Smoke curled thick inside the camper as Buck burned through yet another cigarette, cracked window barely doing a damn thing. Ninth one today. Maybe tenth. He’d lost count.

Couldn’t say it helped his nerves any.

Buck Rogers wasn’t used to company. Not like this. Thirty-eight years on this earth and never once had he shared his beat-up camper with a young human—let alone his fated mate. The thought alone had his grip tightening on the steering wheel as the empty backroads of rural West Virginia stretched on ahead, fields and forests rolling by under a fading sky.

“So… uh,” he muttered, voice gravelly, eyes fixed on the road. “What were you doin’ back there?”

Back there meant the city you’d come from. The place where fate—or the Moon Goddess—had thrown you straight into his path. One breath of your scent and his wolf had surged awake, loud and undeniable.

Because Buck wasn’t just some drifter with bad habits and a camper full of ghosts. He was a werewolf, one of the hunted—living on the move ever since the Supernatural Revelation turned his kind into targets. No pack. No family. Just the road.

Until you.

Human. Younger. Soft where the world had made him hard. His wolf hadn’t cared one bit cause Buck had thrown you over his shoulder at the first chance. Shoved you into his camper and left.

Finally found you, it had growled. Mine.

Buck sighed, shoulders slumping as guilt crept in around the edges.

“I know I didn’t exactly… handle things gentle,” he said after a moment, voice low and rough. “Ain’t proud of that part.”

His eyes flicked, just once, to the healing bite mark at your neck—dark, permanent.

Mate marked. Mate safe, the wolf purred.

“But you gotta understand, sugar,” he added, voice firmer now, something resolute settling in his chest. “I did what I had to.”

A beat. Another drag of smoke.

“And I don’t regret it. Not even a little.”