The eastern ridge cut across the Vael Ranch like a jagged scar, a line of uneven ground and broken limestone where the land dipped sharply into a thick stretch of brush. At night, it became a maze of shadows—dangerous terrain even for wolves, perfect for an ambush. Which was exactly why Ronan moved toward it with his senses burning hot.
The wind carried the scent again: sour, wild, tainted with fear and aggression. Rogue wolves. Not just one. Several. Close.
Ronan's steps were silent, his boots barely whispering against the dry grass. His breath stayed even, steady. His eyes shifted just enough to sharpen the darkness—storm-blue irises ringed with creeping red. His claws slid out without sound, blackened tips gleaming faintly in the moonlight.
He wasn't shifting fully. There was no need.
And Ronan was very, very good at letting the primal bleed through.
He reached the top of the ridge and crouched. The moonlight spilled over him, illuminating the land below. Dry brush. Mesquite trees. A dirt path cutting between two clusters of rock. And in the center of that path—
Movement.
Three shapes stalked through the shadows, slinking low to the ground. Rogues. All half-shifted, faces distorted, claws extended. Their breathing came harsh and eager, the sound of wolves drunk on chaos.
Ronan didn't announce himself.
Predators didn't.
He stepped down the slope silently, each step controlled. The nearest rogue paused mid-stride, nose twitching. Its head snapped toward Ronan's direction.
Too late.
Ronan lunged.
He moved with the explosive efficiency of a trained alpha—fast, direct, lethal. His hand shot out, claws ripping across the rogue's forearm before the wolf even had time to react. The rogue yelped, stumbling back, and Ronan used the momentum to pivot and slam his elbow into the wolf's jaw.
Bone cracked.
The rogue hit the dirt.
The other two turned instantly, snarling. Their eyes glowed gold—feral, unfocused. These weren't disciplined wolves. They were wild animals in human skin, held together by nothing but rage and Mercer's empty promises.
One charged.
Ronan caught him by the throat.
He slammed the wolf into the nearest rock, claws digging into flesh just enough to hold him in place. The rogue writhed, scratching at Ronan's arm, but Ronan barely budged.
"Who sent you?" he growled.
The rogue hissed, spit flying. "We go where we want!"
Ronan's lip curled. "Wrong answer."
He threw the wolf aside like it weighed nothing. The rogue rolled through the dirt, scrambled to its feet, and charged again with a feral scream.
Ronan didn't meet the attack head-on.
He sidestepped, grabbed the wolf by the collar, and drove a knee into his stomach hard enough to knock the air out of him. The rogue collapsed, gasping.
The third wolf—a taller, beefier one—circled around Ronan's flank. Smarter. Its movements were measured, predatory. It waited for the perfect moment—
Ronan let it think it had one.
He walked forward slowly, shoulders loose, exposing his back just enough.
The rogue took the bait.
It lunged with a guttural snarl.
Ronan spun, claws slashing in a clean arc that would have torn through a human's throat. The rogue jerked back, barely dodging the killing blow, but still catching three deep cuts along its jaw and neck.
It shrieked.
Ronan advanced with terrifying calmness.
"You picked the wrong land," he said. "The wrong night."
The rogue backed up, panting.
And the first wolf—still on the ground—whimpered, "He's too strong. We should've—"
"Shut up!" the bigger rogue snapped.
Ronan tilted his head. "Should've what?"
The bigger rogue bristled, lips curling. "Should've waited for Mercer."
Ronan's eyes darkened, the red ring glowing like a coal. "He's sending you as scouts now? Testing my land with disposable wolves?"
The rogue spit blood. "We came on our own—"
"No," Ronan cut in. "Mercer's cowards don't come near my land without permission."
He looked at all three.
"Unless they were told to."
The rogues exchanged a glance—quick, nervous, confirming Ronan's suspicion.
Then the biggest one lunged.
Ronan moved first.
Their bodies collided with a sound like a crack of thunder. Ronan dug his claws into the wolf's shoulders, using his weight to drive him backward. The rogue tried to slash at Ronan's ribs, but Ronan caught his wrist, twisted hard, and pinned the wolf against a boulder.
The rogue howled, half-choked.
Ronan leaned in, his eyes inches from the wolf's.
"You ran onto my land," he said, voice low and lethal. "You threatened my pack. You drew first blood."
He bared his fangs—not fully, but enough for the rogue to understand.
"And you think Mercer can save you?"
The rogue spat in his face.
Ronan didn't flinch.
He slammed his forehead into the rogue's with brutal precision. The rogue went limp, dazed. Ronan let him drop to the dirt and turned toward the remaining two.
They hesitated—fear crawling visibly across their half-shifted faces.
Finally, one whispered, "He told us to provoke you… to see how far you'd go."
Ronan's jaw clenched. "Then he's dumber than I thought."
"He wants your attention," the rogue added quickly. "Said the alpha of Texas needed to be reminded he's not a god."
Ronan moved so fast the rogue didn't even see him approach. Claws gripped the wolf's chin and forced it upward, making the smaller wolf stare up at him.
"I never claimed to be a god," Ronan said. "I'm just the alpha who owns this land."
He shoved the wolf aside—not enough to injure him, but enough to make a point.
The last rogue spoke through shaking breath. "Mercer… he's gathering more. He says you're unstable. Said you'd break if he pushed you hard enough."
Ronan's expression didn't change.
But inside, the desert burned.
Heat. Chains. Mirrors. Cracked lips. Forced howls.
He swallowed the memories with practiced force.
And then he said, "Tell Mercer this."
The rogues froze.
Ronan stepped closer, red-ringed eyes gleaming with controlled violence.
"I don't break."
His voice dropped, lethal.
"I break others."
The rogues trembled.
Ronan pointed toward the ridge. "Run. Get off my land. And do not come back."
The two conscious wolves bolted instantly, stumbling over themselves in their rush to escape.
Ronan watched until they vanished into the brush.
But he didn't relax.
Not even for a second.
Because the bigger rogue—the one still half-unconscious—shifted suddenly, eyes snapping open wide with terror.
Ronan tensed, claws ready.
The rogue whispered two words:
"He's… here…"
Ronan's blood chilled.
The wind shifted.
A new scent hit him—faint but unmistakable.
Familiar.
Human.
Cruel.
Kade Mercer.
And he wasn't far.
Not far at all.
Ronan straightened slowly, fists clenching.
"So," he murmured into the night. "You finally decided to come."
The darkness at the far edge of the ridge seemed to move.
A voice drifted through the brush—smooth, mocking.
"Miss me, Vael?"
Ronan's eyes bled fully red. He didn't move immediately. He let the voice settle in the dark, let the wind carry the faint scent of sweat, gasoline, and arrogance straight toward him. Mercer always did love an entrance—he was a spotlight predator, one who needed an audience to feel like a threat.
Ronan didn't step forward. He didn't bare his claws. He simply rolled his shoulders once, letting the tension in his back disperse into something colder, sharper.
"Kade," Ronan said, eyes glowing. "Crawled out of whatever hole you're living in, I see."
A figure emerged from the brush with casual confidence, hands in his pockets, chin lifted in that swaggering way only men drunk on ego carried. Kade Mercer wore a sleeveless shirt despite the cold night and boots caked with dried mud. His build was lean and wiry, a fighter born from street scraps instead of tradition.
Behind him, five more rogues loomed—bigger than the scouts, but not smarter. They snarled low, half-shifted, waiting for a gesture from Mercer.
Kade grinned, revealing slightly elongated canines. He hadn't earned an alpha's fangs—but he'd sharpened his own to mimic it.
"Hell of a welcoming party," he drawled. "Didn't know you rolled out the red carpet for everyone sneaking onto your land."
Ronan's gaze slid over the wounded rogue at his feet, then back to Mercer. "You sent them."
"I suggested," Mercer corrected, shrugging loosely. "They're free wolves. They make their own choices."
Ronan stepped forward slowly. "You don't lead free wolves. You gather strays. Big difference."
Mercer's smile faltered at the edges. "Funny thing, Vael. You talk like Texas belongs to you. But last I checked, you didn't create the supernatural laws here."
"No," Ronan said. "I enforce them."
Mercer paced in a lazy circle, pretending not to be watching Ronan's every twitch. "See, that's your problem. You think you're some noble guardian. Some protector. But really?" He smirked. "You're just a scared kid playing alpha because your daddy died and left you the scraps."
Ronan didn't respond.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe for a moment.
But his eyes went cold.
Mercer continued, emboldened. "Everyone knows the Trials messed you up. Broke you. Made you into something twisted. And Texas—well, Texas deserves a better alpha. One who isn't a product of torture."
A low, dangerous rumble shook the ground beneath Ronan's boots. Not from the earth.
From him.
The ridges around his eyes sharpened, veins darkening across his cheekbones. His claws lengthened all the way, black and curved.
"You want my attention," Ronan said quietly. "You have it."
Mercer spread his arms wide. "Finally. Now how about you drop the tough act and face the truth? You're not stable enough to rule."
Ronan's answer was simple.
One blink.
One shift of weight.
One step forward.
Mercer's bravado flickered for the first time.
Ronan kept walking until they were barely ten feet apart. Behind him, the wounded rogue struggled to crawl away. The other rogues surrounding Mercer tensed, claws scraping the dirt.
"You came to my land," Ronan said softly. "Provoked my pack. Attacked my scouts. Threatened a wolf under my protection." His voice dropped to a growl. "Then you come here and insult the scars I bled for?"
Mercer tried to smirk. "Hit a nerve, did I?"
"No," Ronan said. "You hit your limit."
Before Mercer could react, two of his rogues lunged forward, snarling.
Ronan moved like a blade.
He pivoted sharply, meeting the first rogue mid-air, slamming his claws into the wolf's shoulder and using the momentum to throw him into the second attacker. Both wolves crashed to the ground in a mangled heap of limbs and dirt.
Ronan didn't pause.
The third rogue rushed from Ronan's left, jaws open, fangs bared.
Ronan caught his wrist and twisted it until bone snapped. The rogue screamed, and Ronan kicked him away with enough force to send him tumbling through a patch of brush.
The fourth rogue hesitated.
Ronan charged him.
They collided with a violent crack. Ronan shoved him backward, claws carving into the wolf's chest. The rogue clawed desperately at Ronan's shoulders, but Ronan overpowered him, slamming him into a rock. The wolf slid down, wheezing.
The fifth rogue tried to run.
Ronan grabbed the back of his shirt, yanking him off his feet. He threw him into the dirt, claws pressed against his throat.
Ronan snarled, voice warped by partial shift. "This is what you send to test me? Puppies?"
The rogue whimpered.
Mercer clapped slowly.
Sarcastic. Mocking.
"Well damn," he said. "Guess the rumors weren't exaggerations. You really did come back from the Trials like some kind of twisted experiment."
Ronan's claws withdrew from the rogue's throat, and he turned fully to face Mercer again.
"One chance," Ronan said. "Leave. Take what's left of your pack and run. You're not strong enough to challenge me."
Mercer's jaw tightened. "I don't need to challenge you. I just need to make you slip. Lose control. Show your pack you're unstable."
Ronan stepped closer. "My pack knows exactly who I am."
Mercer's grin returned—thin, venomous. "Do they know about the nightmares? The panic when sunlight hits you wrong? The way you wake up half-shifted? Do they know the Trials left you broken in ways even you don't underst—"
Ronan grabbed him by the shirt and slammed him into a tree so hard the bark splintered.
Mercer gasped, claws flying up—only to freeze when Ronan's red-ringed eyes locked onto his.
"Say one more word about the Trials," Ronan whispered, voice trembling with restrained fury. "And I won't stop at warnings."
Mercer swallowed, throat bobbing.
Ronan's claws pressed lightly into his chest—not breaking skin, just promising they could.
"You don't get to weaponize my scars," Ronan said. "You don't get to twist my story. You weren't there. You didn't bleed in the sand. You didn't crawl back from a pit meant to bury you."
Mercer's eyes darted wildly.
Ronan leaned in closer, voice dropping to something cold enough to freeze marrow.
"I survived something you couldn't last a minute in."
For the first time, Mercer looked unsure.
Scared, even.
Ronan let him go abruptly.
Mercer stumbled, caught himself, and backed up several steps, trying to regain composure.
"You think this changes anything?" he spat. "Texas is tired of your leash. You lead by fear—"
"No," Ronan said. "I lead by strength. By loyalty. By discipline. You lead by resentment."
Mercer's face twisted.
"You can't stop what's coming," he hissed. "Wolves are gathering. Rogues. Outcasts. They want a new future. A future where they're free."
"Free to destroy each other?" Ronan countered. "Free to tear apart communities? Free to answer to no moon, no law, no pack? That isn't freedom. That's chaos."
Mercer sneered. "Chaos builds better wolves."
Ronan's eyes narrowed. "Chaos built you. Not them."
Mercer lunged without warning.
Ronan expected it.
He sidestepped, grabbed Mercer's arm, and twisted it behind his back, forcing him face-first into the dirt. Mercer thrashed, snarling like an animal, but Ronan planted a boot on his spine, pinning him easily.
"You talk loud," Ronan said. "But you don't listen."
Mercer spat dirt, panting.
Ronan crouched, his voice low and lethal. "Hear this clearly, Kade. Come near my land again, and I will break you."
Mercer froze.
Ronan pressed harder—not enough to injure, just enough to ensure the message sank deep.
"Run back to whatever pack of strays you've scraped together," Ronan growled. "Tell them Texas is not up for grabs. Tell them the Vael Dominion stands."
Mercer let out a shaky breath.
Ronan removed his boot and stepped back.
Mercer scrambled to his feet, clutching his arm. His remaining rogues limped to him, bleeding and shaken.
Ronan stared them down, unblinking.
"Get. Out."
Mercer hesitated, hatred burning in his eyes.
Then he turned.
And ran.
His rogues followed, stumbling through the dark brush until their scent faded entirely.
The ridge grew silent.
Ronan stood alone in the moonlight, claws retracting slowly. His breath steadied. The wind cooled the sweat on the back of his neck.
He didn't smile.
He didn't celebrate.
He simply stared into the black horizon where Mercer had disappeared.
This wasn't over.
This was only the beginning.
He turned toward the ranch, voice rising softly into the night.
"Colton," he said, knowing his lieutenant would hear through the pack link. "Ridge secure. Bring reinforcements to sweep it."
A pause—then Colton's distant response: "On our way."
Ronan took one last breath of the night air, letting the adrenaline drain.
The war for Texas had officially begun.