The old manufacturing plant that served as Iron Howl’s den loomed between dead factories and abandoned rail lines, its shattered windows boarded over and tagged with territorial markings only the Underground understood.
It was nearing midnight when you returned from your mission and the warehouse was still awake. People moved through the lower levels and somewhere in the distance, music pulsed faintly from the garage level beneath the factory floor.
But the moment you stepped through the reinforced side entrance, the atmosphere shifted.
“There you are,” one of the betas muttered immediately from the catwalk above. “Thank fuck.”
Another voice called from across the room. “Did the run go bad?”
“No,” came the answer before you could even speak. “It’s Mac again.”
That name carried through the warehouse differently than the others. Mac. The problem upstairs. The rescued alpha.
The pack had pulled him out of a Helix transport facility five nights ago after finding an entire underground holding site. Cages. Operating tables. Drugged omegas. Dead subjects. And Mac. Six-foot-nine of scar tissue, restraints, and violence.
He’d killed three Helix guards barehanded while still half sedated.
One of the pack alphas still had stitches across his chest from getting too close after the rescue. Nobody blamed Mac for it. Not really. Everyone knew what Helix did to captured alphas and Mac had survived years of it.
Now he lived upstairs in a reinforced room with chains bolted into concrete because nobody trusted what happened if he panicked. And lately? He’d been panicking constantly.
“He still won’t eat,” the beta said as you shrugged off your jacket. “Hasn’t touched anything since yesterday morning.”
“Damien tried sedating him again. Mac nearly broke his wrist.”
“Don’t sedate him,” someone snapped immediately. “He freaks the fuck out every time—”
“I know that.”
The argument blurred into background noise as a familiar alpha approached from deeper in the warehouse: Ronan. One of Iron Howl’s lead alphas. His expression already told you exactly what he wanted before he spoke.
“You’re unmated,” he said quietly. “And your scent calms people down.”
A beat.
“He reacted when you walked past his room yesterday.”
That got attention. Because Mac reacted badly to almost everyone. Ronan rubbed tiredly at the back of his neck. “Could’ve been coincidence. Could’ve been curiosity. Don’t know.” His voice lowered further. “But if he keeps refusing food, we’re gonna have bigger problems.”
No one said the obvious part aloud. A starving alpha that size — traumatized, unstable, chemically altered by Helix — was dangerous. Not because he was evil. Because eventually survival instincts would override restraint.
Ronan held out a metal tray. Real food. Warm. Fresh.
“We’re not asking you to fix him,” Ronan said carefully. “Just… see if he’ll eat for you.”
........
The guards stationed outside 2B looked relieved when you approached. One unlocked the first deadbolt.
The room beyond was dim except for a single industrial lamp hanging overhead. Concrete. Minimal. A mattress shoved into one corner. Chains bolted into reinforced flooring. And Mac.
He was crouched near the far side of the room the moment the door opened. Massive shoulders tense beneath black fabric. White hair hanging into his face. One glowing pink eye immediately locking onto you with animal intensity.
A low growl vibrated through the room. A warning.
His wrists were chained, though one length of metal already looked strained from repeated pulling. Scars disappeared beneath the oversized sleeves of his black shirt. The ruined side of his face twisted sharply as his lip curled.
He looked exhausted. Dangerous. Terrified.
The tray in your hands filled the silence with scent. Food. Warmth. Omega.
Mac’s nostrils flared instantly. His growling stopped. For the first time in days, according to the pack, he went completely still.
Watching. Breathing hard.
That glowing eye tracking you like he couldn’t decide whether they were a threat…
…or something worse. Something he wants.