Page 3 of Marked For A Bite (Rebellious Mates #2)

TWO

LOGAN

L ogan Cross stood on the weathered porch of his cabin and rolled tension from his shoulders as the late morning light filtered through the towering Douglas firs.

The restless energy that had plagued him since he woke up coiled tighter in his chest, his wolf pacing beneath the surface like a caged predator.

Three months of Kieran's leadership as the acting Alpha of the Silvercrest pack had brought subtle changes to their pack lands.

Moderate reforms that whispered of change and of a world where brutal enforcement might become unnecessary some day.

But right now, Logan's role as top enforcer remained perpetually consistent.

Urgent meeting. No details. Typical.

He secured his cabin with methodical precision, the beeps of his security system being engaged echoing through the forest silence.

His combat boots found purchase on the damp earth as he started the trek toward Kieran's cabin on the territory's eastern edge.

Each step carried the weight of countless missions and countless decisions that had carved pieces from his soul.

The thing about being the pack's enforcer was simple—everyone expected you to be the monster so they didn't have to become one themselves. Logan had accepted that burden ten years ago. The pack needed someone willing to cross lines others couldn't, and he'd volunteered for that darkness.

But lately, the lines keep shifting.

Logan found himself questioning orders given to him recently by the High Council. Their unusually extreme demands and methods sat wrong in his gut.

When you start questioning if committing murder and other violent acts is justified, maybe it's time to re-evaluate your life choices.

The path wound through ancient cedars whose trunks could hide small buildings, their canopy so thick that dawn remained theoretical rather than visible.

Logan's enhanced senses cataloged every scent marker, every territorial boundary, and every subtle shift in the forest's rhythm.

This land lived in his bones after thirty-four years of respecting and protecting it.

Kieran's cabin materialized through the trees—a modest structure that reflected the acting Alpha's preference for function over status. Smoke curled from the chimney, carrying the scent of coffee and something else. Tension. Urgency.

Logan climbed the steps and knocked once before entering. "You called."

Kieran looked up from where he stood beside a massive oak table covered in territorial maps and scattered reports. His silver-blue eyes held the weight of leadership that had settled on him like an ill-fitting coat after his father's mysterious disappearance.

"Thanks for coming so quickly." Kieran's voice carried that particular edge that meant serious business. "We have a situation that requires your specific skill set."

"Human problem or shifter problem?"

"Both." Kieran moved around the table, his movements carrying the controlled tension of a predator preparing to strike. "Lena's been monitoring communication channels and picked up something concerning. There's a human hybrid shifter manifesting in Portland—completely unaware of what she is."

Logan's eyebrows rose fractionally. Unmanifested hybrids were rare, dangerous, and magnets for exactly the kind of attention that got people killed. "How do we know she's a hybrid?"

"She attacked someone at a museum exhibition two days ago.

Public outburst with witnesses. Luckily, no one got hurt and authorities are calling it a mental breakdown.

But Lena says the description matches classic partial shifting symptoms." Kieran pulled out a photograph printed from what looked like a news website.

"Her name is Zoe Raymond. Twenty-five, museum curator, and apparently has some personal connection to Pacific Northwest indigenous artifacts. "

Logan studied the image—a professional headshot showing a striking woman with light brown skin, curly dark brown hair, and unusual hazel eyes. Something stirred in his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome.

"Why not send local contacts to handle extraction?"

"Because three different groups claimed responsibility for my father's disappearance, the High Council refuses to investigate, and now another hybrid manifests right when tensions are highest." Kieran's jaw tightened.

"Something is going on and things just aren't adding up for me.

Like someone wants to use extreme measures to keep our wolf shifter kind protected, while at the same time, the universe is steering us straight into a major social evolution. "

"So, what's your big worry about this hybrid then?"

"I think she's a target who doesn't know she's in danger. Just like Maya was in the beginning." Kieran met Logan's eyes. "I need someone I trust completely to bring her back safely. Someone who won't hesitate if trouble shows up."

Logan accepted the mission the way he always did when it came to his pack—without argument, without hesitation, and with the fierce loyalty that had defined his service to the Silvercrest pack for a decade.

But as he looked at the photograph again, something shifted inside him.

Something that felt dangerously close to protective instinct.

"How long do I have?"

"She's holed up in her house, probably terrified and confused. But if the wrong people get to her first..." Kieran didn't need to finish that sentence. They both knew what would happen to unprotected hybrids in these uncertain times. And it wasn't anything good.

"I'll leave within the hour." Logan pocketed the photograph, already calculating routes and contingencies. "Portland is a four-hour drive if I push it. Should reach her by dusk."

"Logan." Kieran's voice stopped him at the door. "Bring her back alive. Whatever it takes."

Logan nodded once and stepped back into the forest, his mind already focused on the mission ahead. But as he jogged toward his cabin to gather his gear, the image of hazel eyes and curly hair lingered in his thoughts with uncomfortable persistence.

Just another extraction. Just another job.

But his wolf disagreed with that assessment entirely.

Logan soon moved through his cabin with practiced efficiency, muscle memory guiding him through the ritual of mission preparation.

The leather gun holsters felt familiar against his ribs as he secured his Glock 19 and backup .

380. Three knives found their designated spots—a tactical blade at his thigh, a throwing knife at his ankle, and his father's hunting knife secured horizontally across his lower back.

The Kevlar vest would wait until he reached Portland.

No point in advertising his intentions during the drive.

His black cargo pants held everything without restricting movement, each weapon positioned for quick access.

Logan had learned long ago that hesitation in drawing a blade often meant the difference between completing a mission and becoming a casualty.

The weight of his arsenal provided comfort rather than burden—familiar tools for an unfamiliar situation.

A hybrid manifesting without pack guidance. This could go sideways fast.

The drive to Portland blurred past in calculated speed, his modified Jeep eating up highway miles just under the threshold of police attention.

Logan's photographic memory had already cataloged the route, alternate escape paths, and potential complications.

Urban extractions carried different risks than wilderness operations, but his methods adapted as needed.

Four hours and seventeen minutes after leaving Silvercrest territory, Logan parked three blocks from Zoe Raymond's address.

The modest bungalow sat nestled between similar houses in a quietly gentrifying neighborhood where nosy neighbors and security cameras posed constant surveillance threats.

He pulled on the bulletproof vest beneath his black jacket, the familiar weight settling against his chest like armor.

Standard extraction protocol. Get in, assess the situation, and extract the target safely.

But as Logan approached the back of her house through shadows cast by towering oak trees, he felt something unexpected in his chest. A pulling sensation, like an invisible cord attached to his sternum and stretching through the walls toward whatever waited inside.

His wolf stirred restlessly, its ears pricked forward with interest rather than wariness.

What the hell?

The back door's lock yielded to his picks within thirty seconds—old hardware, minimal security, perfect for a quick entry. Logan stepped into a kitchen that smelled of abandoned coffee and something else. Fear. Sweat. The raw scent of a wolf in distress.

He found her curled in an oversized armchair in the living room, and the photograph hadn't done her justice.

Even terrified and shaking, Zoe Raymond was stunning.

Her curly dark hair fell around her shoulders in disheveled waves, and when she looked up at his approach, those hazel eyes held flecks of gold that seemed to glow in the dim lamplight.

"No, no, no." Her voice cracked as she pressed herself deeper into the chair. "Please, I can't control it. I don't know what's happening to me."

Logan raised his hands slowly, his voice dropping to the calm tone he used with spooked animals. "Easy. I'm not here to hurt you."

But Zoe's breathing accelerated into near-hyperventilation, her whole body trembling as she stared at him like he was the personification of her worst fears. "You're here because of what I am."

"Breathe." Logan slowly stepped closer, that strange pulling sensation intensifying with each inch of distance he closed. "I'm here to help you."

A scream tore from her throat as panic took hold completely. Logan moved fast then, covering the distance between them.

"Shh. I know you're scared. But we need to keep quiet." He leaned down to press his hand gently over her mouth to muffle any further sounds.

And the moment his skin touched hers, the world exploded.

The mate bond slammed into Logan like a physical blow, stealing his breath and sending shockwaves through every nerve ending in his body.

Mate. The word thundered through his consciousness with absolute certainty, primal and undeniable.

His wolf howled recognition, a sound of pure possession and protection that echoed through his bones.

Shock hit first—thirty-four years of believing he'd never find his fated mate, and she materialized as a terrified hybrid who needed extraction, not complications.

Then hunger crashed over him, swift and devastating, as every cell in his body screamed to claim what belonged to him.

The urge to bite, to mark, and to make her his rose so sharp and sudden that Logan had to clench his jaw against it.

But denial followed close behind, cold and logical. This was a mission. She was his responsibility, not his potential partner. The timing couldn't be worse, and getting emotionally involved would compromise everything.

No. Absolutely not. Not now. Not her.

Zoe's eyes had gone wide above his hand, the gold flecks brightening as if responding to some internal flame. Her breathing slowed, and Logan felt her pulse steady beneath his fingers. Whatever she was experiencing, it was affecting her strongly too.

Mate bonds work both ways. Even for untrained hybrids.

Logan forced himself to remove his hand slowly, though every instinct screamed to maintain contact. "Better?"

She nodded, still staring at him with those impossibly expressive eyes. "Who are you?"

"Someone who can explain what's happening to you." Logan stepped back, needing distance to think clearly. "But not here. We need to leave. Now."

"I can't." Zoe's voice carried the exhaustion of someone who'd been fighting a losing battle. "I'm dangerous. I attack people when it happens."

"You're not dangerous." The words emerged with more intensity than Logan intended, his wolf pushing its protective instincts to the surface. "You're manifesting. And there are people who want to hurt you for it."

The weight of their situation settled heavy in the space between them. Logan had a mission to complete, but the mate bond complicated everything.

Focus. Extract first, deal with complications later.

"Pack light. Whatever you can't live without." Logan moved to the window, scanning the street for signs of trouble. "We leave in five minutes."