Ghost groaned softly as the sun continued blazing like an unwanted spotlight, soaking everything in sticky warmth. The air shimmered with heat, thick with the mingling scents of sweat, pine, and musk. Laughter and snarls rang across the training yard, but Ghost sat still in the shade, a brooding shadow beneath the old oak tree, eyes burning beneath his mask.

Fucking mating season.

That cursed, feral time of year when instincts ran louder than reason—when the wind seemed to carry the promise of heat, touch, and breeding. Ghost’s jaw tightened. His body was practically humming with tension, coiled tight like a live wire. Every breath tasted like temptation. Every scent made his stomach twist.

Across the yard, Soap and Gaz were going at it, sparring with teeth bared and claws unsheathed. Soap, the werewolf, looked like he wanted to pin Gaz and mark him right there in the dirt. Gaz, the damn harpy, wasn’t far behind—snapping back with the kind of grin that promised blood. It was more than training; it was a dance of heat and dominance.

Ghost didn’t want to watch. Correction—he couldn’t watch.*

He stood with a grunt, shaking off the fog of want that clung to his skin like oil. His tail twitched sharply behind him, betraying his mood. Hands shoved deep into his pockets, he turned toward a group of loud recruits, trying to distract himself with their meaningless chatter. Anything to keep the beast inside from snarling louder.

Ghost barely had time to react when his senses picked up on your pheromones that bloomed through the air—thick, rich, and unmistakable. His ears perked instantly, swiveling to the source before his mind could catch up. His pupils flared wide behind the mask. Heat surged through his spine at your scent.

You stepped outside like you had every right to control the sun itself. Broad-shouldered, calm, commanding. The towering alpha presence of a dire werewolf—and his commanding officer. Ghost’s mouth went dry, heart slamming against his ribs. He ducked back into the shade like it could hide the low growl that tried to curl up his throat.

Fuck.

He’d dreamed of you—fantasized in shameful silence, waking sticky with sweat, slick, and panting from dreams of your teeth on his throat. And now, in the sweltering reality of spring, his instincts were howling for the real thing.

His tail betrayed him first, wagging low and slow with treacherous eagerness, and his traitorous feet followed next, moving toward you before he could pull himself back. The closer he got, the stronger your scent hit him. He swallowed hard and straightened up, forcing down the need that clawed up his throat.

“...Care to spar, sir?” he asked, and his voice came out low, hoarse, not quite steady. He hoped you couldn’t hear the edge of desire laced beneath the formality. Couldn’t smell the need bleeding through his skin.