Tender Wild (Sin & Steel #4)

Chapter One

Miguel nudged the door open wider, rusted hinges squeaking. Every muscle tensed as shafts of sunlight pierced through broken windows high above, illuminating dust particles that swirled like tiny galaxies before drifting back into shadow. Diablo followed him inside, his black leather boots scuffing against the dusty floor. The air was thick and musty, carrying the scent of old rust and mildew.

Dark patches stained the concrete floor, leading deeper into the building.

Miguel’s scarred face twitched, his wolf senses amplifying everything. The buzzing. The smell. The dread building at the base of his skull. He yanked his bandana up over his nose, but the stench still punched through.

“Smells like death.” Diablo pulled a bandana from his pocket, tying it around his face like they were about to rob a train instead of investigate the abandoned warehouse they were visiting way too often.

Miguel didn’t respond. The stench crawled into his nostrils and stuck there—a mix of copper, rot, and something else. Something wrong.

“You hear that?” Diablo whispered.

“Hard not to.” Miguel tilted his head toward the droning buzz that filled the cavernous space, like hundreds of flies swarming.

Last time he’d been there, only a few buzzed around. Now the sound had multiplied into something that scraped against Miguel’s eardrums like sandpaper. Each step forward only made the buzzing louder, the stench stronger. Something cold settled in his gut.

He reached back, fingers brushing the gun tucked into his waistband. Cold metal against his fingertips. He glanced up at one of the cameras Suero, Cesar, and Lucio had installed, knowing they had eyes on them but still not feeling reassured. They’d reported finding blood after they’d returned, but nothing else.

“Maybe we should call for some backup.” They weren’t even supposed to be here. He’d let Diablo convince him to come along. Something about a promise he’d made, though the brother hadn’t gone into details.

Matias was going to fucking kill them. Miguel should’ve kept his ass at the tavern, slinging drinks and thinking about the night he’d hung out with Jared. They hadn’t had sex, but the time they’d spent together was still unforgettable.

“You saying I’m not enough backup?” Diablo asked, voice tight. His eyes remained fixed on the shadows ahead. He still couldn’t shift into either form. This place had to be a grim reminder of what the hyenas had done to him. Miguel wasn’t going to try and reassure him. Nothing he said would lessen Diablo’s bitter anger.

“Could be a deer,” he said, voice muffled behind fabric. “Wandered in, couldn’t find its way out.”

“You don’t believe that for a second,” Miguel replied. “Blood trail heads that way.” He nodded toward a set of double doors.

“Fresh.” Diablo’s nostrils flared.

As they drew closer, the flies gathered more densely, forming a dark cloud above something lying on the ground. Beneath the buzz, a wet sound. Dripping. Miguel crouched, squinting through the dim light. He kept his breaths shallow, trying not to breathe in more of the rancid air than necessary.

“Fuck this,” Diablo muttered, pulling out his phone. The flashlight beam cut through the eerie stillness. A dark pool had formed on the floor ahead, spreading outward from behind a stack of rotting pallets.

Miguel edged forward, each step measured. Diablo pulled his own gun, keeping it low, cell phone still gripped in his other hand.

“ Ay dios mío ,” Diablo breathed.

Not a deer.

A body lay sprawled on its back, trapped in mid-transformation. A bear shifter from the looks of it. Miguel guessed male from his height and build. His eyes stared upward, cloudy and fixed, mouth open in a final, silent scream. The blood had drained completely, pooling on the concrete below in a massive, congealed puddle where flies swarmed thick as oil.

Not a clean death. Messy. Brutal.

Miguel crouched beside the body, careful to avoid the blood. The smell was suffocating, piercing through his bandana as he looked closer. Not only to memorize, but to understand what they were dealing with.

Diablo turned slowly. The flashlight beam swept across the warehouse floor, revealing scuff marks in the dust. “Drag marks.”

Following the marks, they discovered five more bodies, each one just like the first.

A chill ran through Miguel’s veins. They had to be failed test subjects of whatever serum Diablo had been injected with. He glanced at Diablo and saw fear in his eyes. That could’ve been him had his body rejected the serum like these ones obviously had.

“Take pictures,” Diablo said flatly, jaw tight. “Matias needs to see this.”

I wish to god I could unsee this. Miguel pulled out his phone and snapped over two dozen photos, wondering who these men were. From the color of their fur, three were bears, the other two cheetahs. This was a horrific way to fucking die.

Miguel tucked his phone into the inside pocket of his leather, the weight of what they’d just seen settling deep in his gut. Six shifters lay dead, their bodies contorted and caught mid-transformation, faces locked in expressions of torment. The hyenas weren’t just experimenting.

They were slaughtering.

Diablo’s face had gone hard, jaw muscles bunched tight beneath his skin.

“Let’s go. Nothing more we can do here,” Miguel muttered, already heading toward the exit.

“Yeah,” Diablo replied. The word came out flat and emotionless. Miguel knew better. Beneath that stoic mask, the wolf was reliving his own nightmare.

They moved quickly toward the exit. Diablo’s eyes never stopped scanning the warehouse, like he expected more bodies to materialize from the shadows.

The summer heat hit like a sledgehammer after the warehouse’s dank chill. Miguel yanked the bandana off his face. The air was clean and fresh after the stench of death, but it couldn’t wash away what they’d seen.

Their bikes waited outside, polished chrome reflecting the afternoon sun.

Diablo climbed onto his massive machine, a creation of shiny black metal and chrome with sharp, powerful lines that he’d crafted himself. The tires were thick, and the handlebars spread out extensively. The leather seat creaked as he settled his weight onto it.

Miguel swung his leg over his own cruiser, flinching at the heat against his jeans as he fired up the engine. “Someone’s using this place as a dumping ground.”

“Or a testing facility,” Diablo added, his eyes hollow. “Could’ve been me.”

No point arguing the truth. Miguel revved his engine, pebbles scattering under the tires as they put distance between themselves and the warehouse of horrors.

The road stretched ahead, a black ribbon slicing through overgrown fields, heat shimmering off the asphalt. Miguel’s T-shirt clung to his back under his leather jacket, sweat trickling down between his shoulder blades.

His thoughts drifted to Jared, to the way the cheetah had looked at him that night—curious, unafraid of his scars. For the first time since the accident, he hadn’t felt like a freak. Even after Jared left to return home, he kept in touch with Miguel, texting, calling, and sharing funny memes or chatting about his day. It had only been a week, but he already missed the cheetah.

A flicker of movement in his side mirror yanked him back to reality.

Four motorcycles, coming up fast.

“Damn it,” he said under his breath, accelerating slightly to pull alongside Diablo at the next stretch of straight road. “We’ve got company.”

Diablo’s gaze flicked to his own mirror. His expression told Miguel everything. The brother’s jaw was locked, eyes narrowed to slits, hands gripping the handlebars like he wanted to rip them off. He recognized that look. Diablo wasn’t scared. He was furious.

Miguel knew what the brother was itching to do—stop everything, throw punches, and rip them apart. But that wasn’t an option.

“Four of them,” Miguel said, voice raised over the engines. “Sportbikes.”

Diablo nodded once, throttling up. The road blurred beneath them as they picked up speed, wind battering Miguel’s face. He squinted against it, eyes watering slightly.

Another glance in the mirror confirmed what he feared. They were gaining. The sleek bikes ate up distance with ease, designed for speed in a way their cruisers weren’t.

“They’re gaining,” Miguel called out. He felt exposed. If these assholes caught them, if they had those tranquilizers...

One-handed, he pulled out his phone and fired off a text to Matias. SOS. He shared his location then hit send, shoving the phone back into his pocket.

Diablo said something, but the words were lost to the wind as he opened his throttle wider. Miguel followed suit, the bike’s engine growling in protest.

The speedometer climbed: seventy, eighty, eighty-five. Both bikes accelerated, engines screaming as they pushed past ninety. The sportbikes closed in, sleek and predatory compared to their heavier cruisers. Miguel felt his bike resist, too heavy for these speeds.

The road curved ahead, a long bend that would slow them down. Miguel downshifted, leaning into the turn. In his mirrors, the sportbikes handled the curve with ease. They were close enough now that Miguel could make out details—dark visors, lean bodies hunched over their tanks.

Had to be Hyenas.

Five miles to the town limits. The hyenas gained ground, their engines whining higher as they ate up the gap, gaining precious feet.

“We can’t outrun them,” Miguel shouted.

D iablo bared his canines and decelerated. What the fuck was he doing? With a curse, Miguel did the same.

Rubber burned against asphalt as Diablo’s bike skidded onto the shoulder. Miguel followed, cutting his engine as loose pebbles crunched beneath his bike. He jumped off, boots hitting dirt as dust kicked up around them.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He grabbed Diablo’s arm, yanking him around. “This isn’t the time for revenge!”

Diablo shrugged off his grip, face carved from stone. “Go.” His voice dropped low, barely audible over the distant whine of approaching engines. “I’ll hold them off.”

“You’re insane if you think I’m leaving you behind.” Miguel’s hand went to his waistband, fingers wrapping around smooth metal. “We ride together, we die together.”

The sportbikes slowed, tires hissing against pavement as they pulled over about fifty yards back.

Miguel withdrew his gun, checking the magazine. “You really are out of your goddamn mind.”

Behind them, engines cut off. Footsteps crunched on course dirt. Miguel turned, gun raised, and caught the flash of sunlight bouncing off something metallic in one of the rider’s hands.

Not a gun. A tranquilizer.

Fear locked his muscles, froze him in place.

A hard jerk yanked him backward as Diablo pulled him down. Gunshots cracked the air, three rapid pops that sent the hyenas scrambling for cover in the tall grass flanking the road.

“Down!” Diablo hissed, pulling Miguel into the grass on their side.

They crouched low, stalks bending around them. Miguel’s knee hit a rock, pain jolting up his leg. He bit back a curse, adjusting his position to keep his head below the road level.

Something whistled past his ear, close enough to feel the air displacement. A soft thunk as it buried in dirt.

“Dart,” Miguel hissed, cold sweat breaking out across his forehead.

Diablo’s jaw tightened. He rose to one knee, then stood completely upright. “I’m already fucked,” he said, firing again into the grass where the hyenas hid. “What’s one more dart gonna do?”

“Kill you, you fucking idiot!” Miguel grabbed for Diablo’s jacket, trying to pull him back down.

“Let it,” Diablo said, squeezing off another round.

“I’m not letting you take another hit.” Miguel sighted down his barrel, keeping low in the grass. He squeezed the trigger twice, aiming for movement across the road.

Another soft thunk made Miguel turn. A dart had buried itself in the leather seat of his motorcycle, the orange feathers at its end quivering slightly.

Terror crawled up Miguel’s throat, but anger pushed it back down. He wasn’t letting Diablo take another hit while Miguel ran. Not today. Not ever.

Staying low, Miguel aimed through the grass and squeezed the trigger. The recoil traveled up his arm as his gun bucked. A high, pained, furious scream tore through the air.

Miguel’s lips curled into a savage smirk. “Hope I killed the mutt.”

Diablo let out a dark laugh, arms spread wide. “You motherfuckers shoot like first-time gamers! I’m a big ole target and you keep missing! Go level up. I’ll wait.”

Lips parting, Miguel stared up at him. Diablo really did have a death wish. He stood there like he actually wanted to get shot with another dart. “You saw those bodies back there,” he murmured, but knew Diablo could hear him. “Is that how you want to end up?

His face was eerily calm, eyes flat. “Ask me that question after you’ve lived with your beasts trapped inside of you.”

“Drop to the ground or I’ll shoot you myself.” Miguel reloaded, his hands steadier now. “I didn’t come out here to watch you die, asshole.”

“I told you to leave,” Diablo said, crouching low. “But you’re right. I can’t die yet. I have to save your hairy ass.”

The throaty rumble of motorcycles was faint at first, then grew stronger with each passing second. Miguel’s head snapped toward the sound, relief punching through his veins.

“About damn time,” he muttered, ducking as another dart whistled overhead. “Keep them busy.”

Diablo smirked and aimed where the hyenas were hidden in the grass. Pop, pop, pop.

Miguel pulled out his phone, fingers smearing dirt across the screen as he dialed Matias. “It’s hyenas,” he said, keeping low. “Four of ’em. They’ve got tranq darts.”

“Get down. Stay down,” Matias ordered, his voice deadly calm. “We’re thirty seconds out.”

Now that he heard his alpha’s voice, Miguel wasn’t sure if he wanted to face him or take his chances with the hyenas.

“Haven’t popped my head up yet.” Miguel glanced up at Diablo, jaw clenched.

The line went dead as Miguel spotted the pack’s bikes cresting the steep incline, tearing up the asphalt as they approached. Matias led the charge, bent low over his handlebars like Satan coming to collect a final debt.

I’m in so much trouble.

Matias gunned his engine, aiming straight for the parked sportbikes. At the last second, he veered into the grass, his heavy cruiser plowing through where the hyenas had taken cover.

Luca and Tomas roared past next, legs extended, knocking the hyenas’ bikes over like bowling pins. Metal scraped against asphalt, sparks flying as the bikes skidded across the road.

Three shots echoed, followed by an eerie silence that lasted only seconds. When Matias emerged, his boots were dark with blood, jaw tight. He walked toward Miguel and Diablo, eyes cold as winter. Two words fell like stones. “Home. Now.”

Miguel pushed himself up from the ground. His muscles ached, adrenaline fading into bone-deep exhaustion. He turned to Diablo, who stood there as if they hadn’t just nearly died. As if those bodies in the warehouse weren’t still fresh in their minds. As if he hadn’t practically begged to be shot.

His fist connected with Diablo’s jaw before he even realized he was swinging, knuckles cracking against bone. Diablo’s head snapped sideways, blood spurting from his busted lip.

Nobody moved to stop him. The pack stood there, silently watching.

“You ever offer yourself up as a sacrifice again and we’re done,” Miguel snarled, getting right in Diablo’s face. “You’re not giving me a front row seat to watch you die like those poor bastards in the warehouse.”

Diablo’s eyes narrowed. “I was trying to—”

“To what? Be a martyr? Fuck whatever bullshit you’re about to say.”

Miguel turned toward his bike. The dart quivered in his seat, its orange feathers mocking him. He yanked it free with a snarl, fingers tightening around the cylinder. For a moment, he stared at it—this tiny thing that could’ve transformed him into one of those twisted corpses back at the warehouse or trapped his beasts inside of him.

The needle glinted in the sunlight. Blood pounded in his ears as images of the dead shifters flashed through his mind.

He flung it into the weeds, imagining it sinking into the eye of one of those dead hyenas instead.

Mounting his bike, Miguel ignored the blood on his knuckles from punching Diablo. Keys jangled in his shaking hand before he jammed them into the ignition.

“Miguel,” Diablo called out.

The engine roared to life, drowning out whatever the male was about to say.

In his mirrors, he caught a glimpse of Diablo's bloodied face, staring after him with something that looked too much like acceptance. Like he’d expected this all along.

Fuck him. And fuck that look.

Pebbles sprayed as he gunned it, leaving the pack behind. The wind tore at his face, welcomed against his heated skin. His jaw clenched so tight his teeth might crack.

Stupid goddamn Diablo. Standing there like target practice. Like he wanted to end up as a science experiment. Like his life meant nothing. It meant something to Miguel.

The road stretched ahead, empty and straight, a perfect invitation to open up the throttle and let the wind scour away the stink of death. Miguel leaned forward, pushing his bike faster, the needle climbing past eighty.

His hands trembled slightly on the grips, aftershock from the adrenaline crash. Six dead bodies twisted in agony, dumped like they were trash.

And Diablo, standing like a target, arms spread wide: Let it.

The memory made his stomach churn. Diablo wasn’t just his brother—he was family. And family didn’t get to peace out while Miguel watched.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it, focusing on the road ahead, on the pull of wind against his face and the thunder of his bike beneath him. Another buzz. Then another.

Probably Diablo, with some apology Miguel didn’t want to hear.

The road curved ahead, and Miguel leaned into it, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought failed him. His phone buzzed again, more insistent this time.

Pissed, he pulled over. The silence felt oppressive after the constant roar of his engine as he fished out his phone.

Four text messages. Not from Matias. Not from Diablo.

From Jared.

The first three were cute but mundane. A meme about cats, a complaint about it being too hot, and random emoji—rope, a shooting star, and a question mark.

But the fourth…