Bonus Chapter - Firecracker

Hello! Thank you so much for your support on this story. Please enjoy this sweet scene suggested by @Montedetinta03 in which Rowan meets River for the first time and sparks (and knives) fly! I hope you like it <3

- ➶ -

𝐑𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐧

I stride down the woodland trail towards the heart of Crescent Valley, thoughts flitting from worry to worry. Duskland. The death toll. The long nights. The grief of losing yet another pack member. The frustration that everything my parents built is crashing down all around me.

It's a peaceful evening, at least. That counts for something. With the sun sinking beneath the mountainous horizon, the night comes alive. Snuffling animals in the underbrush, crickets buzzing incessantly with owls hooting in forlorn harmony. My wolf lends me a little extra sight, casting the woods in clarity despite the shadows. I take a deep breath, filing away the pleasant aroma of dewy grass and shadowed ferns and lurking ozone as rain threatens to fall.

At my side, Beau tucks his hands away into his pockets and sighs heavily, tilting his head back to admire the star-speckled sky above the rustling canopies. Morgan trails along behind us, lost to her thoughts and no doubt grateful for a little peace and quiet.

Up ahead, Teo, Kay, and Lach's wolves dart after one another, bowing playfully and yipping and racing ahead only to circle round a trunk and come bounding back. Their excitement has my lips twitching, but the smile is quick to fall.

Circling the edges of my land has become a new routine, ever since Duskland has decided to creep closer, stealing the vulnerable parts of a territory passed down to me. I'm still learning the ropes of calling this land mine, of having people look up to me for every decision. I've grown so used to having my parents as a security blanket that, with them gone, I feel lost. Vulnerable. Exposed. Especially with Alessandro breathing down my neck.

My people are dying and their families look to me to make it right. To protect them. To stop Duskland before they kill anyone else.

I can't do it on my own.

I can only hope to delay the inevitable. Alessandro is older than me, more experienced, and with a devout fated at his side. His line is certain. His pack grows in strength with every sentry of mine they kill, with every yard of my land they steal.

As we breach the outskirts of town, emerging from the woods onto a nearly-vacant car park, Lachlan's wolf yips for my attention and I'm hauled away from my hounding thoughts. He's gathered at my side with Teo and Kay, their hackles raising, snouts tipped upwards to sniff at the air.

On the cool air rises muffled but obvious sounds of a fight nearby. Concern flares within me.

Beau frowns. "There's not meant to be any sentries down here, is there?"

"No, there's not," I return. The only sentry covering this area was Ryan, and Duskland has already dealt with him. I haven't had the time or the resources to replace him, just yet. I can't afford to thin out and strain the defences of my borders any more than they already are.

Either one of the nearby clubs or bars has spat out a drunken brawl or Duskland has ventured onto my land — again — and is picking fights with my people. Frustration lights my blood and my pace picks up.

"You bastard," a hoarse voice groans, pain thickening his voice.

Grunts and gasps and yelps are a beacon pulling me forward. I catch thuds and snaps in amidst the symphony of agony drawing me towards a dark alley.

I stalk towards the fight, my family by my side, and round the corner. I catch a maelstrom of scents— the musk of Duskland werewolves, the sharp scent of blood, the sting of silver.

For a moment, I think the men are fighting amongst themselves. There's a crowd of them all jostling and shoving one another, and I see contorted bodies lying on the ground with shards of silver sticking out their necks. One of the unmoving bodies I recognise as Sebastian— the Duskland beta's fated and a royal pain in my ass. He was always picking fights and stirring trouble, believing himself invincible. It seems he's finally started a fight he cannot win. Crimson splatters stain the cobbles. A whole lot of chaos is crushed into the small alleyway.

And then I see him. A whirl of a man.

A firecracker holds his own against the hoard of werewolves— Seb's lackeys. He's all slashes and furious, electric eyes— not a werewolf, but a force to be reckoned with regardless.

A newcomer fighting back. An innocent person in danger.

My only goal in that moment, as the others rush into the fight to draw Duskland's focus away from him, is to get the man out of harm's way. He's probably already seen something incriminating, if Lachlan, Kay and Matteo's wolves aren't proof enough of something supernatural as they snarl and tear into their rivals. It'll be a logistical nightmare to clear up, but at least he'll still be breathing. He won't become another of Duskland's victims.

I won't allow it. They've already taken so much from me.

So I stalk through the chaos straight for him, trusting the others to keep the way as clear as they can. They are my best fighters, after all, my closest confidants, and I trust my life in their capable hands.

Fury flickers in my golden eyes.

The Duskland werewolves turn on us with exclamations of rage, fists flying, their prey forgotten. Beau and Morgan throw themselves into the fight, darting and weaving like dancers against their disordered ferocity. Lachlan, Matteo and Kay's wolves leap up to crush them against walls or the ground, or else bite at their heels and legs to trip them up right into Morgan and Beau's waiting fists. Blood splatters across my face.

It's chaos, but I only have eyes for the firecracker.

He watches me approach with narrowed eyes glinting silver, his fist clenched around the hilt of a bloodied knife in preparation of another fight. He's hurt — there's a deep slash in his blood-soaked hoodie right across his chest — but he doesn't seem to notice. Every shred of his attention is fixated upon me.

He needs to leave, to find some form of sanctuary until this fight is over.

"I need you to get out of here," I say, raising my voice to be heard above the carnage of grunts and shouts. "Right now."

A fleeting expression of disbelief tugs at his features— a look that screams are you kidding me, right now?

"And how exactly can I do that?" he retorts, his voice as sharp as the knife he wields.

I'm about to answer when my focus darts to a sudden movement on my right— a Duskland werewolf rushing for him.

Fuck, they don't give up easily.

Within the moment, acting on pure instinct and adrenaline, I shove him against the wall, wrestle him into a headlock, and twist sharply.

As I toss his limp form to the ground, I turn back to the man. Determined, this time, to get him out before any more chaos can find us. "Follow me—"

But chaos has slipped past the net once more. Duskland are relentless.

Another is already upon him. Horror twists my gut and sends ice hissing down my spine, but just as I rush forwards, he disarms the werewolf with remarkable efficiency and an almost nonchalant edge. He makes it look as easy as breathing as he kicks the werewolf to his knees, hauls him under control, and wrenches his head back by his hair to press the knife against his neck.

My rescue attempt has faltered and, as the fight draws to a bloody close all around, I can only stare.

The werewolf struggles, gasping on pleads, his eyes blazing golden terror.

In a sharp movement, and with not a shred of hesitation, the man slashes his knife, sending a spray of crimson splattering across the cobbles. The werewolf slumps uselessly to the ground. Empty, glassy eyes stare vaguely up at the dark sky, his mouth parted with a silent plead.

And just like that, the fight is over. A silence thick with tension hangs over the alley.

Once I've checked on my pack for injury, I can't help studying him closely, too. His pinched brows, his eyes of silver flames, the blood splatters obscuring sharp, elegant features. He's beautiful. Deadly, most definitely a hunter, and potentially plotting my death even as I study him, but he's gorgeous.

In the back of my head, my wolf gives a little thump of his tail, his ears pricking with intrigue. He presses forward, his senses becoming mine.

Courtesy of his attention, I catch a wave of heightened scents; the heady, metallic smell of fresh blood, the sharp sting of silver, and lurking beneath it, echoes of woodland after dark. It's a pleasant scent that grasps at every shred of my attention. One that has my wolf yipping with recognition, his tail whipping side to side.

My brows raise a little at his clear joy. Realisation is dancing just beyond my grasp. I'm too ruffled from the fight to lend much focus to his antics. For some reason, he's not nearly as alarmed by this hunter as he should be, and I find that neither am I, for reasons too complex to even consider right now.

He's holding a knife, with several more buried in the exposed necks of his fallen enemies, and his fierce glare is fixed on me, and yet I'm caught in open admiration.

With the fight at a brutal end, Beau and Morgan find their way to my side and the wolves aren't far behind them, shaking off the excess adrenaline and pacing. I assess the damage, puzzle pieces fitting together in my head. Bodies lie contorted and covered in blood. Knives and throwing blades — all of them silver — stick out of vulnerable necks.

As Beau and Morgan check on one another, my gaze finds the dark-haired man once more, taking note of his rising apprehension. He backs up, breathing heavily, his lithe form tensed against invisible blows, the knife in his steely grip dripping with blood.

I never thought I'd come this close to a hunter without earning a knife in my gut. And yet, I never thought a hunter could look so... broken.

It's clear in his features, tight with lurking tension, and in his eyes. I can practically see ghosts stirring behind that piercing silver glare. Though he holds himself poised and ready, there's a slump to his shoulders that seems almost defeated.

He's hurting, and I don't think it's just the scratch across his chest.

"Are you alright?" The question slips out as my gaze drops once more to his obvious injury.

Warily, he assesses himself, but nothing seems to alarm him quite as much as we do. His attention is quick to dart back to us, as though he expects us to lunge the moment his focus is divided.

Beau steps up close beside me. "Hold on," he manages. "Is he—?"

His question is an obvious one. The sharp, stinging scent of silver hangs in the air, and no mere untrained human would have such an accurate aim.

"I believe so," I admit, still caught up in my own study of the hunter. "Where are the others?"

For some reason, the question seems to — for lack of a better phrase — raise his hackles. His grip on the knife tightens, his glare becomes an inferno, and tension seems to crackle in the air between us.

"There are no others," Morgan muses, turning towards the mouth of the alley. "They'd be here by now."

I hum. She's right, of course. If there's one thing hunters have in common with werewolves, it's their desire to move in groups. But here he is, in the midst of chaos, and no one has rushed to his aid.

He's alone.

And for some reason, even despite his hostile expression, his poised posture, his glinting knife and piercing glare, even despite every inch of him seeping with danger and malice, I can't find it in myself to fear him.

In fact, I look at him and all I can see are the fraying edges of his fury. The cracks in his hostility. Something awfully close to sorrow seeps through those cracks, and suddenly all I want is to get him out of harm's way. To take him somewhere safe.

My wolf yips in symphony, his eagerness like a fizzing cloud in the back of my head. Yes, he insists. Keep him safe.

"What's your name?"

Silence. Wariness. His posture does not waver and the knife stays steady in his grip.

"We won't hurt you. So long as you don't hurt us, that is." I try once more to appeal to him, to prove we're not as bloodthirsty as Duskland. I idly kick the arm of a fallen werewolf out of my path. Look, I'm not one of them, I'm not a threat to you.

I stare into his eyes and I can almost see the balance of this precious land tipping in our favour. He doesn't know it, but by killing Seb, he's inadvertently done me a favour, and I intend to repay it. My mother always said not to let a debt go unpaid, and my father always said alliances are the foundations of a successful pack.

So I take a step into the unknown and hope I don't get a knife in my neck for it.

"Do we have a truce?"

– ➶ –

As I emerge into the lounge after showing the wary hunter — River — to the bathroom, Lachlan turns to give me an incredulous look.

"Have you lost your mind?" he asks pleasantly.

The question doesn't surprise me. Leading an armed hunter into the heart of my home was reckless, but I can't shake the feeling that it's the right thing to do.

He's hurt and I have the resources to check him over. I couldn't leave him alone back there. I wouldn't leave one of my own injured and bleeding, and I wouldn't leave him, either. It's not in my nature to turn my back on someone who needs help.

Even if River didn't ask for help, the very fact he stowed his weapons and agreed to come with us tells me that he's in need of support.

"He's hurt, Lach," I say in return. "If he wanted to attack us, he wouldn't have followed us. He's vulnerable here and he knows it, but he came anyway. That has to mean something."

My gamma hums, not entirely convinced. "I hope you know what you're doing."

I sigh, wandering towards the sofa. I don't sit down, though. I'm too restless after the fight. Instead, I skirt round it and study the empty room from a slight vantage. The empty hallways. Silence hangs in the air.

It's strange for the pack house to be so empty, but it's necessary. River had been almost dripping with suspicion and even getting his name was difficult. I'd rather not risk his wrath by forcing him into close proximity with even more werewolves. He's on edge enough with just us.

Approaching footsteps alert me to Morgan's entrance. She's got her kit in the crook of her arm — a bag of all her medical supplies — and strides for the coffee table. Without preamble, she sets it down and rifles through it, preparing to see to River's injuries.

"I don't think he'll like this," she tells me.

"Thanks, Mor. It's worth a try."

For a while, we wait in silence; Lachlan staring attentively out the window, Morgan checking her supplies, my own attention locked on the hallway leading to the bathroom.

It's not long before I hear the front door click open then shut, and Beau comes loping into the room, glaring playfully at me for ever daring to assign him to cleaning duty. "Morgan, love, you might have to check Ro's brain. Something's not right up there."

"Maybe it's all the silver making him delusional," she muses in return, her lips twitching with a smile as she leaves her bag alone to idly pace before the hearth.

"Our mother hen's become too motherly. He's taking in all sorts, now."

"I took you in, didn't I?" I retort lightly.

"Touché," Beau says with a grin, crossing his arms and resting his hip against the edge of the sofa opposite. "But I wasn't armed with silver, was I?"

"Are you sure about this, Ro?" Lachlan asks me, his brows pinched with discomfort. Humour fizzles out in the air before it reaches him, and our light mood drops a few degrees. I know they're all on edge with a hunter only a few rooms over, and I wish I had the words to explain why I decided to bring him home.

All I know is I looked into those silver eyes of his and, beneath the disguise of danger, I saw a silent cry for help.

"I'm sure. I need you to trust me on this. Can you do that for me?"

At once, their cautious attitudes simmer into something serious and seeping with devotion. With certain nods and words of assent, they settle down.

"Of course we trust you," Morgan tells me. "It's just— what if he tries something?"

Restless with wariness, and knowing she's minutes from giving first-aid to a hunter if he doesn't make a run for it, she falters to sort through her medical bag as though to double-check the contents.

"He won't. Not yet, anyway," I try and convince her with an effortless shrug as I brace my hands against the back of the sofa.

In truth, I have no clue what River's plan is.

He could be a scout learning the layout of this rivalry between us and Duskland, gleaning all he can from us before running back to the rest of his hunters and planning an attack.

Once more, my thoughts flicker back to his defeated, broken aura back in the alleyway, hidden behind a mask of malice. His hesitance to follow us home. He doesn't look like a man whose plan is working perfectly— in fact, he reminds me of a stray cat wary of aid after a long and difficult life, not knowing whether the hand I'm offering is genuine or a trick. He looks as though life has chewed him up and spat him right into this mess of a rivalry.

If I can get River to trust me — even a little — I can offer him sanctuary from the mess with Duskland. A hunter is one hell of an ally, after all. Especially one who killed Seb alongside most of his men and came out of that brutal fight with barely a scratch. Perhaps we can help one another.

"Maybe you've gone mad," Beau ponders, crossing his arms and taking a seat on the sofa's arm. He narrows his eyes at me, idly scrutinising, as though he'll be able to read my thoughts if he tries hard enough. He catches Morgan's gaze and the two of them share a meaningful glance in a language no one else can decipher.

In support, Lachlan hums, his focus divided between me and the woodland outside— perhaps checking for any more lurking hunters.

This time, I catch a flicker of humour instead of concern, and I latch onto it, determined to reassure them.

I roll my eyes lightheartedly. "Maybe I have," I allow, wandering around the sofa to fall onto it with a sigh. How can I explain it to them? How can I explain leaving him simply wasn't an option for reasons I can't even begin to understand? "But I couldn't just leave him there. He's hurt, and he's alone, and he's scared. We all know what that's like."

My words have the desired effect. The only reason we're all in this room together is because we've shared in life's hardships. An alpha title passed down too early, a rogue wolf's damning bite, a rivalry gone wrong, a pack at arm's length, pushing away. We've all felt like that— lost, and defeated, and feeling as though there's no place for us. But we found one another, helped one another through it, and I'll be damned if I leave River to suffer alone. Hunter or not.

Hackles falling soft and wariness seeping through their fingers, Lachlan, Morgan and Beau all settle onto the free sofa.

"He's got good aim," Lachlan reminds me, no doubt thinking of the throwing blades in the necks of those fallen Duskland werewolves. The pile of bodies River dealt with before we even stepped foot in that alley to help.

"I've got fast reflexes," I return, making Beau snort and Morgan roll her eyes lightly.

"If your rivals are the Duskland pack—" River's voice makes us all flinch and whip round to face the hallway— "what do you call yourselves?"

He appears to have manifested from thin air. Not a sound or creak of a floorboard, yet there he is. Stood in the archway leading into the hall, my jumper clutched in his hands, his brows knitted with confusion.

Relief surges through me. He could've ran, but he hasn't. That has to mean something.

"Fucking hell," Beau all but gasps. His hand leaps to his chest as though he's a startled damsel. "How long have you been there?"

An echo of a smile touches the hunter's lips— and for some reason, the sight is a scorching sun sending all shadows of doubt retreating.

My gaze drifts over his form appreciatively. I was right. My clothes fit him well. My focus lingers on his exposed arms; an interconnected web of lightning mars his pale skin like old scar tissue. Lichtenberg figures, I muse, except for the symbols lurking in those tangled vines.

"Is there a problem?" he demands, his voice making my eyes dart back up to his face where a scowl tugs at his features— all traces of that smile gone.

I clear my throat and adjust myself in my seat, trying hard to maintain some semblance of peace beneath his scrutinising stare. No staring at the markings— got it.

"No problem," I try and pacify. What did he ask, again? I can't think straight beneath his close attention, and my wolf pacing restlessly in the back of my head doesn't help. "We call ourselves the Crescent Moon pack."

Once more, following a will of its own, my gaze darts down to study those markings briefly.

He's not like any hunter I've ever known. His eyes are a shock of silver, his skin is covered in symbols and lightning; a strangely archaic display. He survived an attack from Seb and his lackeys— twelve men, at least, and each of them deadly in their own right. Not only did he survive it, but he got out with barely a scratch.

Wherever he came from, and whatever those markings mean, I expect River is more than a mere person dabbling in the hunt for my kind. He appears as though the very word hunter was carved in his image.

"What are those?" Beau asks innocently. Within the instant, Lachlan and Morgan both give his arms a sharp warning hit. Don't provoke him, their glares say. "Ow—!"

I wince a little at the question, not wanting it to scare River off. "I know you say you're fine—" I begin, hoping to establish a little bit of trust.

"And I am," he insists.

"—But Morgan here is our..."How to word this... "I guess you would say pack doctor. She can take a look at you, if you're comfortable with that—"

The words have barely left my mouth when he retreats a step, horror sparking in his eyes. "She's not coming anywhere near me."

Realising I've overstepped, I melt a little into my seat, a weary sigh rushing from me. "We're not going to hurt you," I tell him, hoping that if I say it enough times, he'll start to believe me. "Actually, I was hoping we could come to some sort of... agreement. If you're willing."

"Agreement," he echoes. The word sounds thick in his mouth, as though the mere idea is foreign to him.

There's nothing for it.

I stand up and absently stretch before wandering ever so slowly and carefully towards him. It's a shot in the dark, but nothing else is working.

Though Morgan, Beau and Lach are quiet, I feel the heat of their attention. The air seems to crackle with tension.

River watches me approach, his piercing eyes narrowed in clear suspicion. Though his form is tensed up and poised like a snake ready to bite, he doesn't back away. He holds his ground.

I stop before him, cross my arms, and lean against the wall— pouring assurance into every movement. I'm not a threat to you. Please believe me.

For one, blissful moment, I study him. My first impression of beauty is only reinforced. His black hair is all tousled and damp from the shower, and his eyes are fixed on me with shocking intensity. Sharp, ethereal features are tugged into an idle frown and his form is lithe and tensed against a looming fight. Even with the blood gone, he gives off a dangerous yet graceful aura; a panther in hesitant repose.

The breath I take is a haze of peace made manifest— all rain-soaked grass and moonlit trails. With the distracting blood and silver scents gone — mostly — I'm struck by a cloud of bliss. It grabs hold of every shred of my attention and sharply tugs. Holy shit.

The euphoria of his scent nearly floors me, and somehow I manage to keep some composure. Certainty lights every nerve in my body. In symphony, my wolf yips and howls with joy. I knew I smelt something, he insists. He's the one. He's our fated.

I stare into River's eyes and I know it like I know my own soul. I'd take on the world to protect him, to keep him safe, to have him by my side.

And then he glares at me, startling me from that fog of devotion. "What do you mean, agreement?" he snaps, hauling me right back to clarity. Mistrust lights his silver eyes like an inferno.

Well, shit. A suspicious hunter for a fated. This ought to be interesting.