Rory Blackfang, the Blackthorn pack's 27-year-old enforcer, woke to the soft creak of his cedarwood cabin and a peculiar tingle in his groin, like a spark igniting kindling. The sensation wasn't unpleasant—just a faint, buzzing warmth at the tip of his cock, as if his inner wolf had decided to scratch an itch with a lightning bolt. He groaned, rolling over in his flannel sheets, the morning light slicing through the curtains to gild his chiseled, hairy chest. At six-foot-three, with tousled black hair and amber eyes that glowed like whiskey in a campfire, Rory was the pack's golden enforcer, "Ironfang" to those who admired his unshakable will. His wolf spirit, a snarling beast he called Red, had never once stirred a rut—until now.
"Settle down, you furry bastard," Rory muttered, assuming Red was just restless from last night's patrol. He swung his legs out of bed, the wooden floor cool against his calloused feet, and stretched, his muscles rippling like a river over stones. The tingle persisted, a nagging pulse down there, but he chalked it up to too much coffee and not enough sleep. The Blackthorn pack's annual budget meeting was today, and as enforcer, Rory had to play referee between squabbling betas and elders who'd argue over a nickel like it was the moon's last howl. No time for rogue sparks.
He dressed quickly—jeans, a fitted black tee, and his favorite leather jacket—each movement making the tingle flare, like a match dragged across sandpaper. By the time he laced his boots, the sensation had spread, a low-grade wildfire crawling along his shaft. "By the moon's furry balls," he hissed, adjusting himself with a grimace. It wasn't painful, but it was distracting, like a mosquito buzzing in his ear, except this mosquito was camped in his pants.
Rory's cabin sat on the edge of Blackthorn Hollow, a forested valley in upstate New York where pine-scented air mingled with the tang of magic. The pack's community was a tight-knit blend of rustic charm and supernatural grit, their homes dotting the hills like stars in a twilight sky. His own place was a cozy fortress of polished wood and wool blankets, with a stone fireplace and a coffee pot that gurgled like an old friend. As he brewed a cup, the drip-drip-drip of the machine synced unnervingly with the pulsing in his groin. He shook his head, willing Red to pipe down. "Not today, buddy. We've got spreadsheets to survive."
The drive to the pack's meeting hall was a sensory minefield. Every bump in the dirt road sent a jolt through his pelvis, the wildfire spreading to a steady throb. Rory gripped the steering wheel of his pickup, his knuckles whitening. "This is not happening," he growled, but Red's voice—a gravelly snarl in his mind—rumbled back, Need to mate, human Rory snorted. Freedom smelled like pine sap and his own rising panic.
By the time he parked outside the meeting hall—a sturdy barn with carved wolf totems and flickering lanterns—the tingle had escalated to a persistent ache, like his cock was staging a coup. He adjusted himself again, cursing the tight denim, and strode inside, hoping his enforcer swagger masked the growing chaos in his pants. The hall buzzed with pack members: people arguing over festival permits, elders knitting scarves imbued with protective runes, and pups scampering underfoot. The air was thick with the scent of cedar, wool, and the faint musk of females pheromones—a cocktail that made Rory's wildfire roar.
He took his seat at a long oak table, the chair's creak like a gunshot to his heightened senses. Across from him, Beta Kael, a practical midage with a no-nonsense glare, was already droning about budget allocations. "Rory, you look twitchy," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Everything alright, Ironfang?"
"Peachy," Rory lied, his voice a gravelly drawl. The ache had intensified, his pelvic muscles contracting in involuntary spasms, sending sharp, urgent signals to his brain. He crossed his legs, hoping to smother the wildfire, but the pressure only grew, a heavy fullness that made him want to bolt for the woods and howl his frustration to the stars.
Then came Elder Myrtle, a quirky octogenarian who smelled like lavender and mischief. She plopped down beside him, her knitting needles clicking like a metronome. Each clack was a hammer to Rory's fraying nerves, the sound syncing with the throbbing in his cock. "I'm working on a scarf for the solstice festival," Myrtle chirped, oblivious to his plight. "Wanna feel the wool? Soft as a pup's belly!" She thrust a skein of yarn into his lap, and Rory nearly yelped as the fuzzy texture grazed his jeans, sending a bolt of electric heat through his groin. Mate,human Fang growled, unhelpfully.
"Wait" Rory muttered under his breath, horrified. The pack had legends of rut-mates—fated partners whose scent triggered a werewolf's primal urges—but Rory had never believed in that nonsense. He was Ironfang, the steady one, not some lovesick pup chasing fairy tales. Yet the wildfire was undeniable, a molten spike that made his cock feel like a pulsing, scarlet monstrosity. He shifted in his seat, sweat beading on his forehead, and tried to focus on Clara's budget charts. Numbers. Safe, boring numbers.
But the room was a sensory trap. The creak of a chair. The tap of a pen. The faint scent of honeysuckle wafting from a window. Each stimulus was a landmine, amplifying the ache until Rory's mind was a haze of need. He pressed a discreet hand against his jeans, desperate to ease the pressure, but it only made things worse, the contact sparking a warm trickle that left a damp spot in his boxers. For the love of the stars,he thought, mortified. Was he leaking? In the middle of a budget meeting?
He needed relief. Now. "Excuse me," he blurted, standing so fast his chair scraped the floor. Clara raised an eyebrow, but he was already halfway to the door, muttering about "checking the perimeter." Outside, the cool air was a brief reprieve, the scent of pine and damp earth grounding him. He beelined for the old outhouse behind the barn, a rickety relic the pack kept for emergencies. Privacy, at last.
Inside, the dim space smelled of cedar and neglect. Rory leaned against the wall, fumbling with his belt, his hands trembling as the wildfire roared. Just take care of it,he told himself, but Red's voice was louder now, a primal chant: Mate. Find her. Now. He growled, ready to give in, when the door creaked open. "Rory? You in there?" It was Luna, the pack's gangly assistant and the she-wolf he casually fucked sometimes clutching a clipboard. "Clara needs your input on the festival budget!"
Rory froze, his hand still on his belt. "Uh, occupied!" he barked, his voice cracking. Luna hesitated, then mercifully retreated, muttering about "weird enforcer vibes." Rory slumped against the wall, the wildfire unabated, his frustration a living thing clawing at his chest. He was Ironfang, damn it. He didn't lose control. But the throbbing, the heat, the relentless pressure—it was shredding his pride like wet paper.
Back in the hall, he barely survived the meeting. Myrtle's knitting needles were a torture device, each click a dagger to his groin. Clara's pen-tapping was a drumbeat, syncing with his pulse. Even the scent of coffee from a nearby thermos was a trigger, its rich aroma stoking the wildfire until Rory was sure he'd combust. He tried every trick—crossing his legs, counting backward from a hundred, reciting pack bylaws—but nothing worked. The ache was a sledgehammer, his cock a traitor that demanded release in the worst possible place.
Finally, the meeting adjourned, and Rory bolted for his truck, his only thought escape. He'd drive to the lake, find a secluded spot, and deal with this madness. The dirt road was a torment, each pothole a fresh assault on his pelvis. By the time he reached the lake's edge, the wildfire was unbearable, a bone-deep pressure that made his balls feel like they were squeezing themselves to death. He stumbled out of the truck, the evening air cool against his sweat-slick skin, and headed for a cluster of pines.
He was halfway to blessed privacy when a voice stopped him cold. "Rory Blackfang? That you?" It was Lena, a human ranger who patrolled the valley, her flashlight cutting through the dusk. She was new, an outsider with no clue about the pack's secrets, and her timing was a cosmic joke. "Got a report of suspicious activity out here," she said, her hazel eyes narrowing. "You okay? You look… off."
Rory forced a grin, his teeth gritted as the wildfire pulsed, a grotesque, throbbing beast that mocked his enforcer title. "Just… communing with nature," he said, his voice a strained growl. Lena raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, and stepped closer, her scent—earthy, with a hint of citrus—hitting him like a freight train. Red roared, Mate! and Rory's control snapped like a twig.
"Gotta go!" he blurted, turning tail and sprinting back to his truck, the wildfire a screaming inferno in his veins. He slammed the door, his breath ragged, and pounded the steering wheel. "This is only the beginning, isn't it?" he snarled to Red, who only howled in delight. Somewhere in Blackthorn Hollow, a legend was waking—a rut-mate, a curse, or something far worse—and Rory Blackfang, the pack's golden enforcer, was caught in its flames.