Acquittance...

For hours, Fenris's hope has begun to slowly, agonizingly crumble.

The longer the minutes drag on, the clearer it becomes that he is chasing shadows.

They had managed to trace the trophy, only to discover it had been sold just an hour earlier.

Sold and gone. They had missed him again, and the only detail they could scrape from the shopkeeper was that the seller had been a striking young man with pinkish strands of hair.

That same man had told the shopkeeper the trophy was the only thing he had inherited from his late father, and that he couldn't bear to keep it because it reminded him too much of the sorrow he carried.

That it haunted him. That it pulled at memories he was desperate to escape.

He hadn't used a phone. No digital transaction, no traceable payment method. He knew better, likely aware that any slip would make him easy to find. And clearly, Fenris had underestimated him, and now it stung. He thought...

Fenris's hand clenched around the gear shift. His fingers tightened so hard the knuckles whitened, then released, then tightened again, but nothing helped.

The sharp bite of his nails into his palm didn't dull the frustration coursing through him.

So the brat is a liar on top of everything else--he can craft a sob story and wear it like a second skin, make strangers believe it is real.

And yet, despite the sharp edge of Fenris's anger, the moment the shopkeeper started describing the seller's features, Fenris's wolf stirred.

The wolf, which had dulled and withdrawn for some hours since the encounter with the dancer, had snapped to attention, the moment it heard that description.

That single image, half-formed and blurry, had clawed in Fenris's mind. His wolf had surged, pacing inside him, pressing against the walls of his ribs like it wanted out. Wanted to chase.

And Fenris hadn't been able to stop imagining that one image... pinkish strands, fair skin, lips that might've been red or pink or something between... had burned itself into his thoughts.

His mind kept circling back to it, kept building it out even when he didn't want to. Even when he had slammed the door shut on the thought again and again.

But now, even sitting in his parked car beside a dim, empty road, those thoughts haven't left him alone.

If only I had my strength... my instincts... my speed...

His nails dig again into the heel of his palm.

If I had everything that once made me Alpha, I would've found that brat in seconds.

He thinks bitterly.

Here is a clearer version of your passage, preserving your intended meaning exactly:

He hates this, hates being trapped in a car, forced to depend on the car, the slow human movement and dulled senses to hunt someone this slippery, this cautious, this infuriatingly hard to pin down. He grits his teeth.

But what choice does he have?! No wolf speed, no strength, no instincts.

Even after hours of combing the streets, circling the same routes, chasing every faint thread of scent like it might lead somewhere, there's still nothing. Not a single trace.

"It's almost seven o'clock," Jeremy finally mutters from the passenger seat, his voice low and cautious like he is treading on cracked glass.

He clearly feels the tension radiating from Fenris like heat, and he doesn't want to risk setting it off.

"You can go back," Fenris says flatly, eyes still fixed forward.

Jeremy doesn't move right away. He sits still, his hands resting tensely on his knees, like he wants to say something but doesn't know how to begin.

He clearly wants to ask what comes next. What if ten o'clock arrives and Fenris isn't back?

What if the people have already gathered at the pack house, and Callum has taken his place?

But in the end, Jeremy doesn't say a word. He simply nods once, quietly, and gets out of the car. He hesitates for a moment before walking away, like he doesn't want to leave, but he still goes.

For a long while after that, Fenris doesn't move. He stays there in the car, refusing to look at the time, refusing to think about what is happening... what has already happened at the pack house.

Of course this is the end. He thinks bitterly. Of course this is the final blow. He has failed, not just himself, but the entire pack.

Handing it over to Callum isn't even the worst part. It is how everyone now sees him, how they talk in hushed whispers and sidelong glances, how the other Alphas and the officials believe he is just desperate to keep the title.

That he is clinging to power out of pride, not because he still believes he is the one meant to lead.

That he is a liar. That he has deceived everyone. That he is cursed because he actually doesn't have a mate.

And the fact that he might not even return before ten o'clock… that he might simply disappear… only makes him feel like a complete failure.

With no warning, he slams his forehead against the steering wheel, hard enough to draw blood.

A deep throb radiates outward from the spot, and the coppery scent hits his nose.

As an Alpha, that small wound should close within seconds, but it doesn't. The blood continues to bead and drip, the dull ache deepens.

His muscles ache all over. His head pounds. His limbs feel heavy and too hot, like his skin doesn't fit right. Feverish. Dizzy. Weak.

Time slips. He doesn't know how long has passed when his phone finally buzzes with a message. His vision is blurred, but he manages to bring the screen into focus. It is Jeremy.

~"They've sworn Callum in as the Alpha of Blue Moon Pack. The elders and others attended. There's been chaos."

Fenris stares at the message, and his heart gives a slow, painful throb that echoes in his skull.

Later, deep into the night when the pain and bleeding doesn't stop, he finally steps out of the car to look for some pain killers as much as he hates it because it makes him feel human.

The streets are quieter now, thinned out, the city still alive but hushed beneath the late hour.

Lights blur through his vision as he staggers toward a pharmacy sign glowing dimly in the dark.

The moment he pushes through the door, a scent hits him so suddenly, so violently familiar, that it nearly knocks the breath from his lungs.

It strikes his senses like a slap, dragging him upright with a jolt. His heart stutters and his wolf rears.

It feels like flowers left too long in the sun have just tasted rain, life returns in an instant. Something buried and dulled inside him surges to the surface, bright and wild.

He braces himself against the doorframe, his gaze sweeps the narrow space until it lands on a figure standing at the far counter.

The figure is so similar to the one he has chased in his mind, again and again, now real, right there... Pinkish hair, the unmistakable height.

He is swallowing medicine, tipping water from a plastic bottle into his mouth, phone pressed to his ear.

When he turns, when his profile is visible, the unmistakable pretty face, but also disappointment on his face is unmistakable.

"I've already paid the money you asked for the first time! Why are you adding the price?!" he snaps loudly, too loudly, the frustration crackling in his voice. "Hello?! Helloo?!"

He stares at his phone in disbelief for a moment, then rage twists across his features and he throws the device to the floor.

It shatters, the pieces bouncing and skidding, and he storms forward, his voice cutting sharply through the quiet shop.

"You dare hang up on me, you crazy bastard!" he shouts, his foot smashing down on the phone.

He marches toward the door, but just as he passes, Fenris reaches out and grabs his wrist.