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Jacob lunged at Nate with a roar that shook the forest air. The leap was brutal, packed with the full force of his body; his hind legs stretched like springs that had been compressed too long, and his front claws spread open like blades ready to rip flesh. His fangs gleamed under the pale moonlight, aimed straight for Nate's throat.
Nate didn't move until the last instant. With a minimal twist of his torso, he let the attack pass just inches from his skin. The air slashed by Jacob's jaws brushed him like an invisible knife. Jacob landed on his paws with a thud that scattered dirt and dry leaves, immediately spinning to launch a sideways strike. Nate ducked, tilting his head just slightly, and felt the wind of the claws graze his hair.
Every failed strike was a record in his mind. He calculated the tension running along Jacob's back before each jump, the way his hind legs set the exact direction of the pounce, the rhythm of his breathing that accompanied every thrust.
Too predictable… low center of gravity, always in a straight line. Every leap depends on the initial impulse. This isn't like fighting a vampire.
Jacob snarled in fury, baring his fangs wide, and lunged again. Nate stepped back at the precise moment, just enough for the jaws to snap shut on empty air. The crack of the teeth cracked like a whip in the shadows.
As he dodged, Nate never stopped analyzing.
A vampire is different. Their attacks are a mix of instinct and calculation. They disguise themselves as humans, but strike with the ferocity of predators. Jacob, on the other hand, was pure nature: nothing hidden. He breathed heavily; he wore himself out. Every inhale and exhale betrayed his state. Easier to read… but strange. I'm fighting something powerful… yet alive.
Jacob didn't relent. He leaped again, this time diagonally, twisting midair to catch Nate from an unexpected angle. Nate tilted his shoulder just enough, letting the claws skim the edge of his jacket without finding flesh, and stepped back lightly, coldly, as if it were all nothing more than a math problem.
The wolf hit the ground and, without fully regaining balance, lunged again. This time, it was a flurry of chained attacks: swift swipes, short charges, bites snapping at his throat like a relentless hammer. Nate blocked one paw with his forearm, redirected another with a precise twist of his hips, and retreated only a couple of steps to keep the exact distance he needed. Every time Jacob missed, the information piled up like puzzle pieces in Nate's mind.
His jump… four or five meters, no more. Every landing forces him to recalculate his stance. The tail stabilizes but also reveals which way he'll turn. Breathing is shortening, and there is early fatigue. All I have to do is watch and wait.
The entire forest seemed to vibrate with Jacob's violence. Branches cracked, leaves whirled, the ground split under his paws. Jacob was a hurricane of animal fury. Nate, in contrast, remained like a block of ice: no grimace, no wasted motion. He shifted his body only as much as needed to avoid immediate death, as though everything else were simply an exercise in observation.
Ever since I first heard about the Quileute warriors, I expected something impressive… he reflected, his cold eyes tracking the wolf's next turn. He analyzed every muscular contraction, every ragged breath, every flash of wild power. But this is more disappointing than I imagined.
Nate dodged with a clean spin, letting another strike pass within inches of his face. Not a single muscle tensed more than necessary, not a gesture betrayed the slightest strain. As Jacob recovered his stance, Nate spoke, his voice clear, firm, perfectly audible above the forest's chaos.
"I suspected things between you and me would end this way."
Jacob growled, saliva glinting on his fangs. He lunged again, a leap packed with raw power. Nate met him without retreating, shifting only at the last moment, diverting the strike with a turn of his torso. With the same fluidity, his arm snapped around the wolf's neck, holding him in a cold, unyielding grip.
"But you need to understand something crucial."
Jacob thrashed, claws raking the ground, air tearing into a rough roar in his throat. Nate held him steady, his arms a lock of iron crushing down, suffocating his breath.
"The treaty used to exist because your people and the Cullens were equally strong." Nate's voice never rose, never showed anger; it was clinical, as if reciting a proven fact. "But things aren't the same anymore."
He squeezed tighter. Jacob kicked, muscles straining against the pressure. Air began to thin, his eyes flaring in alarm. Only then did Nate release him, dropping him abruptly to the ground.
The wolf gasped, rising with a muffled growl, but barely had time to react before Nate was on him again.
A sharp movement, a kick to his side, sent him flying several meters, rolling among leaves and branches. Jacob scrambled to his feet at once, furious, but Nate advanced without haste, measuring every step, every gesture, as if it were all predetermined.
Jacob leaped once more, this time with desperation. Nate was ready. He spun on his heel and, midair, met him with an upward kick that smashed him against a tree trunk, the crack echoing in the shadows.
Jacob hit the ground, staggered up, and charged. Nate stepped lazily aside and drove his elbow into the wolf's ribs. Another growl, another collapse.
The scene repeated itself again and again. Jacob lunged, Nate deflected with one hand and struck with the other. Claws redirected, fangs frustrated, every attempt countered with a precise blow: a knee to the chest, a fist to the snout, a kick that flattened him.
Nate moved without rage, not even urgency. Every strike was calculated, methodical, almost surgical. His face remained cold, expressionless, while the wolf began to show wear.
Jacob panted hard, muscles still tense, but in his eyes lingered a shadow of doubt. Not surrender. Not yet. But the clash between pride and instinct. His ears pinned back, his growl tangled with ragged breathing. He was wounded—not gravely, but enough to sense the gulf between them.
Nate watched him, missing nothing. Jaw set, eyes locked on the near-imperceptible tremor in his legs, on the way his ears flicked down and up again in a desperate attempt to hold onto pride.
Nate advanced slowly, his silhouette stretching between the trees like that of an executioner. His steps were so measured that each crunch of leaves beneath his boots struck like a metronome. For Jacob, the image was suffocating: that vampire wasn't in any hurry, as though he had already chosen how and when it would end.
Jacob's mind screamed to brace for impact, to tighten muscles, to hold firm. But his instinct—that deep, animal voice—betrayed him for an instant. One of his hind legs slid back, testing the possibility of retreat.
He shook his head at once, growling furiously at himself. He was no coward.
Then, a different echo burst into his mind. I told you they were still here! He needs help! The voice was youthful, rushed, bursting with energy: Seth.
Then another, female, sharp, almost a snap: Wait, Seth! You saw it yourself! That cold isn't normal… Leah.
The mental voices drew closer, clearer, and Jacob barely had time to react before a howl shattered the forest. It rang out like a call, deep and metallic.
Nate stopped dead, red eyes locked on Jacob, as he assessed the new variable. The following seconds confirmed the inevitable: two silhouettes emerged from the shadows—agile, fast, imposing. The sandy-colored wolf and the gray one slid through the undergrowth until they planted themselves at Jacob's side.
Nate watched in silence. For an instant, his thoughts sharpened like blades: outnumbered. Three against one. But the feeling wasn't threatened. It was… curiosity. The chance to measure, firsthand, what a pack could do together. The calculation outweighed the risk.
The two wolves quickly fell into line with Jacob, flanking him almost instinctively, as if shielding him with their bodies. Nate tilted his head, intrigued by the behavior. There was strategy in it—a learned pattern that contrasted with the raw savagery he had just cataloged in Jacob alone.
Jacob, sensing the presence of the other two, straightened with renewed strength. His breathing was still heavy, exhaustion beating through his muscles, but his fury began to shift into something sharper: wounded pride. That very pride forced him to stay on his feet, to appear in control, though inside he still burned with the humiliation of the beating.
With an exchange of glances—and that mental signal that needed no words—Jacob, Seth, and Leah coordinated. The formation shifted, and they began to circle Nate slowly, closing in with synchronized movements.
Nate remained in the center, motionless, his gaze tracking every step. For a moment, he didn't see wolves. He saw sharks. Predators circling, waiting for a slip, a weakness to strike.
The air thickened. Jacob, emboldened by his numerical advantage, was the first to roar, marking the beginning of the second assault. With him, Seth and Leah moved like gears in the same mechanism, tightening the ring.
And the fight began again.
The first strike came in unison. Leah lunged from the left while Jacob sprang from the right, coordinated to cut off every escape route. Nate reacted with a backward leap, twisting in midair and planting a foot on Leah's shoulder for support. The she-wolf tried to shake him off, but he had already launched himself at another angle, landing with feline precision. Barely grazed.
More synchronized… they cover each other, leaving no gaps.
Nate's eyes narrowed, cold, calculating, with a faint spark of challenge flickering within.
The attacks quickened. Seth was the fastest, his sandy body darting in light movements, always aiming to distract. Leah, more calculating, struck from oblique angles, probing his flanks. Jacob, in contrast, was raw brute force—straightforward, but increasingly precise in exploiting the openings left by the other two.
Nate blocked with his forearm, deflected with a hip twist, leaped onto their backs when cornered, using them as makeshift platforms to reposition himself. He had the advantage of being smaller, more compact, and stronger in each isolated strike. But he felt it: they were forcing him to react more seriously, faster, with less room for analysis.
The only way to win this is to take one of them out. Break the pattern, reduce the pack… The thought formed with surgical clarity. But I'd have to kill them… and I don't want to.
That hesitation was enough for them to change the rhythm.
Seth came forward with a long leap, straight at Nate's torso. Jacob crouched low, waiting in the blind angle. Nate calculated Seth's trajectory and was ready to swat him aside… but the plan shifted in an instant.
Midair, Seth transformed. His wolf body contracted, cracked, reshaped in seconds—bones readjusting, skin folding back to human form. Where a hundred-kilo wolf should have landed, suddenly there was a lean boy, arms outstretched like human claws.
The shift threw Nate off, just for a moment—long enough for doubt to slip into his mind.
Improvisation… he used the transformation as a distraction.
In that same blink, Leah struck from the flank. Her swipe was dead on. Nate managed to twist his torso, preventing the claws from cutting into his skin, but he couldn't save the fabric. The tearing sound of his jacket splitting jolted him more than any wound could.
Nate leaped back at once, regaining space, red eyes fixed on the three wolves already closing in again. His hand went to his jacket, feeling the damage. The tear wasn't deep, but enough to leave the fabric loose. And worse: the inner pocket had been ripped.
He pulled his hand out, and between his fingers he found the frayed edge of cloth, the unmistakable scent embedded in the fiber. Riley. Riley's shirt.
For a second, the world narrowed. The trees, the wolves, the noise of churned earth—all collapsed into that garment, that memory, that single lead he had to catch his grandmother's killer.
The air around Nate thickened. His expression, until now cold and analytical, darkened into a shadow. It was no longer curiosity, nor calculation. It was fury.
He raised his gaze to Jacob, Leah, and Seth. His eyes burned like embers.
They had touched the one thing they should never have touched.