A bottle shattered. A furious snarl ripped through the air. Two wolves, fueled by booze and bad tempers, launched at each other.

Chaos exploded. Chairs scraped. Tables overturned. Roars and shouts filled the air. The bartender yelled, grabbing a baseball bat from under the counter.

The stranger’s green eyes snapped towards the fight, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. But his hand remained firmly, possessively, over mine on the bar. He didn’t look scared. He looked… inconvenienced.

Then, his gaze swept back to me, intense and unreadable. Amidst the sudden violence, the shattering glass, the animalistic snarls, his voice cut through, low and utterly certain, aimed only at me:

"Stay close."

His grip tightened fractionally. Not a request, more like a command and in those green depths, for the first time that night, I saw something flash that wasn't just observation or power.

His eyes looked like a promise and behind him, reflected in the broken mirror behind the bar as the brawl surged closer, I saw it. Just for a split second the flicker of a predatory gold deep within that impossible green.

Wolf.

Chaos erupted. Glass shattered. Snarls ripped through the air like feral beasts unleashed. Bodies crashed into tables, sending drinks flying. The Howling Moon became a cage of violence.

But the stranger? The one with eyes like captured forest fire and a hand that burned mine even through the whiskey haze? He didn’t flinch. Just a flicker of profound annoyance crossed his face, like a king disturbed by peasants brawling. His grip on my hand tightened – not painfully, but with an absolute certainty that rooted me to the stool even as instinct screamed to bolt.

"Stay close," he’d said. Not a suggestion. A command that vibrated in my bones.

He moved then. Not into the fray, but around it, pulling me off the stool with effortless strength. He kept his body angled between me and the surging fight, shielding me with his sheer bulk. His movements were economical, terrifyingly precise, as he steered us towards the back exit, using overturned chairs and fleeing patrons as cover. His eerie green eyes scanned the room, missing nothing, calculating trajectories like a predator assessing threats to its… what? Its drink companion?

We burst out into the alley behind the bar. The sudden shift from raucous heat to cold, damp darkness was jarring. Rain had started, a steady, icy drizzle that slicked the grimy pavement and plastered strands of my auburn hair to my face. The sounds of the brawl faded behind the heavy fire door, replaced by the drumming rain and the frantic hammering of my own heart.

He didn’t let go of my hand. Just started walking, pulling me along beside him with long, ground-eating strides towards a sleek, black SUV parked under a flickering streetlight. It looked expensive, powerful, utterly out of place in this dingy alley. Like him.

"Who…?" I started, my voice shaky, the whiskey courage rapidly evaporating, leaving cold dread and confusion in its wake. The world tilted slightly. Too much booze, too much adrenaline crash.

He didn’t answer. His head snapped up, nostrils flaring almost imperceptibly. His entire body went still, coiled tight. The easy annoyance vanished, replaced by a chilling, focused stillness.

"Company," he growled, the single word low and dangerous.

They melted out of the shadows further down the alley. Seven of them. Big, mean-looking wolves, faces obscured by hoods pulled low against the rain, but their hostile intent radiated off them like heat. They moved with the loose-limbed confidence of pack hunters, fanning out to block our path to the SUV. Knives glinted dully in the weak light. Brass knuckles. One hefted a length of pipe.

The leader, a hulking brute with shoulders nearly as wide as my stranger’s, took a step forward. Rainwater streamed down his scowling face. "Hand her over, pretty boy," he sneered, his voice a gravelly rasp. "The little Luna’s got a price on her head. Big one. Walk away, and you get to keep breathing."

A price? On my head? The cold dread solidified into icy terror. Ethan? Brielle? My parents? Who wanted me dead that badly? The numbness threatened to swallow me whole again.

The stranger beside me didn’t react to the threat. His gaze swept over the seven goons, a dismissive, almost bored assessment. When he spoke, his voice was calm, utterly devoid of fear. "No."

The leader spat on the wet ground. "Wrong answer." He jerked his head. "Take her. Kill him."

They surged forward as one, a wave of snarling violence.

What happened next was a blur of brutal efficiency that stole my breath. My stranger didn’t shift. Didn’t roar. He just… moved.

He met the first attacker head-on, catching the swing of the pipe with a forearm block that sounded like a tree branch snapping. The pipe wielder howled, his wrist clearly broken. My stranger pivoted, using the man’s momentum to hurl him bodily into the two charging from the left. They went down in a tangle of limbs and curses.

A knife flashed towards his ribs. He sidestepped with impossible speed, grabbed the attacker’s wrist, twisted sharply. The sickening crack of bone echoed off the alley walls. The knife clattered to the ground. A fist aimed for his head; he ducked under it, came up inside the man’s guard, and drove an elbow into his solar plexus. The man folded like wet cardboard, gasping.

Two more came at him simultaneously. He dropped low, sweeping the legs out from under one, sending him crashing onto his back on the wet concrete. The other got a vicious kick to the knee that buckled it sideways with a horrible crunch. He was down, screaming.

The leader roared, charging like a bull, brass knuckles gleaming. My stranger didn’t retreat. He stepped into the charge. One hand shot out, grabbing the leader’s wrist mid-swing, stopping the blow cold. The other hand clenched into a fist and slammed into the leader’s jaw. The impact was sickeningly loud. The big man’s head snapped back, eyes rolling up, and he dropped like a felled ox, unconscious before he hit the ground.

The seventh goon, seeing his companions dispatched in seconds, froze, eyes wide with terror. He dropped his knife, turned, and fled into the rainy darkness, slipping and scrambling.