Mate

You rattle the handle, twisting and tugging with increasing frustration, but it’s no use. Henry locked the door from the other side.

“Open the door,” you demand, your voice low but sharp with urgency.

“No,” he replies, breathless—guilty.

Then you hear it. The unmistakable, rhythmic clack of high heels on the stairs. A woman’s voice follows like a silk ribbon through the air.

“Thank goodness!” Henry exhales, a whisper of relief.

“I’m here, honey,” she says sweetly.

You freeze, your hand still on the handle as shame and anger war within you. Then come the sounds. The creaking bed. The moans. The breathless cries of pleasure echoing through the walls. You listen. You have no choice. Every groan, every gasp—each one ignites the torment already sizzling in your veins. The heat wave hasn’t passed. It’s just taken a cruel new form.

You try to ease your ache a few times—your fingers desperate, trembling—but it only takes the edge off. Nothing satisfies. The fire remains, slow and burning and merciless. Outside, the sky shifts. The golden light dulls into twilight. The sun dips low, finally pulling the heat with it. Relief rolls over the city, but not you.

You don’t realize Henry and his human playmate have slipped away until it’s far too late.

“Henry?” you call out, hesitating.

Silence.

They’re gone.

You’re alone.

Just when you think you'll be forced to sleep on this rooftop, curled in a corner, praying another heat wave doesn’t rise in the night, the door creaks open.

“Dave!” you exclaim, startled and overjoyed. Relief surges through you like a wave crashing over parched earth.

“I’m so sorry I chased you off earlier,” he says, his voice ragged. “This bloody heat wave,” he adds, offering his hand to pull you up.

You accept it without hesitation. Dave—your best friend. Always steady. Always showing up when others don’t.

“Thanks for rescuing me,” you murmur, trying to straighten your clothes, though there’s little dignity left to salvage.

“Let’s get you home. We’ve got to move before another heat wave hits,” he says, already guiding you toward the stairs.

“Another one? Now?” you ask, dread creeping into your voice.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Since the rogues moved into the old castle, their females have been triggering heat waves—even at night. Especially after natural ones like today.”

You blink at him. “Wait, are you saying they’re causing them?”

“Not on purpose,” he shrugs. “I think it’s the un-fated she-wolves. Something about them throws the balance off. That’s just my theory.”

You barely make it a block before you feel it again. The familiar tingling heat curling in your gut. The pressure building inside you.

“Oh no,” you whisper.

Dave turns sharply toward you, then flinches.

“Shit. Your scent’s already changing. You need to run. I’ll hold off anyone I can.”

“Dave—” you begin, but then you see it in his eyes. The moment it hits him. Your scent.

“Run!” he barks.

You don’t hesitate. Your shoes are off. Your legs are pumping. You leap down steps, vault over crates, sprinting through the streets as your body heats from the inside out.

You know you can’t go home. Not like this. You can’t bring a pack of crazed, lust-drunk lycans to your family’s doorstep. Not even your father could fend them off if too many follow.

You run harder.

Faster.

You dodge down side streets, alleyways, familiar shortcuts from your childhood—but something is wrong. You reach a brick wall where there used to be a narrow cut-through.

‘What the hell?’ you think, skidding to a stop. ‘This wasn’t here before.’

Of course not. You’ve been away for years. The town has changed—growing into a city while you were gone.

You spin to find another path, but you’re not alone. A snarl breaks the night. Wolves. Fighting. Growling. Tearing into one another. Their heat-induced frenzy is chaotic and violent.

You try to slip past unnoticed—but two rogues spot you. They block your way, their eyes glowing in the dim light, their scent overwhelming. Danger clings to them like mist, and yet… something about them stirs you.

The males from your own pack stop fighting as soon as a rogue female steps into view. They lose interest in the brawl instantly.

The rogues close in on you, their scent irresistible. One steps forward and shifts into a man. He’s tall, broad, his body glistening with sweat, muscles carved like stone.

You follow his lead.

Your body moves on instinct. You shift, surrendering your clothes and your last shred of modesty. You bare yourself—tempting, aching, wanting. You no longer care. The heat is too much. Resistance is useless.

He steps into you, pulling your naked body against his. You feel him—hard, pulsing. The others shift, their eyes drinking you in, one more beautiful and terrifying than the last.

You want them. All of them.

Their mouths find your skin. Their hands explore your curves. You’re consumed, engulfed by their touch—licking, tasting, grabbing. One drops to his knees between your legs, and you nearly lose yourself—

—but then you smell it.

Him.

Your eyes snap open. A new rogue watches from the shadows, still in wolf form. His eyes glow as they meet yours.

MATE.

It slams into you like a tidal wave. You feel it in your bones.

He growls—a low, vibrating sound—and the alley’s single light flickers, then bursts.

The other rogues release you like your skin has turned to flame. They shift back into wolves and flee, heads bowed in submission.

You are left trembling, naked, and alone with him—your fated mate.

‘A rogue?’ you wonder, stunned. ‘My fated mate is a rogue?’

But your body doesn’t care. It craves him. Needs him. As if the others were just a prelude to this moment.

He shifts.

You can’t see his face clearly—the alley is too dark—but when his skin meets yours, you know. There’s no going back.

“Mine,” he growls, voice husky and raw.

He pins you against the wall, his hands claiming you as he slides inside. You gasp—a sharp cry of pain.

He stills.

“Don’t stop,” you plead, panting. “I need you.”

He moves again. Slow, deep. The pain blends with pleasure until your whimpers are a chorus of longing. His body is rough, but you welcome it. You wrap your arms around him, grounding yourself in the sensation.

Voices call your name. Familiar voices. Your parents.

You ignore them.

So does he.

Then, your father’s shotgun cracks through the night like thunder. Your mate jerks away, startled.

“No,” you cry out, neither of you sated.

He shifts back into wolf form and bolts into the shadows.

Your father doesn’t follow. He knows the rules. No one can be blamed for what happens in the middle of a heat wave.

“My princess!” your mother cries, wrapping you in her coat. You’re not sure if she’s horrified or relieved.

You shift into your wolf form and walk past your father without a sound. Your gaze burns with fury—not that he can see it.

The night is quiet again.

But inside, your body still trembles for your fated mate. And something tells you this is far from over.