Hounds Backrooms Novels & Stories

The Belly of the Beast The "Sub-Sub-Basement" was the United Cities' dirty secret. Here, the memory-virus hadn't just been a dream; it had been a nightmare. The walls dripped with moisture, and the air vibrated with the hum of thousands of illegal servers. This was the Underground Market, where those who didn't fit into Halloway's perfect world traded the only currency left: identity. They passed stalls selling "Pre-Reset" music, bottles of Wildlands scents, and-most disturbingly-jars of "True-Wolf" fur.

Each step sent a jolt of pain through my calves, like my muscles were stretching beyond what they were meant to hold. I stopped when the scent hit me. Wet earth. Pine. And something sharp and animal that made my mouth water and my stomach turn. A growl rippled through the darkness. I spun, heart slamming against my ribs. “Hello?” Stupid. Human. Weak. The growl came again, closer. Yellow eyes flickered between the trees. Then another pair. And another. Wolves. Too big. Too many. Their bodies moved wrong too fluid, too aware. I backed up slowly, my heel catching on a root. The moment I stumbled, they lunged.

The dog in the back room began to howl. And somewhere in the woods behind campus, something howled back.

I managed to move my legs out of his room and got into the bedroom that was right opposite his, it should be the one I'll stay after the activity with him. I stayed behind the door and imagined his fingers down deep inside my panties, I stretched my hands into my panties and felt it wet already. Silly me, I was here to take revenge on those who killed Mother and not to get my panties wet for Alpha Kael.

Jax was there a second later, his hand clamping onto my shoulder to anchor us. We rolled onto the bank, gasping, coughing up the silt of the Black River. But the peace didn’t last three seconds. A howl ripped through the tree- line metallic, high pitched, and wrong. “Silver Hounds,” Jax spat, rising to his feet even as water cascaded off his rough chest. “Thorne’s bastards are persistent.” A few of them burst from the underbrush. They weren’t natural wolves; their fur was matted with metal silver, and their eyes glowed with a sick, neon yellow. They moved with a jerky, unnatural speed.

Harrison’s jaw clenched as he parked the car, his hand gripping the steering wheel tightly. “Are you ready for this?” Rachel asked, her eyes scanning the building. He nodded, his gaze hard. “I have to be. Let’s go.” The warehouse was silent as they approached, the faint echo of their footsteps the only sound in the empty space. The walls were covered in graffiti, and the air was thick with dust and a faint metallic smell. As they moved deeper inside, Harrison’s heart pounded, each step bringing him closer to answers—and possibly danger. At last, they reached a dimly lit room at the back of the warehouse. Blackwood was there, leaning casually against a table. He looked up as they entered, a s

Damon’s POV The old barracks reeked of mildew and dust. Boards groaned under my boots as I moved through the ruins, light from my lantern slicing through the darkness. Wolves avoided this place, whispering that it was cursed, haunted by the screams of soldiers long buried. They weren’t wrong. But I wasn’t here for ghosts. I found the door hidden under the rotting floorboards, its iron handle cold beneath my palm. It resisted, as if warning me back, but one hard pull broke the rust and it creaked open. A stale rush of air hissed out, thick with the copper tang of blood.

Everything is frayed, the seams of my life coming apart. The lounge is silent when we enter, save for the low, hypnotic pulse of jazz through the walls. The front end continues its charade of high-end craft cocktails and polite conversation, but we slip through the hidden bulkhead in the larder, guarded by sentries who offer only a sharp, knowing nod. The back room reeks of aged leather and woodsmoke. It is my fortress. Zane moves to the bar and pours a triple measure of malt. Lucien paces, the floorboards groaning under his weight. Draven leans against the mantel, eyes fixed on the fire as if demanding a confession.