The Enemy’s Hand

Blood burned down Aiden’s shoulder.

He staggered as the first rogue drove him back against the brick wall, claws raking deep enough to tear flesh. Pain flared hot, but he shoved forward, catching the wolf with a punch to the ribs. Another rogue came from the left, slamming his elbow into Aiden’s gut hard enough to make him choke on his breath.

Four against one. Too many. Too fast.

He ducked under a swipe, spun, and rammed his knee into a wolf’s stomach. The rogue wheezed but didn’t fall. Another grabbed Aiden’s arm, twisting until his shoulder screamed. He ripped free, teeth clenched against a shout of pain. His wolf clawed at him from inside, demanding to be unleashed. But shifting here, in human streets, meant exposure. Cameras. Headlines. Disaster.

One of the rogues laughed, the sound harsh. “The Blackthorn pup bleeds easy.”

Aiden bared his teeth. “Come and see how easy I kill.”

He lunged, rage fueling him. His fist cracked against the rogue’s jaw, but claws slashed his side in return. He staggered, chest heaving, vision dimming.

Too many. He wasn’t going to last.

The rogue leader grinned, moving in for the final blow—

—and was yanked back, slammed into the wall with bone-rattling force.

Another wolf spun, only to be kicked across the alley.

A blur of motion, all sharp lines and golden fire.

Dante.

Aiden froze, disbelief tangling with fury. His rival moved like wildfire, precise and brutal, every strike cutting down the rogues with terrifying efficiency. He grabbed one by the collar and slammed his head into the pavement, then spun to drive a kick into another’s ribs.

Shock held Aiden a beat too long. Then instinct dragged him back into the fight.

Back-to-back, they moved. No plan. No words. Just fists, claws, and years of honed instinct. Aiden ducked as Dante struck, Dante shifted as Aiden countered. Their rhythm was seamless, maddeningly so. Like their wolves recognized each other, even if they refused to.

Minutes stretched like hours, but one by one the rogues dropped, groaning in the gutter.

Silence.

Aiden stumbled against the wall, blood dripping hot down his arm. His chest heaved, every muscle screaming, but he refused to collapse. Across from him, Dante stood steady despite the split lip and torn shirt, golden eyes glowing faint in the dark.

“You’re welcome,” Dante said, voice rough, still infuriatingly amused.

“I didn’t need you.”

“Sure. You were winning so gracefully.” He gestured at the blood soaking Aiden’s shirt. “Admit it, Blackthorn. Without me, you’d be a corpse.”

“I’d rather die than owe you anything.”

Dante stepped closer, smirk curving faint. “Careful. You almost sound like you mean that.”

Aiden’s wolf snarled at the challenge, not in anger—but something sharper, more dangerous.

Before he could retort, more footsteps echoed down the alley. Shadows shifted, shapes multiplying at the far end.

“Shit,” Dante muttered. “We’re too exposed. Come on.”

“I don’t take orders from you.”

“Fine. Stay and die.”

He grabbed Aiden’s arm anyway, dragging him down a side street. Aiden tried to shake him off, but his legs faltered, blood leaving him weak. Against his will, he let Dante lead.

⸻

The warehouse groaned as Dante shoved the doors shut behind them. Dust clouded the air, moonlight slicing through broken windows. The place stank of old oil and rust, but at least it was shelter.

Dante guided him to the wall. “Sit. You’re bleeding too much.”

“I’ll live.”

“Not if you keep being an idiot.”

Dante crouched, tearing a strip from his ruined shirt. He pressed it against the gash at Aiden’s shoulder. Aiden hissed, jerking back. “Don’t touch me.”

Dante’s golden eyes narrowed. “Then bleed out. Your choice.”

Their gazes locked, the air tight between them. For a moment, the fight, the blood, the warehouse—all of it disappeared. There was only the heat of Dante’s hand against his skin, steady and sure, far too careful for a man who claimed to hate him.

Aiden gritted his teeth, letting him press the cloth down. The pain pulsed, sharp and constant. Dante’s jaw was set, his smirk gone, replaced by focus. The sight unsettled Aiden more than the wound.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Aiden muttered, voice tight.

“Of course not,” Dante said softly, almost mocking. “You still hate me. And I…” His eyes flicked down briefly—too briefly—toward Aiden’s mouth before he looked away. “…still enjoy watching you squirm.”

Aiden’s chest tightened. He wanted to shove him off, to spit venom, to break this unbearable closeness. Instead, silence stretched, broken only by their breathing.

Finally, Dante pulled back, knotting the cloth tight around Aiden’s shoulder. His smirk returned, though faint. “There. Try not to get yourself gutted again. I don’t plan on saving your ass twice in one week.”

Aiden scowled. “I didn’t ask you to.”

“You didn’t have to.” Dante leaned back against the opposite wall, settling into the shadows with infuriating ease. “Your eyes said it for you.”

Aiden’s pulse stuttered. He wanted to deny it, but the words tangled in his throat. He turned his face away, pretending to focus on the dripping pipes and broken crates.

The silence pressed in, thick with things unsaid.

⸻

Hours passed.

Aiden dozed, fitful, jerking awake at every creak of the building. Once, he cracked his eyes open and found Dante still awake, sitting cross-legged by the door, watching the shadows.

Golden eyes glowed faintly in the dark, alert, steady. Protector’s eyes.

Aiden stared too long before looking away, anger burning at himself more than at Dante. He should hate him. He did hate him.

So why did his chest feel tight seeing him like that? Why did his wolf pace restlessly, unsettled, as if drawn closer to the one wolf it was supposed to despise?

He clenched his jaw and shut his eyes, willing himself to sleep.

But in the quiet, one truth gnawed at him harder than the pain of his wounds.

He owed Dante his life.

And that terrified him more than the rogues ever could.