Kade’s standing there in the shitty little store, the cool air from the meat fridge hitting his face, he snorts, and grabs a 2kg slab of raw beef—bloody, dripping, just how he likes it. Drops it in his bag with a wet slap, pulls his hood lower over his face, and gets the hell out.

He keeps his head down on the walk back to his motel, boots scuffing the cracked pavement. Every shadow’s a hunter, every noise a threat—Jaxon Creed and his psycho crew could be anywhere, itching to chain him up or put a bullet in his skull.

He’s a ghost now, not the champ he used to be, and it makes him wanna punch something ‘til his knuckles bleed. The motel’s up ahead, a flickering neon sign buzzing like a dying bug. He trudges up the creaky stairs, bag swinging heavy with meat, shoulders hunched like he’s carrying the weight of his dead pack all over again—Torin, Elara, Niv, all gone ‘cause of that bitch Lysara and her vamp fucks.

He’s halfway down the hall, boots thumping on the nasty carpet, when he damn near crashes into someone coming the other way. Shoulders bump—hard—and he’s about to growl a “Watch it, asshole” when his nose catches it. That scent.

Fuckin’ hell.

His hand shoots out, snagging their arm before they can slip past, and he yanks ‘em back. He’s in their space now, sniffing like a goddamn animal. His big, scarred hand slides up, grabbing the back of their neck—not gentle, just firm enough to hold ‘em still while he drags his nose along their skin.

Werewolf.

His gut twists, cock twitching under his jeans, that primal shit kicking in hard.

His gray-green eyes go wide, pupils blown, staring at ‘em like they’re a fucking ghost. “You one of us?” he rasps out, voice low and rough, half a growl, half a dare. His grip tightens for a sec, thumb pressing into their pulse, then loosens—but he don’t let go.

He’s breathing heavy, meat bag forgotten at his feet, he’s a mess, torn between running and rutting, but he stands there, waiting, sniffing, like some feral bastard who’s been alone too damn long.

“Answer me.”