgan studies me, his weathered fingers caressing an ostentatious ruby ring. "Loyalty requires proof, young man.

This shipment must reach the border handoff point within three days." His eyes narrow. "You understand the consequences of failure, I presume."

"Why me specifically?" I ask, though I already suspect the answer.

"Because no one would suspect a novice," Morgan explains, gesturing toward a map spread across the table.

"And if this happens to be a trap, the loss would be... minimal."

My eyes fall to a small metal box sitting at the center of the table. Unassuming, yet clearly the focus of this entire meeting.

"I accept your challenge," I declare, straightening my posture.

The muscular man slides the metal box toward me. "Three days. Border crossing at Wolfsbane Ridge.

Ask for Dominic. He'll be expecting this... and only this. No substitutions, no excuses."

I take the box, surprised by its lightness. "What's inside?"

"Curiosity killed the wolf," the skeletal man chuckles.

"But satisfaction brought him back," I counter, standing my ground.

Morgan actually laughs at this. "I like you, Davis. You've got spine for a pup. Your job isn't to understand it, just to deliver it."

I tuck the box into my jacket's inner pocket. "Consider it done."

The ancient truck groans beneath me as I navigate the treacherous forest road.

Every pothole sends shockwaves through the suspension, and the steering wheel jerks violently in my hands. The metal box sits on the passenger seat, secured by the seatbelt like a precious child.

"Come on, you piece of junk," I mutter, wrestling the vehicle around yet another bend. "Just a few more miles."

I check the rearview mirror for the twentieth time in as many minutes. The road behind me remains empty, but that does little to settle my nerves.

In this world, danger rarely announces itself with a fanfare.

The forest grows thicker as I drive deeper into wolf territory.

Sunlight filters through the dense canopy, creating a dappled pattern across the cracked windshield.

The air coming through the half-open window carries the scent of wet earth, pine, and something else—something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

"Blood," I whisper, my nostrils flaring. Recent blood. Animal or human, I can't tell, but its presence is unmistakable.

I slow the truck, eyes scanning the surroundings with increased vigilance.

The forest has fallen unnaturally quiet—no birdsong, no rustling leaves, nothing but the labored breathing of the truck's engine and my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

"This doesn't feel right," I say to myself, reaching over to touch the metal box, reassuring myself of its presence.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. With one hand still on the wheel, I fish it out and glance at the screen. Amelia.

Keeping one eye on the road, I answer, "This isn't a good time."

"James," Amelia's voice comes through, crisp and urgent. "Where are you?"

"On my way to deliver a package for Morgan," I reply, navigating around a fallen branch. "Why?"

"Turn around. Now." The command in her voice is unmistakable.

"I can't do that. You know what happens to people who cross Morgan."

"Listen to me carefully," she continues, her tone dropping lower. "That package you're carrying—"

Suddenly, I spot something metallic glinting in the road ahead. "I'll call you back," I say hurriedly, dropping the phone and gripping the wheel with both hands.

Several sharp spikes protrude from the dirt road, strategically placed to puncture any vehicle's tires. I jerk the wheel hard to the right, the truck veering wildly as I attempt to avoid the trap.

"Shit!" I yell as the vehicle fishtails, tires skidding on loose gravel.

The truck slides sideways, momentum carrying it toward the thick tree line. With a sickening crunch, the rear bumper connects with a sturdy oak.

The impact jolts me forward, my head narrowly missing the steering wheel.

Heart racing, I grab the metal box and my backpack. I know I have seconds at most. Whoever set those spikes will be closing in.

I slip out of the driver's side door, staying low, and dart into the underbrush. The forest floor is soft beneath my feet, cushioning my steps as I weave between trees.

Twenty yards from the road, I drop to my stomach behind a dense thicket of brambles, clutching the box to my chest.

Through the leaves, I watch as five figures emerge from the opposite side of the road.

They move with practiced precision—hunters, not ordinary bandits. Their scent carries to me on the breeze, unmistakably wolf, but mixed with something chemical and acrid.

Silver nitrate, probably. Weapons against our kind.

The leader, a tall man with a jagged scar running from his left eye to his jaw, raises a hand, signaling his team to halt.

He draws a long blade that gleams with a silvery coating in the diffused sunlight.

"Come out, little pup," he calls, his voice carrying easily through the still forest. "We know you're nearby."

I remain motionless, controlling my breathing to be shallow and silent.

My wolf stirs restlessly inside me, urging fight or flight, but I suppress both instincts. Movement now would be fatal.

"Check the vehicle," the leader orders, gesturing with his blade. "Just find the cargo. The mongrel isn't worth our concern."

One of the hunters, a stocky woman with close-cropped hair, approaches my abandoned truck. She searches thoroughly, rifling through the glove compartment and checking under seats.

"Nothing, boss," she reports, straightening up. "He must have taken it with him."

The leader spits on the ground. "Split up and search. He can't have gone far." His face contorts with anger as he issues the command.

"Remember, bleed the wolf pup dry if you catch him, but the cargo must remain intact."

The hunters fan out, weapons ready. One heads directly toward my hiding spot.

I clutch the metal box tighter, mind racing. If I run, they'll hear me. If I stay, they'll find me.

The approaching hunter is barely ten yards away now, his nostrils flaring as he attempts to catch my scent.

My phone vibrates silently in my pocket—a text message.

The hunter's head snaps in my direction at the barely perceptible sound. His eyes narrow, scanning the undergrowth.

"I think I've got something," he calls to the others, raising his crossbow loaded with what I can only assume are silver-tipped bolts.

Seven yards. Six. Five.

I close my eyes briefly, centering myself.

The partial shift is painful but necessary—allowing just enough of my wolf through to enhance my strength while maintaining human form.

The hunter parts the brambles, a triumphant smile spreading across his face as he spots me.

"Found you, pup—"

I explode upward, driving my fist into his throat before he can finish.

He stumbles backward, gasping. I seize his crossbow, spinning it around and smashing the stock into his temple. He crumples without a sound.

"Dane? What's happening?" a female voice calls out.

No time to think. I sprint deeper into the forest, the box tucked securely under one arm.

Behind me, shouts of alarm erupt as the hunters discover their fallen comrade.

"There he goes! Don't let him escape!"

Crossbow bolts whistle past me, thudding into tree trunks.

My enhanced speed carries me over fallen logs and through dense undergrowth, but I can hear my pursuers gaining—four sets of footsteps, moving with supernatural speed of their own.

I reach for my phone as I run, checking the message that nearly got me killed.

From Amelia: "Hunters on your trail. Safe house at Cooper's Mill. Code: Moonfall."

How does she know? I have no time to question it now.

"Get the mongrel!" the leader's voice roars behind me.

I push harder, drawing more on my wolf's strength, feeling the burn in my legs and lungs. Cooper's Mill is still miles away, but at least now I have a destination.

The forest thins ahead, revealing a steep ravine cutting across my path.

Too wide to jump in human form, but my partial shift might give me enough power—if I time it perfectly.

Behind me, the hunters are closing in, their footfalls heavy on the forest floor. I have one chance.

Clutching the box tightly to my chest, I pour everything into a final burst of speed, racing toward the ravine's edge.

"End of the line, pup!" the leader shouts, now close enough that I can smell the silver poison on his blade.

I reach the edge and leap, suspended momentarily in open air, the ravine yawning beneath me. For one terrifying second, I'm certain I've miscalculated.

Then my feet hit solid ground on the opposite side, my momentum carrying me into a roll that protects both me and my precious cargo.

I hear curses from across the gap as I regain my footing. The hunters have reached the edge but hesitate at the jump.

"This isn't over, mongrel!" the leader bellows.

I don't waste breath on a reply, already moving again, deeper into the forest.And how does Amelia know about any of this?

The metal box feels heavier now, weighed down by secrets I don't understand. Whatever's inside has made me a target for forces far beyond my station in the wolf hierarchy.