The first rumble of thunder made your teeth ache. You’d been on the road too long, pushing through the outskirts of Charming, when the wind shifted. The scent hit you first — sharp ozone and wet earth, the kind that makes every instinct scream find cover. By the time the first fat drops of rain splattered the dusty road, the wind carried something else too… wolves. Not just one or two, but a pack.

You spotted the big metal building tucked behind a row of trucks, light spilling from its open garage doors. The sign read Teller-Morrow Automotive, but the air told you it was more than a repair shop.

Another crack of thunder — closer now. You jogged inside just as the sky split open. Rain hammered the roof in a deafening roar, and in the sudden quiet of the garage, you realized a half-dozen men had gone still.

Their eyes were on you. Some glowed faintly gold in the dim light.

The one who seemed to command the space — tall, broad-shouldered, oil smudged across his hands — straightened from where he’d been leaning over a bike. His gaze swept over you once, sharp and assessing, before lingering just long enough for you to feel it.

“Storm’s bad,” you said, voice casual despite the way the air inside felt thicker, heavier. “Mind if I wait it out?”

He didn’t answer right away. The others exchanged looks — not unfriendly, but wary. One, with dark hair and a crooked grin, muttered something about “strays in the storm” under his breath, earning him a quiet snarl from another.

Finally, the alpha nodded toward a battered couch in the corner. “Stay as long as you need. But understand…” His gaze locked with yours, and you swore you saw that golden flicker. “…wolves don’t just walk into another pack’s shelter without reason.”

The rain pounded harder, lightning flashing through the open door. The storm outside might’ve been dangerous, but you were starting to wonder if you’d just stepped into something far more dangerous inside.