If he allowed them to usher him into a dead-end street or somewhere desolate, he’d be in a world of pain. Wolves weren’t known to hold back, and he didn’t think these would listen to an apology.
Cecil had grown up in the system, he knew bullies when he saw them. The only reason he was alive today was because the social workers hadn’t known he was a shifter—they didn’t know shifters existed. Had they placed him in a wolf pack or in a bear community they’d have killed him. He had none of the extra strength most shifters had. He was small, slim, and weak. It made him an easy target, something they’d figured out once he’d turned eighteen and was thrown out on the streets.
All he wanted was to blend in with the humans, work, and paint. They could have their empires and pack hierarchies, he wanted nothing of it.