There were several types of werewolves.
Some were strong.
Some were stupidly strong.
Werewolves were known by all, and like vampires, they possessed two pairs of fangs—razor-sharp, brutal things.
But unlike vampire fangs, which were meant to pierce cleanly through skin, werewolf fangs were made for tearing. Ripping. Reducing flesh to ruin.
Creatures of the night, feared for a reason.
They were infamous for their inhuman strength and supernatural abilities.
In terms of raw power alone, very few supernatural races could keep up with them.
However, even among werewolves, there were anomalies.
Those born wrong.
They were stronger than the average werewolf by an absurd margin. More aggressive. More defiant. They refused to take orders from anyone. More primal—closer to the beast than the man.
The most noticeable difference between them and any other werewolf was—
Four pairs of canine.
Michael's breath caught.
Four pairs.
Not the standard two. Not some mutation from a bad turn. This wasn't an accident of blood or timing.
Alpha.
"Shit," Michael muttered internally. He should have known something like this would happen. Of course it would. But still—this wasn't something you could predict. Just because someone was born during a certain moon cycle didn't mean they would become an Alpha.
That was inherited shit.
And before he could finish that thought—
James moved.
Michael felt it.
The fog acted like a sixth sense to him, and through it, he could feel James's hulking body charging forward at full speed, the ground trembling beneath each step.
Instantly, James was in front of him.
Michael ducked just in time as the werewolf tore past him and slammed into a tree behind him, the impact shaking the forest.
"What a brute," Michael muttered, turning—
—and froze.
James bit down on the tree.
Wood splintered like bone as his jaws crushed straight through the trunk. The tree groaned, began to topple—
—but James didn't let it.
One massive hand grabbed the trunk. Slash marks carved through the bark as he swung it like a weapon and hurled it at Michael.
Michael dodged cleanly.
For half a second, he thought the danger had passed.
Then the tree exploded.
Hundreds of jagged shards tore through the air, slamming into Michael like an AK fired point-blank.
Wood pierced his skin, punched through muscle, shredded clothing.
Blood splattered across the forest floor.
"That—stings like a motherfucker," Michael hissed as pain finally reached his nerves.
And then—
James was in front of him.
Crack.
Michael was sent flying, crashing into another tree with such force that the impact echoed for miles.
"Fuck—my spine," Michael groaned. It wasn't broken, but it sure as hell felt like it.
He looked up.
A fist the size of his torso filled his vision.
'Fast,' was the last thing he thought—
—and then the punch landed.
Michael's body tore through one tree. Then another. Then another. Four trees reduced to wreckage before he finally stopped, his back slamming into a thick oak.
That shit hurt like a motherfucker.
His vision swam.
And then he saw it.
The werewolf.
Running at him on all fours.
Less than four seconds to reach him.
Michael didn't plan on making this easy.
Using all the blood he had lost throughout the fight, he acted.
As James leapt, about to pounce—
—the blood hardened.
It wrapped around James's arms. His torso. His legs.
"Stay," Michael snarled, palms glowing crimson as he reinforced the bind, mist thickening to smother movement.
For half a second—
It worked.
James's muscles bulged violently against the restraint. Veins throbbed. His pupil-less white eyes burned with feral intent, promising dismemberment.
Clouds rolled overhead, blotting out the moonlight.
A shadow fell over James.
He looked every bit the deranged beast werewolves were known as—his power swelling by the second.
And then—
He vanished.
Michael stared as his blood bind tightened around nothing but a shadow.
Michael's eyes widened. "You've got to be—"
James grabbed him.
One massive hand clamped around Michael's torso, fingers digging in like iron restraints.
"Hey buddy, remember me?" Michael said with a strained, wry smile.
His eyes glowed red, fangs bared—but he tried, desperately, to look harmless.
The werewolf smiled back.
"Oh…."
Michael was lifted into the air—
—and slammed into a tree with enough force to shatter bark and split the trunk clean in half.
The forest shook.
Michael gasped as he was ripped free and hurled again, this time into the ground. The impact cratered the earth.
The werewolf howled at the moon.
The moon answered.
Power flooded James in a blinding rush. Muscles bulged obscenely as his frame expanded—past ten feet, past eleven—
Twelve.
Michael knew it then.
In his current form, he didn't stand a fucking chance.
He had expected something way weaker. Not this.
Not a fucking Alpha.
So he did the only thing he could.
Michael activated his family's specialty.
Blood surged through his body with violent precision, reinforcing muscle, sharpening reflexes, accelerating movement beyond what flesh should allow. A silver sword formed in his hand.
"I'm sorry about this," he whispered.
Michael vanished.
He reappeared behind James and slashed across his back.
"AHHHH!" the beast howled.
Michael moved again—dodging, weaving, striking. He slashed at calves, tendons severed under silver and wolfsbane. Blood followed every cut.
Using his own blood, Michael sealed James's wounds—not to heal them, but to stop them from healing. His blood smothered James's, preventing coagulation.
The beast attacked relentlessly.
Michael dodged every strike.
Blocked every blow.
He waited.
Waited for James to bleed out.
And then—
He sniffed the air.
That blood.
Rh-Null blood.
His mouth watered. His fangs ached.
Watching James bleed was intoxicating.
He lost focus.
Just for a second.
That second was all it took.
James hit him.
Hard.
Michael's body was launched like a missile, smashing into a nearby mountain. Stone exploded outward, leaving a human-sized crater beside him.
He collapsed.
Consciousness slipped.
The mist vanished.
Somewhere a couple hundred feet away, someone could be seen sniffing the air.
Above him stood a twelve-foot werewolf.
Michael smiled weakly, eyes half-lidded.
"This… wasn't how it was supposed to go," he thought.
As the beast opened its mouth, Michael closed his eyes.
He didn't think he'd die fighting his best friend—but hey, he'd always joked about being inside him.
Guess his wish was coming true.
He was about to get eaten out by James.
James was way too fucking strong for a newborn.
But then again—
He was an anomaly.
A/N chapter 13, will probably be out Friday.