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COLT

A good deal’s just a lie wrapped in a smile. Lucky for me, I’ve got a killer one.

“Four gallons for that price, Jimmy? You think I’m made of silver bars?” I lean against my bike, flashing just enough teeth to make him think we’re friends, even if the glint in my eye says I’d slit his throat for less.

Jimmy shifts from one scuffed boot to the other, clutching his clipboard like it’s a lifeline. An ancient tanker truck sits behind him, a lumbering beast in the dying sunlight. Gas is worth its weight in gold out here, and he knows it.

“Colt, you’re breakin’ my balls here,” Jimmy mutters. “You know the supply chain’s shot to hell. I can’t go lower.”

I let out a low chuckle, shaking my head. “Shot to hell. Like that’s news.” I tap the handlebars of my motorcycle, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him sweat. “Tell you what. Throw in another gallon, and I’ll toss in this.” I pull a silver lighter from my pocket, flicking it open to reveal the engraved initials. “Genuine pre-Convergence relic. Works like a charm.”

Jimmy eyes it, his greed warring with suspicion. The lighter glints in the fading sunlight, a piece of pre-Convergence nostalgia he can’t quite resist. That’s the trick: show them something shiny, and they never see what you’re really taking.

I keep my expression easy, relaxed. Let him think he’s got the upper hand. While his focus is locked on the lighter, I slide my free hand into the open pocket of his jacket hanging on the truck’s side mirror. I move slow, precise. No sudden jerks, no giveaways.

My hand closes around a pocket knife, the blade dull but serviceable, and a pack of matches.

Nothing flashy, but in a world like this, even the scraps can mean survival. And hey…this is better than a useless, shiny lighter.

Jimmy finally grunts, his shoulders dropping. “Deal,” he says, snatching the lighter from my hand. He doesn’t even test it, too eager to feel like he’s won.

“Pleasure doing business,” I say, letting the corners of my mouth curve into a smile that never quite reaches my eyes.

Jimmy moves to the tanker, dragging the hose to my bike’s gas tank. The liquid gold flows, the soft gurgle like a song while I rest a hand on my bike. It’s seen me through fire and ruin, through lonely highways and near-death scraps.

A rare piece of machinery I’ve kept alive through sheer will and scavenged parts. My lifeline, my escape hatch. The closest thing I have to a home.

Jimmy disconnects the hose, swiping a hand across his sweaty brow. “All topped off.”

“Appreciate it.” I swing onto the seat, kicking the engine to life.

Jimmy waves me off with a grin, holding up the lighter like it’s a trophy. “Safe travels, Morgan.”

“Always,” I call back, the word rolling off my tongue like a joke.

There’s no such thing as safe out here.

The highway stretches out before me, cracked asphalt glowing amber in the setting sun. The wind bites at my face as I ride, the engine’s growl steady and familiar. It gives me time to think—dangerous as that is.

Because this isn’t just a joy ride; I’m headed west for a reason. The Gulf Pack are looking for their lost omegas, and I’ve heard a rumor that one of them is hiding out in Austin. She’s not just any omega either…she’s the Prime’s daughter.

A prize worth more than all the gas in the south.

A person.

The thought hits me like a sucker punch, and for a second, I can’t shake it. Not just a person…an innocent girl. A girl who ran away for a reason.

I clench my jaw, shoving the thought aside. It’s a job–and when work is as hard to come by as it is in this hellscape, you take what you can get.

Besides, I've done worse for less.

I skirt around what used to be Houston, take old and forgotten roads past waterfalls and rivers, scattered with abandoned, rusted out cars. Off to the north, I can see the looming shadow of the Celestial Curtain, a scar on the horizon. All are reminders of the old world–a world I don’t remember, though I’m sure it was better than this. I work for the Angels, yeah—they pay better than the rebels—but I don’t believe in them.

Nothing divine about them. They’re just monsters with tech that make us look like ants under a magnifying glass.

By the time I hit the outskirts of Austin, the sun’s just a burnt ember sinking below the horizon, smearing streaks of orange and red across the sky. The air here feels different—thicker somehow. There’s a sweetness to it, like wildflowers and honey, though I know it’s not quite wildflower season. The scent lingers, faint but persistent, threading through the usual mix of dust and diesel.

I start to notice the signs—a scored patch of earth here, claw marks raking across tree trunks there. A subtle trail of scents, layered and unmistakably lycan. Yeah, I’m getting close.

This pack…they’re not like the scavenging lone wolves I’ve run into before. They protect their own. Rumor has it they don’t take outsiders lightly, and their Prime? Word on the road was he used to be a real son-of-a-bitch about letting new blood in.

But I’m a resourceful bastard. A few well-placed bribes here, a little sweet talk there, and I greased the wheels enough to get past their screening process. Turns out they needed a mechanic. Lucky for them, I’m a damn good one.

Amongst other things.

The road twists and narrows, asphalt crumbling into gravel as I ride further in. The brush gets thicker, the trees darker, like the land itself is warning me to turn around. But then I see it—their perimeter fence.

Tall, wooden, and well-maintained, it’s the most remarkable feature in this stretch of wilderness. Eight feet, maybe more, with thick brambles woven around the base. They’re serious about keeping people out—or keeping something in. Either way, it’s impressive.

I slow as the road straightens, catching sight of a guard tower just beyond the fence. A neon green laser sweeps over me, landing on my chest, lingering too long for comfort.

The light dips slightly, then lowers altogether. Whoever’s up there is a little too trigger-happy for my liking.

“Friendly place,” I mutter.

The bike rumbles to a halt in front of the gates, the growl of the engine fading into an uneasy silence. The towering wooden panels are flanked by thick iron reinforcements, a patchwork of resourcefulness. Two figures stand on a watchtower above, rifles resting in their hands but ready to fire.

The redhead on the left has an affable, skeptical smile, like he’s seen enough not to trust strangers but doesn’t mind giving them a chance. He’s probably the one I’ll want to win over. The blonde on the right? Different story. She’s leaning against the railing, scowling like she's never screwed her face up any other way.. Even from here, I can feel her tension, like a coiled spring ready to snap.

My wolf bristles at her intensity. She’s not just posturing—she’s an alpha. And I’ve never met a female alpha before.

Before I can even dismount, she calls down—and, to my surprise, carrying a British accent. “Who the hell are you?”

I clear my throat and plaster on my best grin. “Colt Morgan,” I say, keeping my tone light and my hands visible. I swing off the bike slowly, making sure every movement is nonthreatening. “Reyes Garza said y’all needed a mechanic.”

Her eyes narrow. “Did he now?” she says, crossing her arms. “Funny, he didn’t mention anything about a drifter showing up unannounced.”

“Frankie,” the redhead mutters, like he’s used to playing mediator. “He mentioned it to me.”

Frankie. So that’s her name. Her gaze doesn’t waver, but I can see her jaw tighten as she glances at the redhead.

“Reyes said you were expecting me,” I add, letting my smile linger just long enough to be disarming. “I can fix just about anything. Engines, wiring, generators—whatever you need.”

She scoffs. “And what’s in it for you?”

“Frankie,” the redhead cuts in again, this time with more authority. He turns to me, his expression friendlier. “I’m Grant. Sorry about her—she doesn’t trust anyone.”

“I don’t trust idiots,” Frankie snaps, glaring at Grant before returning her attention to me. “And I’ve seen enough of them to know one when I see one.”

I shrug, letting her jab roll off me. “Fair enough. Guess you’ll have to decide which one I am.”

Before Frankie can respond, the gates creak open. The sound draws all of our attention, and I peer around the edge of the door to see a huge man walking through the gate, a statuesque brunette at his side. The guy is tall, broad, and bearded…but smiling.

He extends his hand. “Reyes Garza,” he says. “And you must be our mechanic.”

I smile back at him. “Colt Morgan,” I nod. “And this is…” I look at the woman, their scents mingling. “...your mate?”

She snorts, but extends her hand. “Tilda Bingham,” she says. “Sorry–still getting used to the ‘mate’ thing.”

“Gotcha,” I nod. “So…is there some place for me to stash my bike? I don't want it getting in the way.”

Reyes nods. “Follow me,” he says. “We'll give you the grand tour.”

The gate opens just a touch wider, and I follow Reyes and Tilda through to the other side. I catch one more glimpse at Frankie as I walk through, and I can't resist the urge to wiggle my fingers in a cheeky little wave.

She lunges. Grant stops her.

But I don't take the time to revel in my own snark…because the Austin Den takes me by surprise.

Whereas the landscape outside was as rough as anywhere else in the apocalypse, it's actually nice here. It looks downright domestic–missing only white picket fences. Off to my right, a little clump of houses sits pert and perfect, more cabins in the process of being built around them.

And in the grass between those houses…kids. Little wolves, even a pup who looks like he just learned how to shift.

“Huh,” I murmur from where I walk beside my bike. “Y'all have a lot of families here.”

“It's our best kept secret,” Tilda says over her shoulder. “We make people feel safe. And when people feel safe…well, the ones who want ‘em have babies. Reyes made sure folks were secure enough to make that happen.”

As we walk, the scent of wildflowers and honey grows stronger, almost overwhelming me. It makes me…no, hungry isn’t the word for it. I would say horny, but that would be pretty damn strange. Nothing about this should be making me horny; domestic bliss has never exactly been a fantasy of mine.

And yet, here I am, wanting to inject that scent into my veins.

I glance around, seeing a group of older kids tossing a battered frisbee back and forth. A small boy shifts mid-run, stumbling on tiny paws before a teenager—a beta, if my nose is right—catches him and sets him back on his feet. The pup yips, wagging his stubby tail before taking off again.

Safe. They look safe.

It shouldn’t bother me, but it does—because there’s danger in the den, and I’m it, and they have no idea . I shove the thought aside, focusing instead on Reyes as he leads me toward a cluster of larger buildings.

“We’re trying to build something lasting here,” Reyes says. “It’s not just about survival—it’s about living. Thriving.”

Tilda glances back at me. “It’s a hell of a lot harder than it looks.”

“I’m sure,” I reply. I don’t know what to do with this place yet. It feels too polished, too put together. Too…good. Places like this don’t survive long, not in a world where everything’s built on the bones of the past.

“You’ll be working out of the workshop,” Reyes says, pointing to a squat, sturdy building with a tin roof that gleams in the setting sun. “We’ve got a few vehicles that need attention. Generators too. You’ll stay in the back office—it’s not much, but it’s private.”

“Sounds perfect,” I say, meaning it. Privacy is a luxury I don’t take for granted.

“Good,” Tilda says. “Just don’t give Frankie too much trouble. She’s protective of this place.”

I smirk, the memory of her scowl still fresh. “Protective is one way to put it.”

Reyes chuckles. “She’s loyal to a fault, but she’ll come around. Eventually.”

I nod, though I don’t expect Frankie to soften anytime soon. Wolves like her don’t trust easily, and I can’t blame her. I’ve been on the wrong side of trust too many times myself.

Reyes pushes the workshop door open, and the scent of oil and metal greets me like an old friend. The space is cluttered but functional, tools hanging from the walls and workbenches scattered with half-finished projects. A hulking old truck sits in the center, its hood propped open like a patient on an operating table.

“Make yourself useful here, and you’ll earn your place,” Reyes says.

“Got it,” I reply, stepping inside. My fingers itch to get to work, to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of grease and gears. It’s been a while since I’ve had a real space to work in.

Reyes claps me on the shoulder, a gesture that’s surprisingly warm. “Dinner’s in an hour, in the main hall. Join us if you want to meet the rest of the pack.”

“Appreciate it,” I say, meaning it. But as Reyes and Tilda head back toward the heart of the den, I don’t follow right away.

Instead, I take a moment to lean against the workbench, letting the quiet settle over me. My gaze drifts to the open door, to the laughter of children and the golden light filtering through the trees.

This place…it’s dangerous. Not because of its walls or its guards, but because of what it represents.

Belonging.

I push the thought away and turn to the truck, rolling up my sleeves. Better to keep my hands busy than let my mind wander.

Because the truth is, I don’t belong here. Not really.

And if these people knew why I’d come, they’d make damn sure I never did.