Page 2 of Snarl First, Kiss Later (Alpha’s Prophecy #2)

TWO

SILAS

P ain dragged Silas Wren out of darkness by the scruff of his neck.

Throbbing heat roiled in his thigh, his ribs felt cinched with barbed wire, and someone had stuck a forge in his bloodstream just to watch him sweat.

Instinct told him to shift, let the wolf burn the fever off, but silver laced the ache, heavy and smothering.

His eyes cracked open. A jagged ceiling of stone hovered overhead, slick with mineral shine.

Fire snapped nearby, warm and bright against the damp cave walls.

He breathed deep, tasting woodsmoke, pine, and something else: human—female—laced with antiseptic and cedar oil.

No pack scent. No threat markers. Just her.

His fingers twitched toward the knife that should sit at his hip. Gone. A hiss slipped between his teeth.

“I’d leave that thought alone,” a voice warned.

Silas rolled his head. A woman perched on a rounded boulder a few feet away, rifle across her knees.

Lantern glow painted her profile: dark braid frayed at the edges, storm-colored green eyes sharp under straight brows, scar beneath one eye like a single white strike of lightning.

Cargo pants muddy at the knees, boots scuffed, leather jacket too big for her narrow shoulders.

He knew that jacket style. Old biker cut, custom hand-tooled decades back. Family heirloom.

“You drugged me,” he rasped.

She snorted. “Wish I had. You’d be quieter.”

His wolf bristled at the snark, yet curiosity tugged harder. Most humans screamed or fired first when faced with a wounded shifter. This one stitched him, then sat watch as if guarding a stray dog.

He tested his wrists. No shackles, just gauze.

She had patched the gouges on his thigh and bound his ribs with precise herringbone tape.

Her stitching was tight, practical, the kind medics used on battlefields.

He inhaled again, sifting her scent for deceit.

Beneath sweat and soil lay a steady undercurrent: compassion tempered by suspicion.

She was afraid, but backbone kept her upright.

“You’re the medic,” he guessed.

“Wilderness courier, part-time lifesaver, full-time idiot,” she replied. “Name’s Ava Monroe. You?”

He considered lying. Names carried weight, histories, enemies. Yet she’d already risked everything hauling his carcass off the trail. Debt ran both ways among wolves.

“Silas.” His voice came rough, unused. “Silas Wren.”

Recognition didn’t flicker in her gaze. Good. He preferred anonymity. Former elite guard to Roman when he was alpha wasn’t a badge worth wearing.

Ava shifted the rifle aside and scooted closer, knees brushing dirt. “Hold still,” she said, fingers going to the bandage on his thigh. “Need to check for infection.”

Heat from her palm bled through the gauze, steady and sure. Silas’s wolf hummed, curious, wary. Her human pulse thudded quick but unflinching. He caught himself cataloging the tiny freckles dusting her nose, the strand of hair curled loose from her braid making him want to tuck it away.

What a dumb thought.

“You pulled out the shrapnel?” he asked, voice low.

“Every shard.” She tied the bandage off. “You heal fast, even laced with silver, but you’re not out of the woods. Fever’s running you hot.”

“Been worse.”

“Congratulations. Want a medal?”

He nearly smiled—nearly. Sarcasm suited her, kept the fear from showing that he could smell. “How long was I out?”

“Eight hours, give or take. Since I’ve had you anyway. Dawn’s a couple hours off.” She jerked her chin toward the cave mouth, ivy curtain swaying in the night wind. “And in case you’re wondering, nobody followed you in. I checked twice.”

Silas’s memories sifted back through fog.

Convoy flashing lights, scent of gunpowder, wolves in stolen PEACE armor.

He’d slipped into the fray to pull two guards free, taken a slash from a berserker wielding a silver blade, then everything went sideways.

He recalled dragging himself into forest shadows, trying to shift, failing. After that: nothing.

Ava studied him. “You want to tell me why I found you bleeding beside a torched government truck?”

“Do you want honesty or the polite version?”

“Let’s start with why the convoy’s gone and good people are missing.”

Her bluntness sparked respect. He pushed onto an elbow, fighting vertigo. “Group of wolves wearing old pack sigils hit it. Not loyal to King Landon, not exactly rogues either.”

“Friends of yours?”

“Not anymore.” He gritted his teeth as pain knifed through his ribs. “I was trying to stop it.”

Ava’s eyes narrowed. “Single-handed?”

“Didn’t have backup.” He didn’t add that he hadn’t asked for any. Solitude felt safer after the war. A sort of penance that was easier than explaining scars.

She rose, pacing in the narrow space. “Shadowfall is going to panic when they hear. They already blame shifters for every busted chicken coop.”

“Might blame me.”

“Oh, they will, trust me.” She faced him again. “So what’s the play, Silas? You heal up and vanish? Or stick around and help me find the captives?”

“I owe you,” he admitted. “But those wolves won’t be idle. They want leverage, hostages. If they learn you saved me?—”

“I can handle gossip.”

He arched a brow. “Can you handle claws?”

One corner of her mouth quirked. “Got silver rounds. Stops gossip real quick.”

Stubborn human. Brave or foolish, it blurred in the wild. He’d known both types fall under tooth and claw. Yet she stood firm, and something ancient in his chest recognized a kindred will.

“I’ll help,” he said quietly. “You get me on my feet, we track them. Bring survivors home.”

Her shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Good. Because I was marching out with or without you.”

“You always haul wolves into caves, or am I special?”

She rolled her eyes. “You bleed all over my boots, then maybe we’ll discuss special.”

Despite himself, he huffed a laugh. The sound felt rusty.

Ava crouched at her pack, rummaging for medicine. Firelight gilded her profile, accenting the curve of cheekbone, the slight hollow under eyes sleepless too many nights. He saw lines of tension pull her shoulders, but not from fear; from duty. He recognized that weight.

“Why risk it?” he asked. “Human towns have rules, especially in the Borderlands. See a wolf, shoot a wolf.”

“My town has rules,” she answered over her shoulder, “I have my own.” She glanced back, expression softening. “People bleed the same. That’s good enough.”

She returned with a tin cup. “Drink. Broth with willow bark.”

He accepted and sipped. Salty, bitter, lifesaving.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

“Don’t mention it,” she said, but a faint smile tugged the corner of her mouth.

Silas leaned back, muscles easing. Moonlight filtered through ivy, tracing silver bars across the cave floor. His wolf senses noted her heartbeat slowing, her scent shifting warmer. Connection lapped at his consciousness, unexpected and unsettling.

He cleared his throat. “Tell me about Shadowfall.”

She shrugged, sitting cross-legged. “Tiny, opinionated, smells like sawdust and coffee grounds. We’ve got one radio tower, two bartenders, and more shotguns than sense. Folks keep to themselves unless trouble knocks.”

“Trouble?”

“Shifter raids, Gideon’s Torch rallies, Typhon’s Brood likes to pick fights here and there, especially if The Torch rallies are loud, or hunters selling black market silver.

” Her jaw tightened. “Dad tried to keep the peace. Disappeared five years ago after a rogue skirmish. My sister thinks he’ll walk through the door any day. I’m less naive.”

Silas lowered his gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“Save it.” Her tone softened despite the words. “We all lost someone anymore. Yours worse?”

He considered the scar down his back, the memory of collars and chains. “Different kind of wound,” he said. “Still trying to stitch it.”

Their eyes met; an unspoken understanding bridged the space between them. Grief wore many skins.

Outside, a snap echoed like a branch breaking under weight. Silas tensed, cup dropping to dirt. Ava grabbed her rifle, eyes narrowing.

“Stay,” she whispered, creeping to the cave mouth.

He ignored her, forcing his battered body upright, steadying against the wall. Wolf hearing caught hushed voices, crunch of boots, metallic scent of silver.

“Search this way,” a gruff male ordered. “Blood trail ends near the ridge.”

Ava mouthed a curse. She stepped back inside, face pale. “Scouts. Three maybe four. Saw torches through the ivy.”

Silas reached for the hunting knife lying beside the fire, the one she must have taken from him earlier. He balanced on his good leg. “They’ve seen my blood. Won’t leave until they find me.”

“Then we relocate you.”

“Too late.” He tested a small shift, letting claws edge from fingertips, eyes flashing amber. Strength flared, enough for a fight. “I hold them. You take the ridge path.”

“Bullshit.” She pulled another magazine from her belt. “We fight together. I didn’t haul your ass just to ditch you now.”

Admiration bloomed, fierce. “You shoot, I shred,” he agreed.

They doused the fire with dirt. Smoke hissed, mingling with cold air. Footsteps neared.

Ava pressed her back to his, rifle poised. “Try not to bleed on me again,” she muttered.

He bared teeth in silent grin. “No promises.”

The first figure pushed through the ivy curtain.

Silver blade gleamed. Silas lunged, claws sinking into the intruder’s forearm.

The man screamed. Ava fired twice; another scout crumpled.

Third turned to flee, but Silas leapt, momentum carrying them outside, moonlight flashing off fangs and steel.

Pain burned his ribs yet power surged. This he knew: protect, defend.

Minutes later the clearing fell silent save for Ava’s ragged breathing. She lowered her rifle. “Still alive?”

Silas wiped blood from his lip. “Better question: you scared?”

She met his gaze, cheeks flushed. “Terrified,” she said, grinning. “But I’ll manage.”

He laughed, deep and hoarse. Something inside eased, tension loosening its death grip on his spine. The night felt less heavy.

“We need to move before reinforcements arrive,” he said, glancing toward distant lights throughout the Borderland.

“My hideout won’t be safe now,” Ava replied. “But there’s an old ranger station north. Has a radio.”

“You lead.” He staggered once; she caught his arm, steady, warm.

Their eyes locked. Words unsaid sizzled between them—gratitude along with curiosity. He nodded, accepting her support.

Together they slipped into the trees, shadows swallowing steel and blood behind them.

The path ahead twisted with danger, distrust, maybe hope.

For Silas, exile had felt like penance. Tonight, walking beside a human who patched his wounds and stood her ground against silver blades, he wondered if redemption wore storm-green eyes and a leather jacket two sizes too big.

He’d find out—one step and shared hunt at a time.