Page 8 of Jace’s Mate (East Coast Territory #1)

J ace lifted his head and sniffed the air, filtering through the usual tapestry of scent—grass, moss, wet earth. And wolves. His wolves. Their energy vibrated around him, quiet and ready, waiting for his signal.

But tonight, he wasn’t just running for the joy of it.

He was hunting something unseen. Something that dared to threaten his people.

And not just his. Whatever was stirring out there—it was hitting every corner of their alliance. Viktor’s clan. Sorcia’s witches. His pack. Whatever it was, it moved like smoke through a locked room. Subtle. Dangerous. Unwelcome.

He sniffed again. No unfamiliar scents. No rogue wolves. Just the rustle of leaves and the faint pulse of adrenaline humming through the wolves behind him.

Still, he didn’t let his guard down.

“Let’s run,” he growled.

The reaction was immediate. Over a hundred shifters began to strip without hesitation, their movements practiced and unashamed.

Nudity wasn’t taboo here. It was normal.

Wolf forms didn’t care about denim or leather, and Jace didn’t need his pack worried about torn clothes when survival might come down to a few seconds so they stripped off their clothes instead of letting their shifting bodies tear them apart.

Jace watched them, sharp eyes sweeping the clearing as skin gave way to fur. He stood tall, scanning for danger as the others dropped into their four-legged forms.

His betas stayed in human form a little longer, watching with him, ensuring everyone’s safety. Watching his back while the rest of the pack shifted. Then, at his nod, they dropped their clothes and changed—bones cracking, muscles shifting with a sound that always felt primal and holy.

When Jace was sure everyone else had shifted safely, he let go.

The transformation ripped through him, powerful and clean.

His wolf surged out of him, and in seconds, he was on all fours, muscles rolling beneath thick fur.

For a moment, he stood there, looking at his pack members through the eyes of his wolf, feeling the dirt beneath his paws and the wind lightly rustling his fur. Again, he sniffed the air.

Still safe.

He prowled through the pack, checking each youngling, nudging snouts, testing eyes. He nipped at a distracted pup who responded with a playful growl, his tail wagging like a banner. Good. They were ready.

Jace padded back toward the front, watching his wolves vibrate with anticipation.

Then he howled—long, sharp, commanding.

And the pack exploded forward like a tidal wave of fur and teeth and heart.

They thundered across the grasslands, paws pounding in unison, scattering into the trees like a living storm. Shrubs whipped past, tree trunks blurred. The forest belonged to them tonight.

Jace ran with them—at first beside, then ahead, the point of the spear. His lungs expanded with clean air, wild air. The kind that cleared the head and sharpened instinct.

They kept to a loose formation, trained to look like ordinary wolves from a distance. A sighting by a hiker or hunter could bring chaos, and though their kind healed fast…bullets still hurt like hell.

His communication was swift and efficient—howls, sharp barks, clipped nips to keep the younger wolves in line. One pup stumbled, gasping for air, legs trembling.

Jace circled back, caught the little pup by the scruff, and hauled him up onto his back. The little wolf clung to his fur, tail wagging as Jace pressed forward again. He’d grow strong soon. But not yet.

Several hours into the run, Jace lifted his head and let out a commanding howl.

The betas responded instantly, their own howls rising from the fringes of the pack. They’d done their job, as always—running the edges, keeping every member safe, ensuring no one was lost or left behind in the darkness.

The forest had begun to pale with the light of early morning. The moment the first hint of warmth brushed against the earth, Jace gave another howl—low and clear. It was time to return.

Wolves began to veer back toward the vans, their legs heavy but spirits light.

Jace lingered.

He and his betas paced the perimeter one final time, sniffing the breeze, scanning for danger. Only when he was sure they were clear did he head back. The small pup who’d ridden on his back slid off and let out a proud little yip before bolting toward his parents.

They greeted him with frantic nudges and sniffs, making sure he was whole. Then, spotting Jace, both adults lowered their heads in respect. Gratitude. Silent, but unmistakable. They took their place by the vans and sat, waiting.

Still in wolf form, Jace stood tall in the early morning light. His ink-black coat rippled in the wind, but his eyes remained sharp. He watched his pack—their joy, their exhaustion, the quiet afterglow of the run.

They were safe. Strong. Whole.

He glanced at his betas. Each gave a bark—one by one—reporting in from their post.

Jace sat down. Waited. Sniffed. Nothing on the wind but pine and wolf and the faint promise of sunrise.

Then he threw his head back and howled.

A second later, the pack answered.

A wild, thundering chorus filled the woods—hundreds of howls blending into one glorious, primal song. A celebration. A claim. A promise to the land that they were still here, still strong.

Jace’s chest rumbled with silent laughter. His wolves were thriving.

With a short bark, he signaled for them to return to human form. One by one, they shifted—bones reforming, muscles reknitting, fur dissolving into skin. It was beautiful, violent, seamless.

Jace and his betas stayed in wolf form, holding the line until the last shifter had transformed. Only then did his betas nod and shift back. Jace followed, his final shift as smooth as the snap of a finger.

The pack dressed quickly, the sounds of fabric and whispered chatter barely cutting through the quiet that followed. When the last shirt was pulled over the last head, the vans started loading.

Jace ignored the sleek town car waiting for him and strode toward the van carrying the pup who’d ridden on his back. He didn’t explain. He didn’t need to.

Inside, the vehicle was warm, filled with the scent of sweat, fur, and family. Jace moved down the aisle, his steps silent. The pup sat near the back, hunched low, tiny shoulders curled forward.

Jace crouched, then scooped him up with one arm.

The boy startled, eyes wide.

“Alpha!” he gasped, tense in Jace’s hold.

“You did well tonight,” Jace said, voice low but firm. “That was a strong first run.”

The transformation was instant. The boy straightened, eyes shining with pride. His cheeks flushed pink and his small chest puffed up like he’d just been named a warrior.

Jace settled into a seat with the pup still in his arms and nodded to the driver.

The vans rolled forward, the town car leading the way.

Jace leaned his head back, relaxing for the first time that night. Around him, the van was filled with the contented silence of the worn-out. A few soft murmurs. One chuckle. Someone sneezed.

But most were quiet—drained, but happy.

He felt the exact moment the pup in his lap lost the battle with sleep. His little body sagged, breath evening out, pride giving way to dreams.

Jace didn’t move.

He just sat there, a sleeping wolf pup curled into his chest, as the pack rolled toward home.