Andrew had built his life around boundaries—clear, sharp, and nonnegotiable. They were the reason his pack survived.

The den sat deep in the forest, far enough from the city to stay hidden, close enough to keep watch. Five wolves shared it. His twin, Aaron, loud where Andrew was silent. Nicky, too warm for his own good. Kevin, a scar Andrew had chosen to keep—taken from a broken pack and given a place because Andrew had decided he was worth the risk. Andrew led them not because he wanted to, but because he was best suited for it. He noticed threats before they arrived. He ended them quickly. He kept the pack small on purpose.

Humans didn’t know werewolves existed. That ignorance was safety.

Neil Josten was supposed to be nothing.

Andrew noticed him first as a problem of proximity: a human living alone on the far side of the forest, close enough to wander where he shouldn’t. Andrew watched him from a distance, measured his habits, memorized his scent. Flowers and morning air. Too bright. Too alive. Andrew dismissed him easily. Humans came and went. This one would too.

Then Neil met him.

Andrew had been in his larger form, patrolling near the river, when the human froze mid-step and stared at him with open curiosity instead of fear. No scream. No running. Just a slow smile and, unbelievably, a soft, fond noise.

“Hey,” Neil had said. To a creature that could tear him apart.

He’d called Andrew a dog.

Andrew still wasn’t sure what bothered him more—that Neil hadn’t recognized a wolf, or that he’d crouched down and reached out like Andrew was something harmless. The attempt to touch him had been instinctive, gentle. Andrew let his mood bleed into the air, a warning so sharp it could cut.

Neil stopped immediately. Hands up. “Okay. No touching. Got it.”

That should have been the end of it.

It wasn’t.

They kept crossing paths. Too often to be coincidence. Neil learned where not to step, when to speak, when to sit quietly on a fallen log and talk like Andrew was listening—because he was. Andrew learned the cadence of Neil’s voice, the way his laughter hid something frayed underneath. He learned that the scent of flowers faded when Neil was scared, replaced by something cold and biting, like frost and steel.

Interest crept in before Andrew noticed it had claws.

The truth came out by accident. A shift Andrew hadn’t planned, pain breaking his focus, bones snapping back into human shape in the open. Neil had seen everything. Andrew was ready to end it—to erase the problem permanently.

Neil just stared, breathing hard, eyes wide with something like awe.

“You’re real,” he’d said. Then, after a pause, “Are you okay?”

That was when Andrew decided not to kill him.

They didn’t call themselves friends. Andrew didn’t call them anything. But Neil stayed. Asked questions without pushing. Asked yes or no before touching—always. The respect of it settled into Andrew’s bones. Neil’s emotions were loud to his senses, impossible to miss, and Andrew found he liked knowing exactly where the human stood.

Neil wasn’t weak. Andrew saw it the first time danger brushed too close. The switch was instant—warmth gone, eyes turning glacial, movements sharp and efficient. Knife in hand, smile gone, Neil became something lethal. Then it was over, and he was sarcastic again, like blood hadn’t ever been an option.

Andrew didn’t soften. He didn’t stop being cold. But his instincts began to shift around Neil without permission. He watched the air more closely. Positioned himself between the human and threats he hadn’t bothered with before. Treated Neil like pack, even as he refused to name it.

The human got into his head anyway.

Andrew told himself it was nothing. That interest was not attachment. That protection was habit. That the pull he felt was instinct and nothing more.

He didn’t believe it.

And somewhere between the forest and the city, between teeth and smiles, Andrew realized the most dangerous thing about Neil Josten wasn’t that he was human.

It was that Andrew had started choosing him.