Night settled heavy over the Vael Ranch, the kind of night that pressed against the windows and seeped under the doors. Most wolves had returned to their cabins or patrol routes, and the fields were quiet except for the distant rumble of trucks heading toward the southern perimeter. Crickets hummed through the grasslands. Coyotes yipped in the distance. The ranch breathed, alive and watchful.
Ronan stood alone at the far fence line, staring out across the dark fields. His hands rested lightly on the worn wooden rail, but his jaw was tight, eyes narrowed at something only he could see. Every instinct in him screamed for movement, for violence, for the chance to end Mercer before he became more than a nuisance.
A soft crunch of footsteps approached. Ronan didn't turn. Only one wolf walked with that deliberate, cautious gait—his lieutenant, Colton Reyes.
"Alpha," Colton said quietly, climbing the fence to stand beside him. "Patrols are set. Outer fences checked. Scouts posted near the east ridge."
Ronan nodded once. "Good. Any sign of Mercer's rogues?"
"No. But they're moving. A truckload was spotted near the old highway. They didn't approach, but they weren't hiding either."
Ronan's lip curled. "Mercer wants us to know he's out there."
"Yeah," Colton agreed. "He's trying to get in your head."
Ronan exhaled slowly. "He's trying."
Colton hesitated, glancing sideways. "Dax woke up again. Asked for you."
Ronan's fingers tightened on the fence. Dax was barely more than a kid, scared and alone, running from a man who exploited fear as power. Ronan should go to him. A good alpha would.
But something in him resisted—an old instinct, a memory buried deep beneath a desert sun.
Colton must have noticed the flicker of tension. "He's asking what will happen now. He's worried Mercer will come for him."
"He will," Ronan said flatly. "Mercer doesn't let defectors walk."
"Then we protect him."
Ronan said nothing.
Colton studied him a moment. "There's more bothering you than Mercer."
Ronan turned away from the fence, expression hardening. "Handle patrols. I'll see Dax when I'm ready."
Colton recognized the dismissal but didn't move. "Alpha… you can talk to me."
Ronan's eyes sharpened. "Not tonight."
Colton opened his mouth as if to argue, then thought better of it. He bowed his head and stepped back to the path that led toward the cabins.
Ronan watched him go, then returned his gaze to the open fields.
The night wind brushed through his hair.
And without warning, the memory hit.
Not gently.
Not slowly.
It slammed into him with the force of a truck.
Heat. Sand. Metal. Chains clinking. His own voice breaking. His limbs twitching under a forced shift. The sight of reflected moonlight searing his skin—
Ronan sucked in air sharply.
The fence in front of him blurred, replaced by rolling dunes of sand, an endless expanse beneath a burning Texas sky.
⸻
He had been eighteen—still technically a Beta, though he'd already become a leader among his small pack. Reckless, stubborn, convinced he understood the world. His father, the old alpha, had died just months earlier. Ronan hadn't had time to mourn; the pack needed strength, and he tried to give it.
Until the Bastrop Hunter Clan caught him.
He'd been tracking an injured wolf near the desert's edge when the trap closed around his leg. Silver-lined steel snapped shut, tearing muscle, locking him in place. He remembered the moment he fell—blood soaking through his jeans, the sand burning under his cheek.
He remembered voices.
"Got him."
"Finally."
"Bring the mirrors. The moon's rising tonight."
Ronan tried to shift, tried to break the trap, but pain lanced through him like molten metal. He roared, claws half-formed, eyes blazing, but they held him down. Three hunters pinned him, dragging him across the sand like he weighed nothing. His body seized under the silver's bite.
They brought him to a pit—shallow, circular, surrounded by metal rods. Each rod held a mirrored plate angled toward the sky. The sun reflected off every surface, intensifying the heat.
"Put him in."
Ronan fought.
Claws out.
Teeth snapping.
Eyes glowing gold then red then gold again, unable to stabilize.
But the hunters forced him down, heavy chains wrapping around his wrists, chest, and throat. Silver rings dug under his skin. His breath turned ragged. Every instinct screamed to attack, but all he could do was jerk uselessly against the restraints.
One of the hunters leaned down close. A woman with sharp eyes and dust-colored hair.
"Welcome to the Desert Trials," she said calmly. "We break wolves here. We see what they're made of."
Ronan snarled at her, but she only smiled.
"You'll thank us later," she whispered.
Then the trials began.
The mirrored plates were tilted, catching the rising moonlight as the sun faded. Beams hit Ronan directly, forcing his body to react. He shifted involuntarily—face contorting, veins blackening, claws ripping through skin. But the chains held him in a twisted limbo between forms.
Hours passed.
Maybe days.
Time bled together.
He screamed until his throat shredded. When the moonlight grew stronger, his bones cracked in unnatural rhythm, pulled between human and wolf without command. Forced transformation was agony—pure, tearing agony that dug into his nerves.
The hunters watched. Studied. Took notes.
"Look at the resilience."
"He's still fighting."
"He shouldn't be conscious."
"He's stronger than the others."
Others.
There had been others.
Bodies half-buried around the pit. Wolves who hadn't survived. Ronan stared at them through blurred vision, dust coating his teeth.
He refused to die with them.
He refused.
When the moon was at its peak, the pain reached something new—something so sharp and so total it became almost silent. Ronan felt himself slipping, not into death, but somewhere deeper. A place wolves didn't go willingly. A place of raw instinct and survival.
There, something inside him cracked.
But not in the way the hunters wanted.
Something awakened.
His eyes shifted—not gold, not red, but a burning blend between. A darker ring formed at the edge of the color, pulsing like a second heartbeat. His claws elongated further, sharper than before. His muscles tightened, not from pain but from control.
The hunters didn't notice at first.
Then one leaned closer, squinting.
"His eyes. Do you see—"
Ronan roared.
The chains snapped.
Not fully, but enough.
He tore one arm free, then another. The silver burned him, but he didn't care. Pain became fuel. Fear became rage. His vision tunneled. His throat tore with the force of the sound he made—a sound that wasn't a Beta's scream.
It was something else.
Something evolved.
And the hunters finally looked afraid.
He didn't kill them—not all of them. He tore through ropes, snapped wood, and ran. He didn't stop running until the desert blurred into darkness and the sun rose somewhere behind him.
He made it back to what remained of his pack, collapsed at their feet.
And when he woke, he wasn't the same.
He rose as alpha a week later.
And Texas never forgot the day Ronan Vael climbed out of the desert as something stronger than any wolf had a right to be.
⸻
The memory snapped, and Ronan's breath came back in a harsh rush. His hands shook against the fence, claws half-formed without meaning to. The ridges around his eyes were raised, glowing faintly in the dark.
He forced them to retract.
Slowly.
Painfully.
He heard footsteps again, but this time softer—more hesitant. He turned.
Dax stood in the grass, wrapped in a blanket, looking small beneath the wash of moonlight.
"Alpha," Dax said, voice raw. "I… I didn't want to interrupt."
Ronan straightened, adjusting his jacket. "You should be resting."
"I couldn't sleep." Dax approached cautiously. "I wanted to thank you. For taking me in. For not letting Mercer catch me."
Ronan nodded once. "You're safe here."
Dax swallowed, then glanced away. "Colton said Mercer's coming. That he wants to challenge you."
"Mercer doesn't understand what challenge means," Ronan said calmly. "He understands chaos. Not leadership."
"But he thinks—" Dax hesitated. "He thinks you're… vulnerable."
Ronan didn't flinch this time.
"And what do you think?" he asked quietly.
Dax looked up, eyes wide. "I think Mercer talks too much. And that anyone who survives the desert alone… isn't weak."
Ronan studied the boy for a moment. The sincerity in his voice, the fear still in his scent—but also something else. Loyalty.
"You're part of the Dominion now," Ronan said. "You'll be protected. And trained."
Dax nodded quickly. "I'll do anything. I won't run again."
"Good," Ronan said. "We take care of our own."
The wind shifted. A scent hit Ronan's nose—faint, sour, carried from the far east edge of the land.
Rogue wolf.
Mercer's wolves.
Close.
Ronan's eyes flashed.
"Go to the infirmary," he told Dax. "Now."
Dax obeyed instantly, darting back toward the cabins.
Ronan stared toward the dark fields, every muscle drawn tight.
They were here.
On his land.
Testing boundaries.
Testing him.
He stepped off the fence and began walking toward the eastern ridge, claws slowly emerging, breath steady, eyes burning brighter with every step.
Mercer wanted to provoke him?
Fine.
He'd get his answer.
Ronan Vael, the Texas Alpha, was done waiting.
Tonight, he would show them all exactly who they were dealing with.