Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
GIDEON
W hat have I done?
I don’t regret claiming and marking her—she’s my mate. That truth is bone-deep, cellular. But part of me still reels from the weight of it, from the jarring contrast between instinct and memory. I’ve known Maggie since she was a teenager—sharp-elbowed, all knees and stubborn fire, Kari’s best friend with a laugh that was too big for her frame. I watched her grow up from a distance I thought was safe. Now she isn’t a girl anymore. She’s mine. And that rewrites everything.
"The bite changed everything."
I say the words quietly, my fingers trailing over the edge of the sheet still tangled around Maggie’s waist. She sits cross-legged on the bed, my hoodie draping over her like a second skin, bare legs folded beneath her, posture loose but alert. Her golden-tinged eyes study me—not fearful, but sharp, curious, and calculating, like she’s working her way through a math problem with high stakes. There’s an additional weight behind her gaze, not just from the changes she’s undergoing, but from the knowledge that her world will never return to what it was. She isn’t backing away. She’s leaning in—measuring me, measuring herself, adjusting to the truth as it reveals itself layer by layer.
"You didn’t just mark me," she says, voice low, her fingers brushing the sensitive edge of the bite. "You rewired me. You changed the rules of what I am—of who I’m going to be."
I nod. "It restructured your DNA. It’s why you feel a little out of sorts. Your body is trying to integrate something it wasn’t born to carry. It’s a violent thing the first time. The bond snaps into place, and then the biology scrambles to keep up."
She’s quiet for a moment. "So what happens now?"
"You’ll change. You already are. Your body will adapt to the shifter genome. You’ll heal faster. Get stronger. Live longer. You’ll be able to change form at will once the transition completes."
She doesn’t speak right away. Her eyes lift toward the window, following the ripple of the blinds as the Gulf breeze stirs them with gentle insistence. The motion is small but grounding, like she’s letting the wind cool the swirl of thoughts behind her eyes. Her gaze lingers there—on the shimmer of moonlight catching against the glass, on the faint reflection of the two of us tangled up in a future neither of us planned for—until her shoulders ease and she turns back to me.
"And the instincts? The wolf part?"
"They’re already waking up," I say. "Which is why you’re feeling everything so sharply. The speed, the hunger, the emotional surges—they’re all part of it. You’re transitioning faster than most. Probably because of the bond. But it’s going to hit hard. And when it does, I’ll be here. Every step of the way."
Her eyes cut to mine. "You’re not going to pull the alpha card on me, are you?"
A grin tugs at my mouth. "Only if you ask nicely. Technically, Rush is our alpha—Team W follows his lead. But all of us? We’re alphas too. It’s not a hierarchy, it’s a powder keg with discipline. Sometimes it means butting heads. Sometimes it means watching each other’s backs harder. But for you? You’ll always answer to me. I’ll always be your alpha."
She rolls her eyes, but her smile cracks through—sharp, crooked, and radiant, lit by the familiar gleam of mischief I know better than my name. But something else lives behind it now. That fire I’ve always seen smoldering in her has grown into a blaze—hotter, wilder, laced with something raw and primal. It isn’t just attitude anymore. It’s something elemental, electric. Like the wild has touched her and left its mark. A pulse of feral heat shimmers beneath her skin, not quite visible, but feels like the moment before a storm breaks open the sky. And God, it stirs every instinct in me—the beast, the protector, the man. All of them answering to her.
Just as I lean toward her, ready to pull her closer, my phone vibrates sharply on the nightstand. The screen lights up with a name I know too well, and the second I read the message, the lines of my body go taut. "Damn it," I mutter, already sitting up.
Maggie stiffens. "That the team?"
I nod, already standing, already halfway back in my jeans. "Some kind of rogue pack—six of them, shifter signatures confirmed. Tied to the Grangers. They’re armed and heading into Galveston. Tonight."
She’s off the bed in an instant. "Then we go."
"Mags...” I reach for her arm, not to stop her, but to steady her. Her scent has changed—no, evolved—enough that I can feel the storm beneath her skin. Her pupils are wide, jaw tight, breath coming fast. She isn’t panicking. She’s speeding up. Her system is surging with instinct, her body fighting to align what it remembers being with what it’s now becoming. I see the shimmer of pain flicker behind her eyes, just for a second. A spike in her pulse, an internal war she’s too proud to show.
"Maggie," I say more gently. "You’re still transitioning. You’re not like the rest of us—yet. Your instincts are going to override logic. Things might come faster than you expect. Too fast. You could get hurt."
She looks up at me, fierce and unflinching, but there’s a tremor in her fingers that betrays the raw edge of the transition burning under her skin. "Then I’ll fight through it," she says, her voice rough but steady. "But don’t treat me like I’m breakable just because I’m new. I’m not porcelain, Gideon. I’m fire. And you damn well know it."
The defiance in her eyes is bright, the flush on her cheeks more heat than fear. Her breath comes in shallow bursts, her body humming with a primal energy she’s only beginning to understand—but none of it dulls the truth in her tone. There’s strength there, not recklessness. She isn’t asking for permission. She’s demanding respect.
My mouth tugs into the barest grin, pride cutting through the undercurrent of concern like a blade through cloth—sharp, undeniable, and full of heat.
"No. Don’t ‘Mags’ me. I’m one of you now. You don’t get to lock me in a tower because it’s inconvenient."
"You’re not a Ranger."
She’s still for a moment, as if considering. "Kari isn’t a Ranger either. Can you honestly tell me if your sister was the baker, and I was the romance writer, you would try to exclude her?"
"Wouldn’t I?" I say, scrubbing a hand over my jaw, watching her. That doesn’t seem to appease her. "First, if Kari owned the bakery, she’d be in jail for unintentional manslaughter—she’d have killed people with food poisoning. You’ve tasted her cooking, right?"
Maggie laughs in spite of herself. “I understand your point, which is why I was so shocked at your baking skills. Kari and I agreed a long time ago—my talent was in pastry; hers was in writing.”
Her eyes are fierce, her jaw set in that familiar line of stubborn resolve. The surrounding air seems charged, not with fear, but with rising power—raw and electric. Her scent has begun to evolve—damn it, transform—deepening with the markers of change that prickle against my skin. It isn’t just adrenaline. It’s the thrum of something ancient awakening inside her, a new rhythm syncing with the pulse of the night. She doesn’t just want to help. She’s burning to step fully into this new skin, to own every inch of what she’s becoming.
"Fine," I say. "But you stay close. You let me lead. No heroics. No exceptions."
She nods. "Deal."
* * *
Shadows and silver cloak the waterfront, the moon hanging low like an omen carved from ice. The sea laps lazily at the piers, each soft crash of water echoing like a held breath across the stillness. I walk in step with Maggie, Gage, and Dalton, the four of us strung in silent formation. We look like what we are—a pack hunting not with teeth, but with readiness, every sense attuned to the tension in the air. Maggie’s arm brushes mine once, and her warmth grounds me even as the wind cuts cold through the cotton of my shirt. She doesn’t speak, but her eyes scan the horizon with sharp, new clarity. The calm around us feels deceptive—not peace, but pause. Like the city itself is crouched, waiting for violence to bloom.
Then it hits—an explosion that shatters the night. One of the food trucks at the end of the pier—a ball of fire and shattered metal.
Fire roars up from the far end of the pier, a blinding bloom of orange and red against the silver quiet of the waterfront. Heat punches the air, shoving it outward in a wave that makes windows rattle and sends flocks of startled gulls screaming skyward. The blast rolls through our bones, gut-deep and final. Smoke blooms fast, acrid and thick, already curling up into the sky like a signal.
Shadows move in the firelight. Armed. Aggressive. The food truck—what had been a familiar stop for tourists and locals alike—is now a twisted skeleton engulfed in flame. And from within the flickering chaos, the figures move. Not civilians. Not allies.
I don’t think. I roar, body already responding to the deep instinct that surges from my core. The mist rushes in, coiling around me—cool, electric, alive. It spins like fog with a mind of its own, summoned by the ancient magic of my kind. One heartbeat I’m a man. The next—I’m power incarnate. Muscle, fang, and fury unleashed into the night.
Dalton and Gage lunge into the fray a breath behind me, their forms blurring into massive wolves in a flash of fur and bone. Our howls split the night—a battle cry, a claim, a promise of violence to anyone stupid enough to test our pack. The sound echoes across the waterfront, primal and furious, harmonizing with the chaos blooming around us.
Maggie gasps, frozen for a heartbeat as three massive wolves launch into action around her—one black as midnight, one slate-gray with a jagged scar down its side, and one streaked with copper, its eyes gleaming like molten gold. Our sudden movement is a shockwave, the force of our presence hitting her like wind off a cliff. And then something in her responds—a snap of adrenaline, a burst of clarity. Not fear. Recognition. The part of her that has begun to change, to awaken, rises like a tide. And instinct takes her.
Something primal snaps loose inside her, like a tether giving way. Heat surges beneath her skin, adrenaline sharpening her senses. She doesn’t hesitate—can’t. Her legs move before the thought can catch up, boots pounding the pavement as she hurls herself forward, teeth bared in a snarl that doesn’t belong to the woman she used to be. Her vision tunnels, locked on the threat, on Dalton’s exposed flank. Maggie sees it before he does. Her fingers curl like claws, and she moves faster than she ever has—no time to think, just motion, just muscle. She slams into the attacker, knocking the blade off course.
She can’t change form—not yet—but that doesn’t matter. She’s not defenseless. Not anymore.
She slams into the thug’s arm mid-swing, throwing his balance off. The blade misses its mark by inches, and Dalton spins, jaws snapping.
I see it all—Maggie’s body moving with raw instinct; her strike saving Dalton from a blade that would’ve torn straight through him—and something fierce clenches deep in my chest. Pride, yes, but something bigger. Something harder to name. A primal surge of awe and fierce protectiveness, braided with the staggering realization that this woman—my mate—is fighting beside me, not behind. The blood arcing through the air is real, but so is the fire in her. And that fire is mine to protect, to nurture, to stand beside for as long as I have breath in my lungs.
We’re able to thwart the Grangers’ thugs. Brutal. Messy, but we win.
When it’s over, we linger in the shadows beyond the wreckage, adrenaline still buzzing through our veins. The scent of blood clings to the salt-heavy breeze. Maggie, breathless, looks to the pier—nothing. No sign of Chas. No final blow. Not yet.
I nudge her with my muzzle.
“We need to move,” she says, her voice low but urgent.
Dalton and Gage, still bloodied and probably bruised, fall in behind us without question. Maggie gives a tight nod and leads the way, cutting through the alley behind the beach cafés, ducking between buildings, avoiding streetlights and the possibility of being seen. Her steps are light, fast, calculated—a new grace in her body that hadn’t been there days ago.
We reach the back of the loft building without incident, slipping through the employee access door she keys open with trembling fingers. "Come on," she whispers, glancing over her shoulder.
We slip into the back entrance of the building, avoiding the main stairwell and hugging the walls as Maggie leads the way. I follow close behind her, my senses on high alert for any trace of pursuit. The hallway is quiet, dimly lit, with the muffled hum of distant appliances seeping through the walls. Once inside her loft, she motions toward the guest bathroom and the secondary closet in the spare bedroom. Dalton and Gage duck inside and re-emerge a few moments later, changed into the fresh clothes they’d prepped and hidden in advance—hoodies, jeans, boots—simple and tactical.
I close my eyes, summoning the part of me that remembers being more than muscle and fang. The mist begins to rise—color swirling like storm clouds laced with electric threads, thunder rumbling low in the distance, and the air crackles as the magic coils tight. The shift comes with a flash of power, bone and sinew reforming until the storm recedes and I’m standing upright again—human, breathless, and utterly bare. Maggie’s already there, steady and silent, holding out a pair of sweatpants. I take them from her hand and pull them on without a word, my eyes still dark with the echo of the run and the memory of her scent in the moonlight.
I step closer, lowering my voice, my hand gently grazing her elbow.
"You okay?" I ask, more than casual concern behind the words—my eyes sweep over her, looking for signs of pain, disorientation, anything that says she’s pushing too hard.
She nods once, but her eyes stay on the closed door. "No one saw."
But the night isn’t done.
I lower my mouth to her neck, breathing in the wildness that clings to her skin—her scent is richer now, threaded with the electric charge of magic and the unmistakable echo of change. I brush my lips against the fresh bite mark, pressing a kiss to the bruised edge where her skin still pulses with the heat of the bond. She tilts her head slightly, not pulling away but leaning in, her fingers lifting to trace the wound slowly, reverently, like she can still feel the moment it happened. Her touch lingers, fingertips exploring the tender curve of the mark, half in awe and half in wonder, as if it holds a truth her heart already understands—even if her mind hasn’t caught up yet.
“You’re still burning from it,” I murmur.
“I can feel you in my skin,” she whispers, and I don’t miss the awe or the tremble beneath the words.
I kiss the mark gently, then press my forehead to the curve of her shoulder. “That’s because we’re not finished yet.”
I see the tension still simmering beneath Maggie’s skin—the faint twitch in her fingers, the rigid line of her shoulders, the way she moves away and paces by the window like a storm waiting to break. Her eyes are alert, scanning the quiet skyline with the same vigilance I’ve seen in battle-hardened Rangers. But it isn’t fear driving her—it’s something wilder, coiled and growing.
I close the distance between us without a word, silent on the hardwood until I stand just behind her. Then, I slip my arms around her waist and pull her back against my chest. My hold is firm, grounding—no hesitation, no ask. Just presence.
She doesn’t tense. Instead, her body softens against mine with a slow, deliberate breath, her spine easing into the curve of mine. Her head tilts slightly, resting against my chest, and I feel her heartbeat slowly sync to mine. Her hands lift to rest over my forearms, fingers sliding lightly along my skin, not clinging—but claiming.
I nuzzle the top of her head, breathing in her scent, my voice low and quiet. “You’re not alone in this, Maggie. Never again.”
Her response is a small nod, but her body tells me more. She isn’t standing because she has to. She’s standing because she chooses to. And this—this quiet, fierce trust—is everything.
I lead her down to the beach, the salt-heavy breeze whipping at our clothes, the ocean's pulse matching the energy still humming in our blood. The sand is cool beneath our bare feet, moonlight painting the shoreline in silver and shadow. I stand beside her in the surf, close enough that our arms brush, and when she looks at me—uncertain, breath catching—I dip my head to whisper against her ear.
“Breathe deep. Feel your heartbeat. Let it settle, then listen for the one underneath it. That’s the rhythm. That’s the call. Don’t chase it. Let it find you.”
She removes her clothes and closes her eyes, drawing in a lungful of sea air, her chest rising and falling in time with the waves. I watch her face change—eyebrows pulling tight, lips parting slightly as something deep inside her stirs. The air thickens around us, humming with power.
Then it comes—slow and certain. The mist.
It rises from the sand like breath from a slumbering beast—cool and electric, laced with the scent of salt and ozone. It whispers across the ground in sinuous tendrils, curling around her ankles, coiling up her spine. The air shifts, the temperature dropping just enough to raise goosebumps along her arms. It makes a soft, barely audible sound, like silk brushing over stone, and carries with it the sharp tang of coming change—metallic, wild, alive. The mist isn’t just a herald of transformation. It’s a force, a veil between what was and what will be. As it thickens, the moonlight fractures through it, casting halos and shadows in equal measure, cloaking her in something ancient and infinite.
It curls around her feet like a thin, sparkly fog, spiraling upward, winding along her legs, her arms, and her torso like ribbons pulled by unseen hands. It shimmers faintly with energy, not quite light, not quite shadow, as though the very air is being rewritten around her. Her skin glows in its embrace, outlined in something ancient and alive.
She gasps, the sound sharp but awed, her eyes wide as her body begins to hum with energy. Magic curls up her spine like a wave cresting, her skin glowing faintly under the moonlight. Her hands clench, her knees wobble, and her spine arches as if something ancient and primal is being drawn up through her bones. The mist enshrouds her in slow, spiraling tendrils—cool and electric, wrapping her in an ethereal cocoon of light and shadow. And then—without a cry or warning—she vanishes into it.
In the place where Maggie had been, a tawny she-wolf stands, sleek and regal beneath the moonlight. Her fur shimmers in shades of gold and warm amber, catching the light like something forged in fire and starlight. Her eyes—still hers, still fierce and clever—lock onto mine, filled with new instinct, wonder, and wild recognition. Her form is different, but the essence of her has not changed. It’s deepened, become something ancient and unbreakable.
I step forward. She nuzzles my hand gently with her snout. She looks down at her front paws, then back over her back to her tail, which she wags. She lets out a sharp yip—a surprised, instinctive sound that bursts from her throat before she can stop it, more animal than human, and entirely non-verbal. Then she takes off like lightning.
I shed the last of my clothes, shift, and launch after her, my form low and powerful, paws churning up the sand as I chase the blur of tawny fur ahead. The beach stretches out before us like a silver ribbon under the moon, the crash of waves harmonizing with the pounding of our paws. The world shrinks to wind in my ears, the clean snap of salt in the air, and the magnetic pull of her energy just ahead. We race together, wild and free, our bodies moving in perfect tandem—two predators, two souls, born to run beneath the stars.
Our limbs stretch long and fast beneath the moonlight, fur glinting silver where it catches the light, breath puffing in tandem as we tear down the shoreline. Every muscle moves in harmony, each beat of our paws a drum against the sand. We don’t race—we fly. A pair of primal echoes reborn under the stars, our bodies carving matching paths across the wet earth like we’ve been chasing each other for lifetimes.
* * *
Back at the loft, her body still humming from the shift, Maggie pads barefoot across the floor, hair tousled from the run, skin glowing with sweat and moonlight. She turns to me as I stand by the window, shirt half-on, chest rising with each breath.
“So,” she says, voice low and unreadable. “What happens when I stop being yours?”
I still. The air between us pulls taut. And then I cross to her, slow and deliberate, cupping her jaw with one large, steady hand.
“That’s never going to happen, Maggie,” I growl low. “Because you’re not a possession. You’re a part of me. And no part of me walks away.”
She doesn’t respond. She just kisses me with a hard and relentless passion, and I let her take exactly what she needs.
Blood, power, and love all blur into one elemental craving when it’s her on my tongue—not just hunger, but reverence. It’s a vow sealed in sensation, primal and precise, a claim deeper than instinct and more potent than any promise I could make with words alone. The taste of her lingers like memory and possession, threading through me with the quiet finality of fate accepted and owned.