Collision course

The days that followed blurred into a repetitive loop of cleaning, healing, and avoiding Ryker.

I kept my head down, hands busy scrubbing the massive house from end to end. I found comfort in routines—changing sheets, dusting old paintings, sorting through Emma’s endless kitchen orders. But I could still feel his eyes on me.

Always watching.

Always there.

He wasn’t like Will, whose soft eyes made your pulse slow, or like Eric, whose friendly teasing made you feel human again. No—Ryker's presence was pressure. A force. Like gravity.

On the fourth day, it started with a summons.

No knock. No explanation. Just Will finding me mid-dishwashing.

"Alpha wants to see you. Now."

I wiped my hands and followed him through the hallways, heart thumping. The last time Ryker summoned me, I ended up half-dead on the forest floor.

Eric gave me a reassuring nudge at the door.

“Don’t worry. He’s not in full beast mode today,” he smirked.

That did absolutely nothing to calm me.

I knocked once, soft and hesitant.

"Come in," came Ryker’s familiar grunt.

He was standing by the window, arms folded, jaw clenched. His dark hair was damp, as always, and his scent—wood smoke and danger—hit me like a punch.

"You took your sweet time," he said, not turning around.

I stepped in, quiet. "You called."

He finally turned. Those icy eyes pinned me down like daggers. “There’s a rogue problem at the southern border. I’m taking a scouting team. You’re coming.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You heard me. You shifted. That means you fight.”

“I—I don’t know how to fight,” I admitted, shame lacing every word.

“Then you’ll learn,” he snapped. “You don’t get to be a stray in this pack. You pull your weight, or you get dragged down.”

I didn’t answer. What could I say? That the idea of another shift made me want to scream? That the bruises on my wrist were still healing from a fall? That I hadn’t slept through a full night since I arrived?

He must have sensed my hesitation, because his next words were quieter.

“I won’t let you die out there.”

A beat.

Then he turned away, signaling dismissal.

“I’ll be ready,” I whispered.

By nightfall, we were on the move.

Six of us: Ryker leading, Eric beside him, two lean warriors I hadn’t met, Will trailing at the rear, and me—barely holding it together.

“Stay close,” Will murmured as we shifted under the full moon.

The pain still bit, but it was manageable now. My wolf form was smaller, silver-gray, cautious in every step. I kept low and quiet, senses tingling with every rustle in the trees.

Ryker led like a ghost—fluid, precise, lethal.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Hours passed in silence. Tension crackled in the air, thick with anticipation. We were being watched. I could feel it.

Then it happened.

A blur from the trees.

A snarl.

An ambush.

Everything exploded.

Fur, teeth, screams, shadows colliding midair. Ryker launched at the biggest rogue—a bear-sized black beast with red-rimmed eyes. Eric was a flash of brown, darting between opponents. Will guarded the rear with calm brutality, fending off two rogues with calculated bites.

I froze.

I couldn't move.

I was prey again.

A snarl to my right. One rogue broke through the line and came straight for me.

My instincts screamed, move, but my legs wouldn’t listen.

Then—he was there.

Ryker.

He slammed into the rogue midair, crushing it into the forest floor. Snapping jaws, blood, a guttural growl.

He turned to me, eyes glowing.

"Fight or die, Trixie!"

Something in me snapped.

I shifted back—bare skin meeting cold earth—and grabbed the nearest weapon I saw: a fallen branch.

I swung.

Once. Twice. The rogue lunged again, and this time, I dodged. Instinct finally kicked in. I wasn’t fast, but I was desperate. I slammed the branch down on its snout. It yelped and staggered back.

Eric joined in seconds later, finishing it with a clean slash.

"Good swing," he grinned through blood-stained teeth.

My lungs burned. My body shook. But I was still standing.

When the dust settled, four rogues lay dead. One escaped. The others limped away, broken.

I collapsed to my knees, shaking uncontrollably.

Ryker stood over me.

"You disobeyed orders," he said.

I looked up, barely able to breathe. "I froze."

"You broke formation. You could’ve gotten yourself—and others—killed."

Tears pricked at my eyes. “I’m sorry.”

But then he did something unexpected.

He crouched.

Lowered his voice.

“But you didn’t die. You fought.”

That was the first time he touched me—his hand cupping the back of my neck, firm and grounding.

“You’re not useless, Trixie. Stop acting like it.”

Back at the pack house, Will patched up what he could. I had a long scratch along my thigh, a sprained shoulder, and half a dozen bruises. Nothing broken.

“You did good,” he said softly.

I nodded, numb.

But my mind was still with Ryker—his eyes, the rage, the unexpected gentleness.

Why did his opinion matter so damn much?

The collision happened two nights later.

I was walking down the hallway after midnight, heading to the kitchen for water. A nightmare had torn me out of sleep, chest tight with phantom pain.

Ryker’s door was slightly open.

I didn’t mean to look.

But I did.

He was standing shirtless by the window, his back lined with scars I hadn’t noticed before. Old, brutal, ragged. His body was strength—but it was also pain.

“Come in,” he said without turning.

I froze. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

“I said come in.”

I obeyed.

He finally turned, meeting my wide eyes with something unreadable in his.

“I know the look you had when that rogue came for you.”

“What look?”

“The look of someone who thought dying was easier than fighting.”

Silence.

He stepped closer. My breath hitched.

“I’ve seen it before,” he murmured. “In warriors. In survivors.”

“In myself.”

The vulnerability in his voice shocked me more than anything.

“I’m not a warrior,” I whispered.

“No. But you’re not weak either.”

He reached for me again, just like in the forest. His fingers brushed my cheek, then slid to the back of my neck again. That same grounding pressure.

“Why do you care?” I asked before I could stop myself.

His jaw clenched. “Because I know what it’s like to be alone in a place that’s supposed to protect you.”

My heart stuttered.

And then—without thinking—I reached up and touched one of the old scars on his shoulder. He flinched. Not from pain. From surprise.

“Who did this?” I asked.

He didn’t answer right away.

“When I was sixteen, I challenged my father for dominance. He didn’t take it well.”

I looked up into his eyes.

And for the first time, I didn’t see the monster everyone feared.

I saw a boy who had been broken and rebuilt into something unbreakable.

“I’m not trying to scare you, Trixie,” he said, voice low.

“Then what are you doing?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he leaned in—his forehead brushing mine, breath mingling.

It wasn’t a kiss. Not yet.

But it was a collision.

Of breath.

Of souls.

Of wounds trying to heal in the same rhythm.

And just like that, I knew—

This man would either ruin me…

Or save me.

Possibly both.