The Faltered Bond | Book #1 [Werewolf]

Chapter 8 | Distraction

Fabric rips beneath my claws with a satisfying shriek. I land lightly, the sun-scorched concrete branding my pads, but pain is a distant thing. My muscles coil—then release. I lunge.

Jaws parted, fangs bared, I sink into my opponent's jugular. Flesh gives. The taste of copper floods my mouth. Crimson splatters my fur in thick, sticky ribbons. I shove off, spitting the foul liquid and land once more on the burning ground. The mannequin sways. Tips. Crashes. A pool of synthetic blood darkens the concrete beneath it.

My tongue flicks over my teeth as I steady my breath, turning toward the timer.

3.5 seconds.

A whisper slithers through my mind, sharp as a blade. Not good enough. Again! My father's voice, venomous and unforgiving.

Fury ignites in my chest. I launch. Claws slash. Canines tear. My jaws lock onto the mannequin's throat, wrenching, ripping. My vision narrows—red, black, white, red, black—snap! Bones shatter. Flesh yields once again. A sickening squelch echoes through the empty room as the severed head sails through the air, slamming into the farthest wall with a wet thud.

The silence that follows is deafening.

I stand frozen, panting. My paws feel like lead, my limbs sluggish, heavy, trembling with spent rage. Then—pain. A white-hot lance through my skull. My body folds, bones crackling and twisting as I shift, clawing my way back into my human skin.

My breath stutters. A hand grips my chest, nails digging into sweat-slicked flesh. My lungs burn, every inhale razor-edged. My vision swims. The wolf stirs beneath my skin, claws scraping against bone, demanding release, its hunger a snarl in my ears, a relentless pulse in my blood.

It wants out.

I press my forehead against the cool wall, squeezing my eyes shut. Stay in control. My heartbeat pounds—erratic, frantic. I inhale, shaky. Exhale, steadier. The pain begins to ebb. My knees give, and I slide down the wall, concrete biting into my bare skin.

A final tremor ripples through me. Then—silence.

The wolf retreats back into the depths of my mind. 

Since childhood, I've been plagued by relentless migraine spells. Their true cause still eludes me, but Father insists they're tied to my wolf—some nonsense about emotional control.

I've always scoffed at the idea.

The mutt doesn't need emotions. It needs discipline. A firm hand. A leash.

And so far, it's worked.

A low growl rumbles in my chest, a simmering protest. I shove it down, severing the link between us, and rise to my feet, rolling my shoulders. My training session is over. Grabbing a towel, I sling it around my waist and head toward the showers—only to halt at the bathroom doorway when a voice cuts through the air.

"Sir, I need to speak with you."

The voice is sharp, familiar. I glance over my shoulder. Angel. She stands in the center of the gym, arms crossed, posture rigid. Raven hair spills over her shoulders, her expression carved from ice.

I exhale, turning away. "I'm busy, Angel."

Her heels click against the concrete as she closes the distance. Her tone sharpens. "Jace, I'm not fucking around."

I pause. My wolf stirs. Angel smells of unease, a thread of tension woven into her scent.

Slowly, I turn to face her. "What's wrong?"

Her jaw tightens. "A local farmer reported a dead cow on his property."

A dead cow? I arch a brow. "And?"