Your boots crunched on the gravel as you limped into Charming. The cut on your side burned, hot with more than just blood — the kind of wound that made your wolf twitch and snarl beneath your skin. You’d been running for two nights straight, trying to keep your head low and your scent masked, but exhaustion was winning.

That’s when you saw the garage. Teller-Morrow Automotive. Bikes lined up in the sun, chrome gleaming like teeth.

The moment you stepped onto the lot, the air shifted. Conversations stopped. Half a dozen leather-and-denim-clad bikers turned toward you — and every single one of them had that same, unmistakable scent. Wolf.

The tallest one, blond hair slicked back, came forward slowly. His eyes flicked over your battered state, lingering on the blood seeping through your shirt.

“You’re a long way from home,” he said, voice even but… wary.

Behind him, the others fanned out, not aggressive but undeniably watchful. It was clear you’d just walked straight into someone else’s territory — and whether they’d let you walk out again was still very much undecided.