Boris Langston never strayed far from his Healer's Badge—and never from the Pack's Healing House, tucked deep in the Southside Forest. Not even today.
Today, the day he was supposed to sever his bond with Alpha Malakai.
But Bailey, his wolf, had sensed first the pulse of looming violence, the scent of blood on the wind, a person or more to be healed. A clash was coming, a brutal fight between the Western Wind Pack and the Crescent Fall Pack, only six minutes away. There was no time to waste. Duty came first. It always did.
In the small mirror nailed to the healing house wall, Boris adjusted his white fur coat and stared at his reflection. A crooked, bitter smile tugged at his lips. No one cared where he went, not really. He was just an omega with a female wolf despite being male, and two mismatched irises no one ever bothered to understand. It probably meant nothing.
The door suddenly slammed open with a violent crack and crashed against the wall so hard the frame groaned.
Boris barely had time to lift his head before the light switch snapped—click. Darkness swallowed the room whole.
His breath hitched. He froze. His whole body trembled, the fine hairs on his neck stiffening like bristles. He hated the dark.
"Wh-what are y…."
The words never made it out complete because he was abruptly shoved hard, his chest literally smashing against the mirror. The mirror rattled wildly on its single nail, pretending to be secure, but it wasn't. Just like Boris.
A claw, sharp and cold, pressed against the skin of Boris' neck. Not enough to cut—yet—but enough to threaten.
"Shut it," growled a voice from behind. That voice was low. It was rough. Seemingly bleeding with danger.
Boris's instincts screamed, but so did his healing training. Slowly, he called on Bailey's sight—his left eye that was initially gold, the wolf's gaze piercing the dark.
"Blood," his wolf replied.
Bailey saw blood that dripped from the man's face, no, soaked the face entirely. Bailey saw that the man was a stranger. He had no scent of his Pack.
With his human eye, the right one that was naturally blue, Boris looked at the dark mirror… He saw them. Two glowing red eyes locked onto his own, fierce, cold, unrelenting. They stared straight through him.
The sharp scent of blood burned his nostrils. This man was hurt. Badly.
Was this what Bailey had sensed? Was this the bloodspill in the vision?
Despite the icy grip of fear, something inside Boris clicked. His healer's instinct. Years of studying the wounded and the dying in a Pack that barely saw him. Yes, it clawed at him.
He inhaled slowly. "Stay calm. Be useful. That's what healers do," he thought to himself.
He bent one knee ever so slightly, testing an angle; maybe he could jab into the man's side and break free.
But before he could strike, the pressure on his legs tightened like iron bands. The man had noticed exactly what Boris wanted to do. The man was too fast. The man was too strong.
And he… was trapped!