Chapter 2: Old Wounds and Fresh Heat
Ronan didn't run.
He walked.
Slow. Deliberate. Every step a reminder that he was leaving on his own terms, not because Kael had scared him off.
The trees swallowed him quickly, but Ronan could still feel Kael's eyes burning into his back. Could still taste the iron tang of his own blood on his tongue where Kael's claws had pricked. Could still feel the ghost of that rough grip on his throat, the way Kael's fingers had trembled just enough to betray how close he was to losing it.
Ronan's cock was still hard, aching, trapped against denim that suddenly felt too tight. He adjusted himself roughly once he was out of sight, letting out a low, frustrated growl. "Fucking hell," he muttered to the darkness.
He hadn't planned to come this close tonight. He'd told himself he was just scouting the border, checking how tight Ironfang security had gotten since the last time he'd been in these woods. But the second Kael's scent hit him—pine smoke, steel, and that sharp, clean bite of alpha dominance he'd never quite shaken—Ronan's wolf had taken over.
Mine.
The word still echoed in his head, louder than any denial he could throw at it.
He leaned against a thick pine trunk, head tipped back, breathing hard. The moon filtered through the branches in thin silver stripes across his chest. His nipples were peaked from the cold and from the memory of Kael's body heat pressed so close. He dragged a hand down his stomach, palm flat over the ridge of his erection, squeezing once to take the edge off.
It didn't help.
All it did was make him remember the way Kael had shoved him back.
The flash of fury in those dark eyes. The way Kael's voice had cracked just a little when he snarled "run along, rogue."
Ronan laughed quietly to himself, bitter and low. "Still the same stubborn bastard."
They had history. Not the kind people wrote songs about. The kind that left scars.
Five years ago, Ronan had been a young enforcer in a border pack that no longer existed. Kael had been the rising alpha who'd crushed that pack in a single bloody night after they crossed one too many lines. Ronan had fought like hell, taken down three Ironfang betas before Kael pinned him to the ground in the middle of a burning village.
He could still feel the weight of Kael on top of him, knees bracketing his hips, claws at his throat, fangs inches from his jugular.
And he could still remember the moment their scents had collided for the first time. The way everything had stopped. The way Kael's pupils had blown wide, the way his hips had jerked forward involuntarily, grinding down in one helpless thrust.
They hadn't fucked that night. Kael had let him go. Walked away. Left Ronan alive when every rule said he should have finished the job.
Ronan had never forgiven him for it.
Or thanked him.
He pushed off the tree and kept moving deeper into neutral land, heading toward the abandoned hunter's cabin he'd claimed as a temporary den. His wolf was restless, pacing, demanding he turn around and finish what they'd started on the ridge.
"Not yet," Ronan muttered. "Let him stew."
But his body wasn't listening.
Every step rubbed denim against sensitive skin. Every breath pulled in traces of Kael's scent that still clung to him—on his throat, on his chest, in his hair. He could picture it too clearly: Kael alone on that ridge right now, hand probably pressed to the front of his pants, growling at himself for getting hard over a rogue he swore he hated.
Ronan's hand drifted lower, palming himself through his jeans as he walked. He bit back a groan. "Fuck."
He made it to the cabin in under ten minutes. The place was half-rotted, windows broken, but the roof held and the single room was dry. He kicked the door shut behind him, didn't bother with a lantern. Moonlight was enough.
He stripped off his boots, then his jeans, kicking them into the corner. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, already leaking steadily. He wrapped a hand around it, stroking once, slow and rough.
His mind went straight to Kael.
The way he'd looked tonight—shirt sleeves rolled up, forearms corded with muscle, scars glowing silver under the moon. The way his voice had gone low and wrecked when he threatened to claim him. The way his claws had drawn blood without hesitation.
Ronan stroked faster, thumb swiping over the head, spreading pre-cum down the shaft.
He imagined Kael on his knees instead. Imagined forcing those proud lips open, sliding in deep, watching those dark eyes water while Kael tried to glare and suck at the same time. Imagined Kael's throat working around him, growling even as he swallowed.
Or maybe the other way around.
Ronan groaned, hips bucking into his fist.
He pictured Kael bent over the ridge rock, ass up, hole slick and ready. Pictured himself pressing in slow, inch by inch, feeling Kael clench and curse and push back anyway. Pictured knotting him right there under the moon, locking them together while Kael snarled threats and came untouched.
"Fuck, Kael," he breathed, voice breaking on the name.
His rhythm faltered. His balls drew up tight. Heat coiled low and hot.
He came hard, spilling over his fist and onto the dusty floorboards with a choked growl. His wolf howled in satisfaction, but it wasn't enough. It never was.
Ronan leaned against the wall, panting, hand still wrapped around his softening cock.
He stared out the broken window at the moon.
Kael was still out there. Still hard. Still fighting it.
Ronan smiled slowly, fangs glinting.
Good.
Let him fight.
The longer Kael denied it, the harder he'd break when it finally happened.
And Ronan intended to be there when it did.
He wiped his hand on an old rag, pulled on fresh pants from his pack, and lay down on the thin mattress in the corner.
Sleep wouldn't come easy tonight.
Neither would Kael.
But tomorrow was the summit.
And neutral ground had very few rules about what two alphas could do in the shadows.
Ronan closed his eyes, still tasting Kael's scent on his tongue.
This time, he wasn't walking away.