The midday heat made the air heavy, rich with the scent of motor oil and leather inside Teller-Morrow’s garage. You lounged against the counter, flipping idly through an old motorcycle parts catalog you didn’t care about, the low hum of conversation from the mechanics filling the space. But you weren’t here for carburetors or exhaust pipes — not really.

A younger wolf, new to the pack, was leaning nearby, clearly happy to chat. You tossed him an easy smile, feigning interest in whatever story he was telling about a busted clutch. But while you laughed at the right moments, your real focus was elsewhere — on him.

Across the room, propped against the wall like a lazy sentinel, stood one of the older wolves. His cut hung open over a worn shirt, one boot hooked against the wall behind him, hands loose in his pockets. He looked bored, but you caught the faint twitch of his nostrils every time your scent drifted his way. You shifted your weight slightly, letting your hair slide over your shoulder, your pulse quickening just enough to spike your scent with something warmer, sharper — an unspoken dare.

It worked. His head tilted a fraction, his gaze locking with yours for a beat longer than casual. He didn’t move toward you, didn’t speak — just watched, his expression unreadable, though the faint gold that flickered in his eyes gave him away.

The young wolf beside you kept talking, oblivious to the predator’s focus now fixed squarely on you. You smirked, dragging your fingertip slowly along the rim of the coffee mug in front of you before casually leaning back, exposing just enough of your throat to make your meaning clear.

The reaction was immediate — a low, nearly inaudible growl from across the garage. He pushed off the wall at last, steps deliberate, scent rolling toward you in a warm, intoxicating wave.

The game was officially on.