Chapter 4: Whiskey, Blood, and Old Scars

The bond still burned like a live wire under my skin as we stumbled out of the woods behind the shop, rain dripping from our hair. My ribs screamed from the counter-rune's aftershocks, each breath pulling fresh fire through the failing tattoos. I kept my jaw locked tight. No way was I letting Desmond see how close I'd come to begging him to finish what that desperate kiss had started.

Desmond stayed glued to my side, one massive hand hovering near the small of my back without quite touching. The bond thrummed between us, his worry bleeding through as a tight pressure behind my eyes. "We need information," he said, that deep rasp hitting me somewhere vulnerable. "Marcus hears things at The Howl that even my pack scouts miss."

I almost argued. The shop was my territory, my carefully ordered world of ink and runes. But the memory of Lena's corrupted tattoo—that sickly green rot spreading like cancer—made my stomach turn. My fingers twitched toward my own ribs before I shoved them in my pockets.

"Fine," I muttered. "But if your pack-enforcer vibes clear out the regulars, you're buying the next round."

His low chuckle vibrated through the bond, warm and unexpectedly soft. It made my stomach flip in ways that had nothing to do with the magical attack still lingering in my veins. We climbed into his truck—the one that smelled like pine and gun oil—and the proximity dulled the worst of the phantom aches. For now.

The drive into town took fifteen minutes of charged silence broken only by the wipers slapping rhythmically against the windshield. Blackthorn Ridge looked the same as always under the gray sky: logging trucks rumbling past, mist clinging to the evergreens like secrets nobody wanted to share. But I could feel the tension crackling in the air, thick as the bond between us. Or maybe that was just Desmond's wolf, pacing restlessly in the back of my mind.

"You holding up?" he asked finally, not looking at me. His hands flexed on the steering wheel, knuckles pale.

I traced the mate mark on my forearm through my sleeve, the fresh lines raised and hot. "My magic's falling apart and my wolf won't shut up about how good you smell. So yeah. Peachy."

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough that the bond sent a spark of amusement my way. Bastard.

The Howl squatted on the edge of town like it had grown there naturally from the mud and bad decisions. Neon beer signs flickered in the windows, fighting a losing battle against the perpetual drizzle. Marcus's bar had been my only consistent home for eight years—neutral ground where pack politics stopped at the door. Or used to.

We parked around back. Desmond killed the engine but didn't move. Instead he turned those piercing blue eyes on me, the ones that had starred in too many of my forbidden dreams. "Whatever happens in there, stay close. The bond—"

"I know what the bond does," I cut him off, sharper than I meant. The memory of that kiss still buzzed on my lips, raw and electric. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

He reached over slowly, giving me time to pull away. His fingers brushed my jaw, tilting my face toward his. The touch sent heat spiraling down my spine, pooling low and insistent. Through the bond I felt his own response—his cock thickening, that dominant urge to claim warring with something sharper. His pulse kicked up, matching mine.

"I don't want you to like it yet," he said quietly, voice dropping to that velvety growl. "I just want you breathing, Spencer. Mine to keep alive."

My throat tightened. I jerked away before I could do something stupid like lean into his hand. "Let's go see if Marcus has any actual answers instead of more terrible advice."

The bar smelled like stale beer, cigarette smoke that nobody actually inhaled, and the particular musk of too many wolves in one place. Marcus looked up from behind the scarred oak counter as we walked in, his perpetual five o'clock shadow somehow even more pronounced than usual. His eyes widened at the sight of us together, then narrowed with that mix of sarcasm and genuine worry that only he could pull off.

"Well, fuck me running," he drawled, wiping the same clean spot on the bar he'd been polishing since we were kids. "If it isn't Blackthorn's newest power couple. You two look like you got dragged through a hedge backward. Or was that the counter-rune I heard about?"

I slid onto my usual stool, the one with the wobbly leg that nobody else would claim. Desmond took the one beside me, close enough that our thighs brushed. The contact settled something restless in my chest even as it stirred other things lower down.

"Word travels fast," I said, accepting the whiskey Marcus poured without asking. The burn felt good, grounding. My wolf perked up at the familiar ritual, pushing against the failing runes like it wanted to taste the world again.

Marcus leaned in, voice dropping even though the place was mostly empty this early. "Lena came by after her session. Looked like she'd seen a ghost. Said your ink turned on her like it had teeth. And that's not the worst of it—three other shifters have had their suppressions fail in the last week. One kid nearly tore up his mom's living room shifting halfway through dinner."

Desmond's hand landed on my knee under the bar, heavy and warm. Not possessive exactly, but close enough that I felt the warning in it. His fingers tightened, thumb pressing into the muscle like he could hold my wolf steady through touch alone.

"Who's selling the corrupted runes?" Desmond asked. His voice had that commanding edge, the one that usually cleared rooms.

Marcus's gaze flicked between us, lingering on the way Desmond touched me. Something complicated crossed his face. "That's the million-dollar question, big guy. My sources say it's not coming from any of the usual suppliers. Someone's tampering at the source. Base sigils twisted just enough to look right until they hit skin."

I knocked back the rest of my whiskey, the glass clinking hard against the bar. My fingers found their way to my ribs again, tracing the burning lines through my shirt. The motion drew both their eyes. Marcus's expression softened.

"Spence," he started, using the nickname he only pulled out when shit got real. "This bond... it's accelerating everything. Your wolf's been caged so long. You sure you know what you're doing?"

The question hit too close. I laughed, but it came out bitter. "Do I look like I know what I'm doing?"

Before anyone could answer, the door banged open. Three wolves I didn't recognize swaggered in, their scents screaming Shadowfang. Silver-streaked hair on the leader, sharp features twisted in a sneer that reminded me too much of Rylan. My wolf surged forward so fast my vision edged gold.

"Well, well," the leader called out, voice carrying across the empty tables. "If it isn't the traitor whore and his Villanueva lapdog. Rylan sends his regards. Said to ask how the mating feels now that your runes are eating themselves."

The bar went dead quiet. Marcus's hand disappeared under the counter, probably reaching for the baseball bat he kept there for special occasions. Desmond was already rising, rolling those broad shoulders in that predatory way that made him look twice as big.

"Walk away," Desmond said, voice low and lethal. The command carried alpha weight that even I felt in my bones. "This is neutral ground."

The Shadowfang wolves laughed. The biggest one cracked his knuckles, eyes locked on me with something ugly. "Neutral's over, enforcer. Your little lone wolf here is the key to breaking your pack. Once we drag him back to Rylan, that bond of yours is gonna unravel nice and slow."

My stomach dropped. The counter-rune attack suddenly made sense—not just pain, but a probe. Testing weaknesses. My past.

I stood too, the stool scraping loud against the floor. The bond between Desmond and me snapped taut, our movements syncing without thought. When he stepped left, I moved right, flanking the three assholes like we'd practiced it for years instead of hours.

"You tell Rylan," I said, surprised at how steady my voice sounded, "that if he wants me, he can stop hiding behind corrupted magic and come himself."

The fight exploded faster than I expected. One of them lunged for me, claws already half-extended. Desmond met him halfway, massive fist connecting with a sickening crunch that I felt echo through the bond. My own knuckles throbbed in sympathy, the pain sharpening my focus instead of scattering it.

I ducked under a wild swing from the second wolf, coming up with an elbow to his throat that sent him staggering. The synchronization was eerie. Every time Desmond shifted to block, I was already there to exploit the opening. Our wolves moved as one, instincts bleeding through the mate link like we'd been pack for years.

But it wasn't clean. The third wolf got behind me, his arm snaking around my throat in a choke that cut off air. Panic surged hot and ugly. For a second I was eighteen again, backed into a corner by people I'd trusted, teeth at my throat and betrayal burning worse than any wound. The old scars on my side pulled tight under my shirt, phantom pain flaring in time with the failing runes.

My vision tunneled. The scent of them—Shadowfang rot mixed with something familiar—hit me like a truck. Not Rylan's wolves. Not exactly. The realization slammed into me harder than the arm crushing my windpipe.

"Fuck," I gasped, the word barely audible. My hands scrabbled at the arm around my neck, nails drawing blood. Through the bond Desmond's terror punched into me—my pulse stuttering in exact sync, vision whitening at the edges with borrowed fear.

He roared, the sound rattling the bottles behind the bar, and took down his opponent with brutal efficiency before turning toward me. The wolf holding me laughed, breath hot against my ear. "Remember this feeling, Kavanaugh? Your old pack sold you out for territory. Rylan's just finishing the job."

The words unlocked flashes—teeth in the dark, the copper taste of blood, Marcus dragging me away half-dead eight years ago. I drove my heel back into the bastard's knee, heard the pop, and twisted free just as Desmond reached us. His big hands grabbed the wolf by the throat and slammed him into the bar hard enough to crack wood.

The fight ended as quickly as it started. The three Shadowfangs lay groaning on the floor, one unconscious, the others looking a lot less cocky with blood on their faces and fury in their eyes. My chest heaved. Every breath tasted like copper and old shame.

Desmond turned to me, blue eyes wild with wolf gold at the edges. His hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing over the fresh bruise forming on my jaw. The touch was careful, but his grip carried that possessive edge, like he was fighting the urge to haul me over his shoulder and bolt.

His voice came out rough. "What the hell was that? Those memories—your pack?"

I stepped back, even though the distance sent a lance of pain through both our sides. The bar swam around me. Marcus was already herding the beaten wolves toward the door with threats and the business end of his bat, but I barely registered it. My skin felt too tight, the runes burning like fresh ink.

"Not here," I muttered. My voice cracked on the words. I traced the mate mark on my forearm, feeling it pulse in time with my racing heart. "Not like this."

Marcus appeared at my elbow, face unusually serious as he pressed a fresh glass of whiskey into my hand. "Drink this, Spence. And for fuck's sake, both of you get out of here before more of Rylan's assholes show up. I'll handle the mess."

I knocked the whiskey back, the burn doing nothing to wash away the taste of old blood in my mouth. Desmond stood close, not touching but near enough that the bond stopped screaming. His silver coin appeared between his fingers, flipping slowly as he processed what little I'd let slip.

The silence between us felt heavier than the fight. I could feel him wanting to push, wanting to demand every detail so he could wrap me in that ruthless protection of his. But he held back. For me. The realization settled warm and terrifying in my chest.

"We should get back to the cabin," he said finally. His voice had that commanding edge again, but threaded with something rougher now. "The bond's still unstable. That counter-rune didn't finish its work."

I nodded, too exhausted to argue. My body ached in places that had nothing to do with the fight. As we headed for the door, Marcus caught my arm.

"Hey," he said quietly, eyes flicking to Desmond then back to me. "That text I sent earlier? About not letting the bond own you? Forget it. Sometimes the cage is what sets you free, man. Just... don't be a stubborn asshole about it."

His words landed like another punch. I managed a weak smile. "Your advice still sucks, Marcus."

But I let Desmond steer me out to the truck anyway, his hand finally settling on the back of my neck. The touch grounded me more than the whiskey had. The drive back was quiet, rain picking up again to match the storm in my head. Every mile eased the shared pain but deepened something else—the fragile understanding blooming between us like one of my corrupted runes. Dangerous. Unpredictable. But maybe not entirely rotten.

---

Back at the cabin, the door had barely clicked shut before Desmond crowded me against it. His mouth found mine, hungry and demanding, the kiss picking up right where the woods had left off. Rain-soaked clothes hit the floor in a wet trail as we stumbled toward the bed. My hands mapped the broad planes of his chest, fingers catching on the chain that held his mother's ring.

"Desmond—" The word broke off into a groan as he nipped at my throat, right over the fading mate mark. Heat flooded me, the bond amplifying every touch until I couldn't tell where I ended and he began. His cock pressed hard against my hip, thick and insistent, and the raw need pulsing through the link made my knees buckle.

He caught me, big hands sliding down to grip my ass and lift. I wrapped my legs around his waist as he carried me the last few steps, dropping me onto the mattress. The way he looked at me then—blue eyes gone wolf-gold, jaw tight with the effort of holding back—sent a shiver through me that had nothing to do with cold.

"Been dreaming about this," he growled, voice velvet-rough. "You. Under me. Finally letting me in." His hands weren't gentle as they stripped away the last of my clothes, but the bond carried the care underneath, the desperate need to protect warring with eight years of want.

I arched up into him, nails digging into his shoulders as he settled between my thighs. When he took us both in one large hand, stroking with just the right pressure, I bit back a curse. The slide of skin on skin, the slick heat building between us, the way his breath hitched every time I moaned—it all fed back through the bond until we were both shaking.

"Look at me," he ordered, voice dropping into that alpha register that made my wolf roll over and bare its throat. I did, locking eyes as he worked us faster, thumb sweeping over the head of my cock on every stroke. The orgasm built fast and brutal, tearing through both of us at once. I came with his name on my lips, spilling hot between us while his growl vibrated against my neck.

After, we barely had the energy to wipe down before collapsing together. His big body curled around mine protectively, one arm heavy across my waist. The bond hummed with mutual weariness, desire banked low under layers of new vulnerability. I lay there listening to his breathing even out, my own wolf quieter than it had been in days but still restless with half-buried memories.

Sleep pulled me under before I could spiral further.

Hours later, the sound of shattering glass jerked me awake. Moonlight sliced through the cabin, cold and sharp. My hand shot out instinctively, reaching for the solid warmth that had been beside me.

The bed was empty. Sheets cold.

Panic clawed up my throat as the bond surged with a spike of pure, blinding rage—Desmond's, unmistakable—before slamming shut like a steel door. Nothing. Just hollow absence where his presence should have been.

I bolted upright, heart hammering. A note was pinned to the bedroom door with something that glinted silver in the dark. I crossed the room on shaky legs and yanked it free.

The silver coin from his grandfather. And scrawled in Desmond's bold handwriting: Stay inside. They're here for you. - D

The bond stayed silent. No rage. No pain. No him.

Just the sound of my own ragged breathing and the distant howl of wolves circling closer through the trees.