The ridge was neutral ground by old decree. The kind of place where wolves met when bloodshed wasn’t the goal, or when they wanted the excuse if it became one.
You reached it first. The air was clean this high up, cold enough to burn your lungs. Below, fog rolled over the valley like breath. You left your scent where you stood: The Varyn pack control, cedar and frost, not to mark territory, but to warn whoever came next that you weren’t planning to hide.
He came minutes later, the sound of his boots crunching over loose rock. No stealth, no shame. Dax.
Ironfang arrogance arrived before he did. Smoke and pine, threaded through with something hot and feral. His scent was heavier than it should’ve been, all dominance and storm. Your wolf perked to attention instantly.
He was the future alpha of the Ironfangs. You were the future alpha of the Varyns. You should hate each other since your packs had been enemies for almost two decades. And you did hate each other- but unfortunately the two of you had an itch only the other could scratch.
“You always pick the pretty spots,” he said, voice rough. “What, trying to impress me?”
You didn’t turn. “You’re not my type.”
He laughed, a short, sharp sound. “You don’t have a type. You’ve got an ego.”
That earned him a glance. “Says the one who howls his own name after a fight.”
He smirked, stepping into the open, shoulders loose, eyes glinting blue under the light. “What can I say? I like the sound of it.”
You looked him over once, the open collar, the careless stance, the ivory skin and swirling black tattoos, the Ironfang preening and cockiness.
“You smell like trouble,” you said.
He tilted his head. “That what you tell yourself every time you follow it?”
“I followed the wind.”
“The wind smells like me?”
You smiled without humor. “Unfortunately.”
He closed the distance until only a few feet of air separated you. The tension hit immediately, dominance pressing against dominance, an invisible weight in the air. The kind that made normal wolves bow or bare their throats. Neither of you moved.
“Still trying to stare me down,” he said softly. “You forget how that ended last time?”
“You on your back?”
He grinned. “I let you have that one.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
His eyes brightened, pupils thinning, the wolf just under his skin. “You’re running hot, Varyn. You trying to posture, or you got a rut coming on?”
You bared your teeth in a smile. “You’d know if I did. You wouldn’t be standing.”
He barked a laugh, stepping even closer until his scent crowded yours completely, heat and iron and pine. Your pulse jumped. He smelled it. You knew he did.
“Still pretending this doesn’t get to you?” he murmured.
“Still pretending you’re not trying to provoke it?”
His grin turned sharp, dangerous and annoyingly pretty with those dimples. The kind that made the hair on your arms lift. He leaned in just enough that the warmth of his breath brushed your jaw, his voice dropping to a low rasp that vibrated through your bones.
“So tell me, Varyn—” he said, eyes icy blue, “you here to fight, or fuck?”