Page 9

CHAPTER 8

GIDEON

T he city is mostly asleep when I hit the sidewalk at a steady jog, the collar of my hoodie pulled high and the brim of my cap low. My breath steams faintly in the cool, salty air, and every footfall on the concrete echoes with the kind of stillness only the dead of night brings.

The Gulf breeze tugs at the edges of my clothes, heavy with brine and moisture, thick enough to taste. But beneath the damp and salt is something else—an undercurrent, electric and wrong. It hums against my skin like a wire strung too tight, vibrating with tension I can’t quite place. I don’t need to go far. Just to the edge of the block where the streetlights go dim, the traffic thins, and the shadows gather like they’re waiting for something to happen.

I duck into an alley, scan once to be sure I’m alone, and slip into the familiar rhythm of ritual. Removing my boots, I peel off my hoodie and jeans with practiced efficiency, folding them into a tight bundle and tucking them behind the dumpster where I’ve stashed my clothes for the last few nights. A dry spot, shadowed, shielded.

The cement is cool against the soles of my feet, grounding me in the moment. I inhale once—deep, centering—then hold the breath like a diver before a plunge. Every instinct in me stretches taut, preparing for the shift.

The shift is fast. Familiar. A flash of heat and light that ripples through muscle and bone, bending reality as my human form gives way to something older, deeper, and infinitely wilder. Mist swirls up from the ground, curling around my ankles like smoke, drawn by the pulse of magic in the air. Lightning dances across my vision—white-hot, primal—and then, with a final jolt that steals the air from my lungs, I’m gone. In my place stands the wolf: dark as shadow, muscles coiled and ready, eyes aglow with silent fury and unwavering purpose.

Fur black as oil, catching the moonlight in a way that makes me almost vanish against the shadows. Eyes sharp, scanning with relentless focus. Nose twitching, pulling in every scent like a map of the city’s secrets. I pad out into the street, silent as smoke, each movement fluid and lethal, the quiet confidence of a predator who knows exactly what he’s hunting—and what is his to protect.

The city looks different this way—colors dimmed, buildings flattened into silhouettes, but scents and sound flare in vivid contrast, as if the world itself whispers its secrets straight to my skin. I can hear the distant flick of a rat’s claws against brick, the faint drip of condensation falling from an air conditioner three rooftops away. But what arrests me—freezes me mid-step—is the scent. It’s back. And this time, it isn’t just faint. It’s fresh. Wound tight around the edges of Maggie’s block like a thread around a snare, coiled and deliberate. Someone has been here. Watching. Circling. Testing my patience. Testing my claim.

I growl low. Not out of fear. Not even out of anger. It rumbles from deep in my chest, raw and guttural—a sound of possession, of warning. Every nerve feels on edge, and every instinct screams that this ground is claimed. Someone is circling what is mine, and neither I nor my wolf tolerate challengers.

I push forward, every step driven by the low hum of urgency rising in my chest, following the scent around the alley behind Maggie’s building. It is recent—sharp and warm, like the intruder has only just slipped away. Within the last hour, maybe less. Male. Young. Wolf. Not from Team W. And not subtle. The scent has arrogance threaded through it, a kind of taunt in the way it lingers too long in one place, like whoever left it wants to be noticed. Wants to be challenged.

Every instinct inside me coils tight. My hackles rise, muscles tensing like a bowstring pulled to its limit. The wolf in me wants to do more than growl—it wants to claim, to mark, to sear a message into the pavement itself: this place, this territory, this woman, is not to be touched. She is under my protection. Under my watch. But I hold back, teeth gritted against the instinct screaming in my blood. Marking territory here would raise questions Maggie isn’t ready to have answered. And maybe... I’m not ready to admit how deep this bond has already sunk into me, either.

Still, the need buzzes under my skin like static—restless, electric, primal. It itches beneath my flesh, a low-level vibration that refuses to quiet. A need not just to protect, but to stake a claim. My wolf wants to howl, to announce my presence to anything within a mile. The restraint it takes not to give in makes my muscles ache.

When I circle back, the scent has faded, thinned into the general haze of city grit and midnight damp. No sign of entry. No breach. No evidence of paws or hands where they don’t belong. But that doesn’t ease the coil in my gut. It doesn’t matter that the perimeter held tonight—what matters is that someone has been bold enough to walk that close. To linger. The warning has been delivered, and I’ve received it loud and clear.

They are getting closer. And it isn’t just the physical distance that makes the wolf in me bristle—it’s the intent behind it. Whoever is out there isn’t circling blindly. They are learning her patterns, testing response times, mapping weaknesses. This isn’t curiosity. It is preparation. And I’ve been in the game long enough to know exactly what that means: the next move won’t be a warning. It will be a strike.

I shift back behind the dumpster, the burn of transformation short and brutal in the quiet. My bones ache, muscles twitch from the snap of magic tearing through me, and for a second, I lean against the brick wall, catching my breath. Sweat clings to my skin, cooling fast in the night air. I wipe my brow with the back of my arm, roll my shoulders, then reach for the clothes I’ve stashed. Each motion is precise, habitual—jeans, boots, hoodie—armoring me in the mundane as my breathing levels. Once dressed, I step out into the street, my gait steady, and walk the few blocks back to Maggie’s condo. Once inside, I glance toward the closed bedroom door before retreating to the office area of the open space and dialing the one number I trust.

Dalton answers on the second ring. "This better be about muffins and not more suspicious vendor drama. The team’s about to mutiny without their nightly sugar rations, and I’m one tantrum away from feeding them protein bars just to watch the world burn."

I let out a short, humorless breath. "I wish it was just drama. Someone planted glass in a sealed bag of sugar today. Maggie nearly used it in a batch of cupcakes."

Dalton’s tone sharpens. "Shit."

"Yeah. So no, we’re not just dealing with late shipments or bad bookkeeping anymore. This is targeted. It’s personal. Did you get anything back on that vendor’s name?"

I can hear the tension beginning to coil tight in Dalton’s voice as he says, “Yeah. The real name on the registration tracks back to a shell corporation out of Austin. That shell corp is registered to the Grangers.”

I go still. "The Grangers?"

"Yup."

The Grangers are old blood—shifters—steeped in legacy and ruthlessness. Wealthy enough to buy silence, connected enough to erase enemies, and dangerous enough to make most others think twice before crossing them. They don’t make mistakes. They make statements. And every move they make comes at a cost.

"Why would they target a cupcake shop? It makes little sense on the surface—unless it isn’t about the cupcakes at all. Unless the location, the people, or something buried deeper beneath the frosting and storefront charm has value to someone powerful. And if the Grangers are involved, it means the reason wasn’t just personal—it was strategic."

Dalton laughs without humor. "I think they’d torch a preschool if it stood in the way of what they wanted."

I rub the back of my neck. "Keep digging. Quietly."

"Always."

I end the call and stare toward her bedroom door, the soft glow of light showing from beneath it. My jaw tightens as I lean against the murphy bed before pulling it down and sitting on the edge. I walk to the expansive window overlooking the beach, tracking the shadows outside, watching the stillness like it might crack.

I move back to the bed, taking off my t-shirt and boots. Leaving my jeans on, my hard cock pressing against the button fly, I stretch out on top of the bedclothes. I don’t sleep. Don’t even pretend to try. My body stays wired, alert, my mind replaying every step of the scent trail, every possible weak point in her defenses. Rest isn’t an option. Not when the threat has crept that close to her door.

* * *

The next day, I make myself scarce at the bakery, shadowing the vendors so closely I’m practically breathing down their necks. I don’t just watch them—I study them. Memorize their tells, the hesitation in their hands, the way one delivery guy’s eyes flick to the security camera before unloading a single crate. Every wrong invoice, every short delivery—I log it with cold precision. I ask no questions, make no accusations. But I let silence do the work for me. Let them feel my presence like a blade resting just shy of skin. No confrontation. Not yet. But I make sure they know I’m watching. And I’m not going anywhere.

Maggie doesn’t ask what I’m doing. But she notices. Her eyes keep flicking to me when she thinks I’m not looking, curiosity and something quieter—something cautious—flickering behind her lashes. Each time she catches my gaze, her breath hitches just slightly, like her mind is fighting to make sense of my constant presence. She doesn’t glare. Doesn’t push. But she looks away a little too fast, like the intensity in my eyes touches nerves she isn’t ready to name out loud.

Mid-afternoon, a call comes in. Someone has vandalized a rival bakery down the block. Broken window. Graffiti. Spray paint scrawled in large, jagged letters across the glass reads, "Sweets Rot." The damage is surgical—not random, not reckless. It sends a message, but not to that bakery. It’s close enough to be seen from Maggie’s front patio. The implication is deliberate, a shot across the bow. Someone wants to shift attention. And it works—just long enough to make me leave her side.

I make sure Maggie has backup—one of the part-timers on duty stationed near the front. I bolt the alley door from the inside. I linger for a moment longer than necessary, eyes scanning the space one last time. I slip out the front entrance only after ensuring her safety, walking calmly but with watchful eyes as I head down the block to check.

The second I see it, I know. The clean slashes in the glass, the crude but strategic placement of the graffiti, the absence of looting—it all screams intent, not impulse. This isn’t about that bakery. It isn’t even about competition. It’s a warning wrapped in theatrics. A diversion engineered with precision. Someone wants to see how fast I’ll move, how long I’ll stay gone, how far they can stretch my focus. I’m being pulled away. And it works—for a heartbeat.

I turn around and charge back to Sea Salt & Sugar, muscles tight with adrenaline, heart pounding louder than my footfalls. Each step slams against the pavement, propelled by something hotter than fear—something territorial, primal. I burst through the front door, the bell overhead ringing wildly, and the sudden entrance makes customers jump, the staffer flinch, and Maggie nearly drops a tray of cupcakes. Her eyes lock on mine, wide with surprise and something close to worry.

Maggie is fine. The shop is intact. But my pulse doesn’t slow until I’ve crossed the threshold and swept the space with a glance, taking in every detail—the angle of her shoulders, the quick flutter of her breath, the wide-eyed look of someone who hasn’t expected me to come crashing back in like a storm. Only when I’m certain she’s safe—unharmed, unshaken, still standing—does the tension in my chest ease by a fraction. I only then realize how tightly I have wound myself once my eyes find her and my inner wolf ceases its pacing.

"Are you all right?" Maggie asks, one brow arched and a cupcake balanced in one hand. "Or did someone try to mug your sense of subtlety on the way back? Because you just made three customers consider bolting for the exits."

"I'm good," I say, casually grabbing a sample cookie and taking a bite like I haven’t just stormed in like a battering ram. "You know me—priorities. Couldn’t let someone else snag the last cookie while I was out."

But someone is testing the perimeter. Looking for cracks and soft spots—testing how close they can get without triggering alarms. Probing for weaknesses like they have all the time in the world. What they don’t know is that I’ve already marked the edges in my mind, mapped every vulnerability. And if they think they can sneak past me, they are about to find out just how wrong they are.

* * *

That night, long after I should have been asleep, I crack open the door to her room and stick my head in to make a last check on her. Maggie sprawls across the bed, one arm flung above her head, the other tucked beneath the pillow, her blonde hair a chaotic halo across the pillowcase. The tangled sheets lie at her waist, and her tank top is pulled askew, as if she tossed and turned through vivid dreams—possibly the kind that make her cheeks flush and her lips part slightly. The sight hits me like a punch to the chest—desire laced with something tender and dangerous. Something my wolf doesn’t know how to back down from.

I stand in the doorway for a long moment, arms crossed, jaw tight, trying to pretend that the sight of her doesn’t undo me in a thousand quiet ways. Then, slowly, like something ancient and instinctual is pulling me forward, I step inside. Closer. My hand hovers above her skin for a breath, then another—until finally, I brush her hair back from her temple with a tenderness that betrays just how hard I’m fighting the urge to lean down, inhale her scent, and stay.

My wolf stirs—possessive, protective, aching with the primal need to curl around her, to guard her through the night, to make sure she wakes safe and untouched. It isn't just instinct anymore. It is something deeper, more dangerous. Already claiming.

I clench my jaw and step away, dragging every ounce of discipline with me. She isn’t mine. Not yet. And wanting her—protecting her—with this kind of ferocity isn’t supposed to happen. Not here. Not now. But the wolf doesn’t care about timing. And I’m starting to wonder if I do, either.

But God help whoever keeps trying to mess with her, because I’m done pretending to be civilized. The next time someone gets close, they won't meet the man. They'll meet the wolf—and he won't be interested in warnings.