Party’s over

"Oh brother, I smell the excitement already." Geri chuckled as he pushed the flap of their tent open and stepped in, his arms wide as if embracing the very air.

"Excitement for what? For some pussy, I presume," Amarok muttered from where he sat, legs stretched out, sharpening his blade in calm, measured strokes.

Geri laughed loud. "Oh, come on, Amarok. Quit spoiling the fun. I know you need some fresh kitty to make you feel warm and alive."

Amarok groaned. Geri could be a fucking pain in the ass. But he was his pain. His little brother. The only one who truly got him. The only person he had left since their parents died. In the darkest days, they'd had each other.

"Did you see the looks on their faces when we docked?" Geri said, still grinning. "Like we were some fucking movie stars."

"When you're dressed like one, of course people are meant to stare," came a familiar voice from outside.

Their uncle stepped into the tent with a half-smile and a commanding air.

"Uncle! You're here." Geri grinned and went to give him a one-armed hug.

"Yes, Geri, I am here. Now quit talking about fresh pussies and come along—you might meet your mate, who knows?" Macon said, brushing dust off his fur-lined robe.

Amarok growled under his breath at the man's words. Macon, his father's brother, was the reason they were here in the first place. Old fool. Always dragging them into what he called civilized interaction. This was their first appearance at the Crent Festival. The Frost Pack hadn't shown up in years—hell, ever.

They were whispers to the world. Legends. No one knew where they lived. They didn't mingle. Didn't trade. They were warriors carved from ice and blood, existing far from the noise of modern packs.

Amarok was only fourteen and Geri ten when they lost their parents in a brutal war that nearly erased their bloodline.

Their training became survival. Amarok had taken the Alpha position at fifteen, young and wild and angry.

And now, here they were. Playing dress-up at a damn festival.

"It's been over ten years since we were due for our mates, and you believe we'll find them here?" Amarok asked, his frown deepening.

Macon stared at him, voice calm. "When was the last time you left home and mingled?"

Amarok didn't answer.

"So what? You think your mate will fall from the sky into your arms?" Macon scoffed. "You don't invite anyone into our home. You don't go out. So here we are—with high hopes that the goddess grants you mercy and finally gives us a Luna."

And with that, Macon turned and walked out, leaving silence in his wake.

"You don't really expect to find your mate here, do you?" Amarok turned to Geri, raising a brow.

"Come on, brother," Geri smirked. "The old man simply wants what's best for you."

Amarok's glare darkened. "For me? What about you?"

Geri laughed, walking backwards. "You're the Alpha. You need to bring a Luna home. Me? I'm free to do as I please."

And just like that, he was gone, probably off sniffing out some drunk she-wolf with loose hips.

Amarok exhaled, dragging a palm over his face.

Later That Night

Dusk had fully claimed the island, and the Crent Festival lit up like fireflies in a summer storm. Bonfires blazed. Laughter echoed across the open fields. Groups gathered under glowing lanterns, singing and dancing, drunk on ale and moonlight.

Taylor and Vera had found themselves surrounded by werewolves from the Nightshade Pack. Someone handed them drinks. They were dancing now, twirling, laughing, losing their minds in the moment.

Tara sat a little apart, legs crossed, watching them. Her arms were folded, but her eyes held something warmer. She didn't dance. But she was here for them. And that was enough.

The music roared louder, and suddenly the air shifted.

A man pushed through the circle, the paint across his face like that of a Viking warrior. His shoulders were broad, his steps heavy.

From the patterns on his leather vest and the markings across his chest, it was clear—he was Frost Pack.

The man walked straight to Taylor.

Without a word, he grabbed her waist.

Tara stiffened.

"Hey!" Taylor laughed awkwardly. "Who—"

"I like you," the man slurred, his eyes dark and unfocused. "You're pretty… I wanna fuck you."

Vera shoved at his arm. "She said no."

He didn't like that. His head snapped toward her, and before anyone could react—he pushed her. Hard.

Vera hit the dirt with a grunt, her drink splashing across her top.

The other girls gasped. Some stepped back. The few boys there were nothing but frightened teens—no one dared move.

Tara stood slowly.

Something inside her snapped.

She walked straight to him, shoved her body between him and her sisters. She bent, pulled Vera to her feet, then grabbed Taylor's wrist. "Back to the tent. Party's over."

The man snarled. "You're going nowhere!"

But they kept walking.

That was when it happened.

He grabbed Tara's hair and yanked.

She fell backward, hitting the ground hard, her head spinning.

"How dare you touch my sister!" Taylor screamed, raising her hand to slap him.

He caught her arm mid-air and shoved her back.

Taylor went flying. She crashed hard onto the dirt, crying out.

Silence. Not one person moved.

Tara's hands dug into the dirt.

Enough.

She stood.

Slowly. Like a storm building from still air.

"You really wanna get beaten, huh?" Her voice was cold, and calm.

The man barked a laugh. "I'll beat your ass, pussy. Or maybe I'll fuck both holes!"

He lunged. But she was ready.