A Pack on Edge

POV: The Pack

Something had happened to the Alpha of Bloodmoon pack. Everyone felt it, the way one feels a storm coming before the sky even changes color, a pressure in the air that settled over the pack house and refused to lift.

He moped around like a kicked dog. He sighed like the world had personally handed him its problems to carry, shoulders bowed under some invisible weight he refused to name. He skipped training more than he showed up, choosing instead to brood alone somewhere nobody dared follow, disappearing for hours at a stretch and returning with the same hollow look in his eyes. Even his closest warriors kept their distance, trading uneasy looks whenever his name came up, like saying it too loud might call down whatever darkness had wrapped itself around him. A few of the younger wolves whispered that he'd been cursed. The older ones just shook their heads and said nothing, which somehow felt worse. Nobody knew exactly what had shifted in the last few days. Just that it had, and most of them prayed it would pass fast, because a rattled Alpha meant a rattled pack, and a rattled pack meant danger nobody wanted to name aloud. Whispers trailed him through the halls of the pack house, low and nervous, the kind that died the second he turned a corner, replaced by too-bright smiles and forced nods of respect.

POV: James

James didn't know what the hell was wrong with him. He just knew he couldn't scrub her out of his head no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many hours he buried himself in paperwork or drills or anything that might have offered an escape.

Trishelle's scent clung to him morning and night, until every other smell in the house started registering as wrong. Worse than wrong, actually. Rancid. The she-wolves who used to smell fine, normal, forgettable, now hit his nose like spoiled meat, enough to turn his stomach if he stood near them too long. He'd caught himself flinching away from women he'd known half his life, muttering some half-assed excuse before bolting to his office like a damn coward, hating himself a little more each time he did it.

The only thing that took the edge off was a hit of her scent. Which was exactly why he'd swiped one of her shirts off the laundry line days ago and locked it in his desk drawer like it was evidence in a crime, something he'd deny to his grave if anyone asked.

It's strategic, he told himself. Understanding the pull, that's useful information.

Bullshit. It was an addiction wearing a lab coat.

Days later and it hadn't faded one bit. If anything, it had gotten worse. What the hell is happening to me?

It felt like being tied to her with some invisible rope, one that cinched tighter every hour, no matter how hard he yanked against it. He'd tried reasoning with himself, tried reminding himself of every reason he had to stay away from her, and none of it made a difference. The rope only pulled tighter.

He leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes, rubbing his temple, which only made it worse. The second his eyes closed, she was there. Water sliding down her back. Dark curls plastered to wet skin, black instead of brown, like she'd been built specifically to catch moonlight. He remembered the curve of her shoulders, the shiver that rolled through her when the breeze hit bare skin, details his brain had apparently filed away without asking permission first. In the memory she turned, slow, and his breath snagged somewhere behind his ribs. He could almost feel the warmth radiating off her skin, could almost hear the soft catch of her breath, and it terrified him how real it all felt.

Was my eyesight always this good, or is this just what obsession does to a man?

A low groan crawled up his throat, caught somewhere between memory and something worse, something dangerously close to want. He pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes, as if he could physically push the image out, but it only sharpened, refusing to let go.

A pointed cough hauled him back into his body so fast it nearly gave him whiplash.

He opened his eyes to find Jack staring at him, arms crossed, one eyebrow cocked in a look somewhere between annoyed and pitying. Relief and irritation hit James at the same time, relief that someone had yanked him out of it, irritation that he'd needed yanking at all. His face heated, and he prayed to every god he knew that Jack hadn't noticed just how far gone he'd looked.

Get it together, man.

They were supposed to be talking pack business. His mind had wandered off again without asking, and it took him a second to notice he hadn't even thought of her as Trash this time. Somewhere in the last few days, without meaning to, he'd started calling her Trishelle in his head and never looked back. The realization sat wrong in his chest, foreign, unwelcome, like a truth he wasn't ready to swallow, one that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Real smooth. Acting like a lovesick pup instead of an Alpha.

He shook his head hard, like he could physically knock her loose, and forced his attention back to the meeting. Still, he felt Jack's eyes linger a beat too long, like his friend already knew exactly who had put that haunted look on his face. James cleared his throat, straightened in his chair, and prayed Jack would let it go, even as some traitorous part of him wondered if talking about it might actually help.