Noah and the Wolves

Noah's POV

I'm running.

Okay, not literally, but my body is tense, my pulse hammering and my steps quick as I make my way out of the stadium to the parking lot, clutching Oliver close to my chest.

I shouldn't be reacting like this.

I shouldn't be shaken.

But my heart feels like it's been scraped raw, and no matter how hard I try to push down the aching, I can't ignore what I saw. I can't unsee it. Logan and Elliot. Together.

They were all over each other—no, that's unfair. They were just talking, laughing and touching. Y'know, normal, friendly activities. But the sight of them standing so close, of Elliot teasingly placing his hands on Logan's chest, of Logan letting him—

It's too much.

It shouldn't be. It shouldn't matter.

Afterall, I agreed to go on a date with Kieran. I have no reason to care. My obligations to Logan are strictly professional. I'd made that clear. There's a line we aren't supposed to cross and I'm the one that drew that damn line in the sand.

But my chest still feels tight.

I still feel like something was shattering all over again.

Because no matter how much I try to 'unlove' him, no matter how often I think I've purged Logan from my system, he keeps crawling back like the dirt beneath my nails. And my instincts are in contradiction with logic. My wolf doesn't understand.

Finnian is silent, which is worse than if she were growling. She's heartbroken all over again, that quiet, heavy sort of sadness that only a wolf without her mate can feel. Fenrir is gone and we're still searching for him but Logan has the audacity to…

I grit my teeth, shaking my head like I can physically dislodge the thoughts. He can do whatever the hell he wants. Who cares? It didn't matter to me when he was about to hook up with some stranger in a bar and sure, that didn't work out but the point is that I was okay with it.

'It's different,' Fenrir whines and grief floods me all over again.

Yeah, sure it is. If Logan runs off with a complete stranger, that's fine. I can detach. I can close my eyes and pretend like I'm happy for them until I actually am. But Elliot… he's like a brother to me. I'd see them all the time; kissing in the dugout and sharing long, heated glances in the locker room. Just like me and Logan used to. I'd be the best man at their wedding, the one standing behind Elliot while I watch the man who gave me everything and left me with nothing get away all over again. All because he's with Elliot.

…Elliot, my best friend.

My stomach twists.

Bros before hoes, my ass.

I swallow hard. I'm spiraling, my thoughts tangling into something messy and painful, something I don't have time for. I'm getting ahead of myself. The wedding bells haven't started ringing…

Yet.

I need to get out of here.

Oliver tugs at my shirt, his voice soft and confused. "Papa, no baseball?"

Shit.

I look down at him, at his wide blue eyes—Logan's eyes. He looks so much like him sometimes it's suffocating.

I force a smile. "I'm sorry, my prince. Not this time."

His little face scrunches in a frown. "Papa crying."

I blink. I lift a hand to my cheek and—fuck. He's right.

I wipe the tears away viciously, shaking my head. "I'm not," I lie, but Oliver just looks at me like he knows better.

"Papa sad?" he presses, his tiny brows furrowed. "Guy make Papa sad?"

I inhale sharply.

It's not Logan. It's me. I'm the one who needs to get my shit together.

I pinch his nose gently, forcing a chuckle. "I'm fine, little bug. Promise."

Oliver doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Instead, he leans forward and presses a soft, clumsy kiss to my cheek.

It wrecks me.

I exhale shakily. "You're too good for me, y'know that?"

Oliver just wriggles in my arms, motioning to be put down. I picked him up to make our hasty retreat out of Logan's line of sight but he's always been independent like that. Always wanting to walk and run about on his own, even when a few odd steps send him tumbling down. I set him on his feet, holding his hand as we continue toward the car.

"We'll play baseball tomorrow," I promise. "Let's go home."

His tiny hand grips my finger as I lead him towards the car and he toddles beside me. He's fascinated by the lines in the pavement and I'm distracted by him. My miracle. My sanity.

Who cares what Logan does? Who cares who he's with? Not me! As long as Oliver and I are together, everything will be okay. Everything will be—

The fine hairs at the back of my neck rise.

The atmosphere thickens with something heavy, something wrong.

I slow my steps. My grip on Oliver tightens.

I smell them before I see them.

And when I do, my stomach drops.

Three distinct figures loiter near the edge of the parking lot, lingering in the shadows between the flickering streetlights. The scent hits me like a warning—wolves, but not pack wolves.

They smell like blood and desperation. Anger and despair under thick layers of sweat.

Rogues.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

One of them lifts his head, and I catch the glow of his cigarette, the cherry illuminating his sharp features for a brief second before he exhales a thick plume of smoke.

He's watching me.

I pick Oliver up again, and my boy lets out a small noise of protest.

I whisper, urgently, "You've got to be quiet for me, bug. Please."

Oliver senses my distress and his little fingers curl into my shirt as he presses his face into my shoulder, going still. I'm so proud of him for being obedient but I can't focus on that now.

The men have started walking toward me.

I see the glint of a knife.

The breath rushes from my lungs.

Pure, ice-cold fear grips me. I do the calculations in my head, fast.

My car is only a few feet away. I could run to it but by the time I get it open and start up the engine, we'd be goners. I could shift. It'll be a huge trouble with law enforcement if sightings of Finnian on the road are reported but I can explain to them. They'll understand. Right?

I glance back over my shoulder. I could run back to the stadium. Get help. Call Lo—

"Must be tricky shifting with a kid in your arm," one of them calls out, his tone lazy, taunting. "Be smart, omega. You can't outrun three Alphas, especially not with that kid."

I freeze.

Now that they're close, I can finally smell it on them.

The scent of fur and sweat, of something… vile beneath the surface. The faint, bitter scent laced with chemical sharpness. A memory surfaces at the back of my mind; a rainy night, an empty road. My mother, screaming. Me, too young to understand why she's crying blood.

Virilite.

The scars run up and down their arms like vines.

They've been suppressed before.

Rogues. Ex-cons. Dangerous ones.

"What do you want?" I ask, voice tight.

Oliver stirs against my chest, sensing the tension. "Papa?"

"Not now, bug," I murmur, keeping my eyes locked on the men. I try to keep my voice steady as I continue, "I have money. You can take my car, my phone."

The man with the cigarette smiles, revealing a gold tooth lodged in the corner of his mouth. "That's a good start. I'm glad we could reach a reasonable agreement."

Using my free hand, I toss over my keys and rummage through my pockets for my wallet. The man with the gold tooth smokes and watches me carefully as I produce my wallet and my phone. I toss the items to one of his men.

Gold tooth— their leader—tilts his head. "I have a kid too, y'know."

I swallow hard. "Really?"

"Yeah," he exhales smoke into the night. "Can't see her, though. Fragile cops decided to fuck with me. Pushed me until I shifted, then arrested me for 'baring fangs against a human.' Got an extra charge cuz they were cops. Pack abandoned me, said I brought shame to their name and cops to our door. Mate rejected me. You know what that feels like, omega? Do you know how painful it is to lose that mate bond? To lose your family?"

I swallow hard, forcing down the bile that has risen at the back of my throat. I do. I know that pain. But at least I still have my son.

I fought through the hurt and loneliness all for him and I can't imagine how I would've ended up if I wasn't pregnant.

And that's why it hurts when I say, "I'm sorry that happened to you."

The man blows a puff of smoke into the air and says, "Yeah, it sucks. And to think we used to be the gods of those fucking Fragiles before that treaty."

The treaty. The one that finally stopped the age old war between humans and supernaturals, the one that created the shaky utopia that is our society. I'm too young to remember how things were before the 'live and let live' peace between humans and non-humans started. But I do know that it's because of the treaty that the Paranormal Athletic Committee was founded.

Non-human royals and representatives and human politicians believed that sports was a good way to usher in a new era of peace. And they were right. Logan used to say, 'We dance like monkeys, they throw us money and no one has blood on their hands.' As long as everyone does their part, no one has to get hurt…

That's a lie.

The treaty isn't perfect. The agreement is overwhelmingly in the favour of humans and human authorities overstep their boundaries all the time knowing they have Virilite in their pockets. It's a powerful suppressant that makes supernaturals no more powerful than humans. A painful one that ruins our bodies and breaks our minds. I don't know how humans managed to engineer that demon of a drug. All I know it's that it's killed more supernaturals than the media is willing to report.

It doesn't matter what you are: Werewolf, Vampire, Fae, Siren, Werepanther. As long as you're not human, the Virilite will…

My gaze is drawn to the horrible sewed up hole where Gold Tooth's left cheek should be.

He catches my gaze, grins and points at the scar. "I got this when I bit my own cheek out screaming," he says, casually. "Virilite's a bitch. Can't say I wanna end up back in custody and under that nasty stuff again but with no pack and no mate, I might as well be good as dead."

If he's being honest, he's a product of a society that's failed but refuses to acknowledge its failure. A hole in the wall patched up with duck tape and painted over. And I'm sorry for him, I really am. I just hope my pity keeps my son and I alive.

"I'm sorry," I repeat.

The man's grin drops. My pity doesn't mean Jack shit.

The man's grin drops.

"I'm sorry too," He steps closer, voice dropping into something cold. "Because I just now realised that an omega like you would fetch a nice price on the black market."

Every muscle in my body locks up. Bile floods my mouth.

The two men flank me. Oliver is sobbing silently into my collar. Finnian is barking at me. Begging me to move. But I can't.

"Grab 'im."

"No!" I shout.

Oliver screams as one of the rogues wrenches him from my arms. He thrashes, kicking and sobbing, but the man holds tight.

My son.

MY SON.

Whatever inhibitions about shifting I had melt away. I can feel my nails lengthening into claws as I shift— or I try to.

Pain.

A white-hot, sickeningly sharp pain tears through my arm as a blade plunges into my flesh.

The world tilts.

I cry out, vision swimming, my knees almost buckling. The wound burns, the silver laced into the metal sending searing agony through my veins.

I hear Oliver screaming. I hear the man holding him shout, "The fucker bit me!"

I fight through the pain, forcing my eyes open, desperate to get to him—

He's kicking and screaming. I need to move. I need to protect my baby but my body drops to the ground. "No…"

Gold Tooth barks, "Shut that brat up! He'll be worth a fortune an—"

His sentence is cut short as a fist slams into his jaw with the force of a freight train.

Blood spurts from his mouth.

The other rogues freeze.

I lift my head, my pulse pounding in my ears.

And standing there, fist still clenched, chest heaving, eyes burning with something the fury of hell itself—

Is Logan.