Chapter Text
It's the waiting that kills you.
Immense; the moving sense of a danger that surrounds you - paralyses your lungs with something that promises, in a real and tangible sense, that this is the wilderness children have nightmares of.
Monsters lurk in the folds of the forest. Wolves stalk and split at twigs: eyes of lead with snapping teeth, even as Clyde pushes you back against the hard muscle of him, and God, but the creaking of your bones under the weight of this intrusion leaves you prone to digging your nails deep into the skin of his back. Leads you to curling your toes against the dirt: jaw working, heart so high in your throat that you can taste the copper of your own blood.
They circle like the tide pulling back; and you say nothing at all.
It's the waiting that kills you, after all.
Clyde's muscles tense, rippling at your touch as a low growl reverberates through his chest. It tingles through your fingers; sparks in your brain, somewhere deeper than sense can find it. There, his meaning is clear as day - a sound for the blonde man who stalks around you both. Stalks like death runs at his heels.
Like both of you are at his whim, even as your mate denies his claim to the very ground he walks on.
"Thought I made it fuckin' clear," Clyde spits, voice like knives in the falling dark, "that there ain't nothin' for you here. Ain't nothin' worth you tearin' through this county for."
The laugh Travis gives in response aches right through your core; your naked body shielded behind Clyde's form as the silver-eyed werewolf licks his lips. The wind almost seems to fall away in the wake of his presence, giving way to something that makes your knees tremble. Goosebumps prickling at your nape: something making Clyde's palm sweat as he digs his nails deep into the crevices.
Travis might herald something - but he's claimed to be the alpha here long before your love dared to take the mantle.
And that inspires something.
"Imagine a world," Travis half-laughs; eyes fixed on Clyde, "a world where I just let insubordination happen. Letting any outcast claim a mate: let him..." - and his silver eyes swirl with something primal as they move to you - "...mate with any She-Wolf he pleases. Let wolves like you run rampant in my pack. Can you picture it, Clyde? Picture what happens to a pack, when rot like that tears away at the very walls of it?"
Clyde doesn't dare to move. Doesn't dare to step forward, even with the rut flaring in his guts.
Doesn't dare to throttle this wolf, lest it leave you without a shield to protect yourself.
"We're at an impasse, you and I. I presume you do know what that means."
Clyde's growl is thick and dark: this clear insult making the wolves that hover in the treeline grit their muzzles in excitement. Blood in the water; waiting for emotional wounds that wind deep enough for them to latch onto you both.
Naked in far more than a physical sense.
"You stallin' for a reason, Travis? Or's this just about puttin' ego somewhere?"
God, but Clyde is just magnificent. Smeared in dirt, covered in cum and slick and mouth smeared with blood - he's no Prince Charming.
He's the big, bad wolf that lurks in the forest.
All yours. Waiting to steal you away.
Travis grits his teeth.
"Debts have to be settled, Clyde. You don't get to walk away."
His hand curls; and it's then that you find your voice, somewhere out there in the dark.
"Who says?" you snarl.
Every.
Wolf.
Freezes.
Every rippling figure in the dark is captured. Every human feels their lips fall short; every wolf waits, captured in the gravity of words coming from your bloodstained lips, forced in a moment so fragile it could snap with the tension of an infinity. The pressure is blinding in the failing light - your words commanding something utterly unknown to you until this very moment. All wolves, somehow, are interwoven: waiting on words from another. A tapestry that builds a pack, dyed and created over a lifetime of pushing and pulling. Hunting and kissing and long winters of wondering; endless and dark as the shadows of the pines, unspooling with every interaction that picks apart the threads.
You may as well be setting the damned thing alight, with the way your words ignite in your throat.
Incredulous - Travis' lip twitches.
"Still shameless," he mutters coldly, "even now."
Clyde dares not take his eyes off of the wolves, but tries to take a step back. Tries to push your naked body back towards a nearby tree; tries to protect you, even amidst this.
You refuse him. As though your very bones are stone and brick and mortar; as though the forest has borne bones of bark and strength within your skin.
And when you step around Clyde; it is the greatest insult your mind can come up with.
Your bare feet find purchase on the crunching leaves. Naked, bared to the air, crusted in dried blood and with your body still shaking from your shift to humanity - you are absolution.
Vindication. Purpose.
There is more power in your shivering form than anything you could have ever imagined. Because loving Clyde - for the better parts, and the worst parts, and every part you've been given - has made you someone this alpha should not fuck with.
Power is a frame of mind, even as your mate tries to grasp for your waist to pull you back.
And still; you stand between him and the alpha who wants him to bend.
Your teeth bare like jagged knives, and the moment suspends.
"I'm with him--" you growl, tipping your head upward as your crimson eyes meet the cold silver of his.
"--so fuck off."
Travis seems to digest this, in the silence of something meaningful. Something that he can't quite keep down; a reality he never thought he'd have to face, as his eyes flicker with a rage you imagine he buries somewhere in the pits of his very soul.
"You don't know what you're saying, girl."
Girl.
Anger tastes like bitter chocolate. Like a fire that explodes through your veins in a dark place; like the feeling of witnessing a wolf trapped in a barred cage. Like scrapes on your chest, and the prickling of hot water against your freezing cold skin. Like the rending of bone, and the deciding of something far greater than you've ever understood. The clap of lightning; too bright, too much, too desperately ready to pull apart atoms than any rational idea could ever be.
Anger is absolute. It is clear beyond clarity: it is a love, more certain than knowing your own being, that makes you tear down the fabric of yourself.
Something moves in your blood. Something like a promise, whispered all those months ago.
'No matter what.'
And you leap forward.
Through the trembling sensations of his rut - it appears in flashes.
One.
You. Just you, staring through the bars of his cage. Stroking his muzzle; emotions stirring somewhere in his chest. Emerald greens and lavender and something brilliant - hope, after all this time.
Two.
You love him. You really love him, as you kiss him through water that runs over his bare skin - makes him fear to drown in you, even as you find him in the darkness.
Three.
You tear through your own skin.
It's as though he can feel the pain of it in his bones - that shift, and the pure violence of it. The way white splits across your form, bones shifting and crunching and pulling as though they're reforming into something utterly inhuman. He knows that feeling; threats that contort werewolves into something entirely different from those four paws, those two legs. The way he's shifted into that monster in front of you, when he's needed to keep you safe and happy.
But seeing you do it? Seeing you ripple and burn as you claw through the trees?
He could just die here and now.
If this is the last thing Clyde Logan sees: my, but it'll be the most fucking beautiful thing he can imagine.
The other wolves scream their anger and frustration, and Clyde is no different. A sound rips from his human throat that shreds at his vocal cords as you collide with Travis; Clyde's bare feet rooted in place despite his desire to protect you, to rip this alpha asunder in your wake. Everywhere Clyde looks is a flurry of movement: the taste of adrenaline, as the pack of wolves ripples, humans in barely-clothed scraps gritting their teeth with pure rage at the sight of the unfolding mayhem.
They couldn't intervene even if they wanted to.
And fuck, do they ever want to.
A She-Wolf, demanding so brazenly that her challenger hand over his title. Perhaps you didn't mean to - perhaps instinct drove you, as it can drive all wolves from time to time. That rising sense of need to assert, somehow, that you have ownership over this makeshift pack. And in this moment, as Clyde pants and feels himself practically tearing his own muscle off - he lets out a howl of pure rage and bliss.
Yes.
You are every inch the Wolf he dreamed of.
Travis makes this enraged sound in the back of his throat as your claws lock with his stomach; shifting, skin rippling as his biology forces him into a different shape. But your maw snaps at his bicep already: not waiting for him to catch up as you both tumble, snarling and snapping, through bracken in a desperate fit of flailing claws and shifting teeth.
Every movement flickers across Clyde's skin through the vague bond, and it's a Hell like no other as Clyde steps forward on reflex.
An unfamiliar Wolf challenges him; skidding up closer, wild eyes daring him to move but an inch.
This is a matter of principle, and Clyde's interference would disturb something ingrained right into his very soul.
Your tail whips; a mass of fur and pure adrenaline echoing through his head as you slam your muscular body against Travis' frame. The full moon usually heralds this form, but here you are regardless - slamming him into a log as Travis swipes at your side, setting claw marks right into your thigh in a way that makes you howl out in agony.
Clyde feels the air knock from his lungs, and he snarls in frustration.
"Come on," he hisses, clenching his jaw in a moment of pure desperation, "come on."
Because Clyde doesn't believe in a whole lot.
He's never been much for religion, or crucifixes, or long speeches named in empty halls. Never been one for reminiscing, or holding to things he doesn't have a sure grip on.
Never been one for false promises. For traditions, or anything they tried to drag him to.
But he's found something to believe in, now.
He believes,
Completely and utterly,
And with all of his heart,
In you.
And that's worth something.
And maybe he's a rogue alpha, and you're a rogue alpha, and this is a march to absolute nothingness. You'll both be forced to submit under the weight of this alpha, and you'll have to flee to somewhere far-flung and distant. And maybe it'll be painful, and an ache like nothing else. Maybe you'll both refuse, and be fighting this battle for the rest of your lives.
But Clyde Logan knows you.
He knows what you can do, and who you are, and every little thing you can be.
And Dear God, but that's worth every bruise on his soul.
Because Travis tries to land a blow - Travis, who is stronger and bigger and more powerful than any wolf Clyde knows - and your clawed arm reaches up.
Grasps at that muscular arm.
And with your free hand; you rip your claws right across his fucking face.
Blood spurts and spews as Travis howls in sheer shock - curling, choking through his maw as it spatters over your white fur. The shrieking gives Clyde no indication of what you've managed to rip, but on his golden eyes seeking out, he sees the side of Travis' long face has three huge gashes right across his muzzle. Deep; not murderous, but enough to create pandemonium as the onlookers move more violently. Howls and screeches erupt from the crowd; madness, as your reddened claws retract, your teeth reaching out to snap but inches from your opponents' face.
Clyde can barely feel his toes.
His cock throbs; mouth watering as the other wolves toss their heads back to rip out cries of pure confusion.
The alpha wolf is victorious - and her claim is righteous.
The crowd ripples: wolves retreating, moving backward into the brush as quickly as they came. Scattering as humans follow with eyes that shine in the dark as they back away, leaving Travis to writhe and attempt to scamper to his feet. By all rights, killing him now would be within your power - it would be considered merciful, perhaps. His disgrace at the hands of a She-Wolf will be the talk of wolves states over.
But Clyde's mate is merciful. Brilliant in her power; she will only ever take what she needs to to see you both safe.
Travis never stood a chance, did he?
You leave him to his wounds in the undergrowth, and with every step - the fur on you seems to melt and fall away. The line you walk is straight towards Clyde, and it's...paralysing. Enchanting.
He has never - not in all his years - ever seen anything hotter in his whole fucking life.
As you walk, paws turn to bare legs. Skin, kissed by the stars and the moon as it begins to rise from the trees, appears from beneath your snowy fur and gives way to a woman who flicks the wet blood from her fingertips. Sauntering to him; dear God, but each inch of you is claimed by the forest and the stars first, and Clyde second.
Exactly how he wants it.
Clyde's voice is lost in his throat. A lump too big to surmount, as he takes you in with a swallow so thick he feels he might choke.
"Alpha," he whispers - hoarse and reverent as he's ever been.
Your lips twist upward, and he is caught.
You reach your hand up and wipe the blood from your palm over Clyde's lips, and he tastes the bitter defeat of a Wolf he'd thought he'd never stop running from. Tastes the fear, and the anger, and the bitter revulsion of this alpha being brazenly set down by a woman empowered with nothing but sheer rage.
Clyde wonders if he'll ever forget the taste, as you cup his jaw in your bloodied hand.
"No one gets to hurt you," you tell him with certainty, red eyes on his lips, "not ever again."
And when Clyde Logan kisses you; he wonders just how he'll ever damned stop.