Blood, Wolves, and Boundaries

Blood drips from my nose in warm, steady pulses, and for a second I honestly can't tell if it's just a split lip kind of bleed or if I've actually broken it.

Then Mike smirks, and I know it's the broken kind of proud.

"You are such a—" I wipe under my nostrils and stare at the red on my glove. "You absolute prick."

"Language," he says, like he didn't just clip me with a perfect elbow.

I lunge.

My fist connects with his shoulder, then his ribs, then I grab his shirt and use his momentum against him the way Dad taught us when we were ten and too small to do real damage. Mike stumbles, surprised, and I don't give him the mercy of a reset. I drive him back again—harder this time—until he hits the wall with a grunt and slides down onto the exercise mat.

"Damn," he mutters, rolling onto his back and patting himself down like he's checking for fractures. "Okay. That one had feelings."

I breathe through my mouth, because my nose is still bleeding and I refuse to pinch it like some delicate human girl in a teen drama. "You hit my face."

"You walked into my elbow."

"I did not."

Mike sits up, dark hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, his mouth curved like he's about to say something stupid. He's bigger than me by a good few inches, and stronger in the obvious, visible ways. He's also the next Beta—officially trained, officially tested, officially annoying about it.

Michael Evans. Mike, when he's not being introduced as the future Beta of the Crescent Moon Pack.

He lifts his brows. "Come here, Cat. I'll kiss the pain away."

I snort. "You're an ass."

"Love you too, KitCat."

I hate that nickname. I've hated it since I was fifteen, which apparently only made my family love it more. Mike proves it by leaning forward and lightly kicking my shin while I'm busy trying to decide if my nose is crooked.

I glare at him. "Do that again and I'll knock your teeth into your throat."

His grin turns wicked. "Promises, promises."

Behind my eyes, June stretches like a cat waking from a nap.

He deserved that, she says, sounding pleased with herself.

I swallow a laugh and wince because it pulls at the ache across my face. He always deserves it.

June hums. We're still winning.

We are, technically. But Mike's sharper these days. Not stronger—just... better trained. Beta training is a privilege and a responsibility. And an annoying advantage when your older brother has been drilled in strategy and control while you've been drilled in "try not to kill each other in the basement."

I'm Catherine Evans. Cat to everyone who knows me. KitCat to my family, because apparently they're incapable of letting go of anything cute and humiliating. I turned eighteen earlier this year—and finally got to shift into my wolf.

June.

She's sassy, stubborn, and terrifyingly proud of herself. We fit together like two blades in the same sheath.

Dad's boots sound on the wooden stairs before he appears in the doorway, arms crossed, expression carved from stone. David Evans. The Beta of Crescent Moon. The man who raised his children like we were half soldiers and half wild animals.

His gaze sweeps over me—blood, bruising, the angle of my nose—and then to Mike on the mat. "Outside," he barks. "Both of you. Shift and heal."

Mike makes a face. "My ribs are fine."

Dad's expression doesn't change. "Outside. And do it before your mother comes home, because I'm not listening to her complain all evening that I'm an irresponsible parent."

Mike's grin returns, softer this time. "Yes, sir."

I press my palm to my nose, trying to stop the bleeding. "It's fine."

Dad's eyes narrow. "Cat."

I hate that I still react to that tone.

We head out the back door into the cold Montana air, the edge of the forest pressing close to our property like it's listening. The packhouse sits nearby—big, solid, built for gatherings and politics and rules. Our house is separate, because we're a big family and my dad likes having space between work and home even if work is always in his bones.

When Mike becomes Beta, he'll move into the Beta apartment at the packhouse. He acts like it's a promotion to king. I think it sounds like living inside a meeting.

June prowls at the edge of my thoughts. Shift. Let me fix it.

Not here, I answer, because the yard is open and even though we're on pack land, privacy matters to me.

Mike glances at me as we reach the treeline. "You okay?"

I hate that my throat tightens.

I hate that I love him—hate how it turns me soft.

"I'm fine."

He bumps my shoulder gently. "You got me good."

"You deserved it," June and I say at the exact same time.

Mike laughs, and we shift.

It's always the same—bones rearranging, skin stretching, the world turning sharper. My wolf form is bigger than most females in the pack, built for power. An Alpha wolf. Pure and dominant. June stands tall in my limbs, ears forward, eyes bright.

Mike's wolf is a Beta with Alpha traits. Sleek, strong, controlled. He shakes out his fur and gives me a look that says, still want round two?

I bare my teeth and he chuffs, amused.

We don't fight again. We run, because movement is better than violence when the blood is already drying on my face and the itch under my skin has been scratched. We loop the perimeter of our land, scent-marking out of habit. The pack's territory is familiar, safe, threaded through with the smells of family and home.

Eventually, the ache in my nose fades to a dull throb, then disappears. Healing always feels like relief and victory at the same time.

Back inside, I shift in the bathroom and stand under the shower until the water runs clear and hot and my muscles stop humming with leftover adrenaline. I pull off sweaty clothes and start humming "Cry to Me" under my breath.

From downstairs, Mom's voice carries like she's standing right beside me.

"Cat! Come down after your shower. We have to plan for the mating ball."

My whole body deflates.

"Fuck," I sigh.

"I heard that, Catherine Evans!"

I roll my eyes at the ceiling. "Enhanced wolf hearing," I mutter.

June snickers. You're doomed.

My mother, Sarah Evans, has spent my whole life trying to sand down my edges. She calls it "helping me be more feminine," like being a girl is a narrow hallway with rules and I keep smashing the walls.

She once tried to recruit our Luna, Diana, to "make a lady out of me."

They gave up.

Thank the Goddess.

I finish my shower, pull on comfortable clothes, and drag myself downstairs like I'm heading to my own execution.

Because a mating ball is exactly that, in a prettier dress.

And Mom is waiting.