Page 3 of Bronx

His weeks in the hospital were a blur of hazy memories and what he assumed were drug-induced hallucinations. It took an enormous amount of pain-killing medicine to affect an average wolf shifter—and Bronx was far from average. By the time Greg had given the guardian enough medication to soothe his body’s agony, Bronx’s brain had turned to mush, offering up addled visions of…angels? Or something like that, anyway.

Something that sent his emotions reeling.

As much as he’d hated the pain of his injuries, Bronx had hated feeling out of control even more, insisting that Greg take him off the IV as soon as possible.

Given the guardian’s reluctance to accept more opioids, Greg had encouraged Bronx to shift often in order to allow his body to heal more quickly—but he’d also ordered Bronx to avoid running in either his human or his wolf form. Major injuries like the ones Bronx had suffered, the pack doctor noted, required weeks to heal. Yes, even in shifters.

So as much as Bronx’s instincts might shout at him to hide his injuries from any prying eyes, he pushed himself to move past them as quickly as possible, following Greg’s orders religiously and shoving all the mangled, fuzzy memories of the hospital out of his mind.

His dedication to his rehabilitation exercises paid off. At this morning’s appointment, Greg had told Bronx that the guardian was free to resume all pack duties—including patrolling pack territory in his wolf form.

Now Bronx hesitated for only a moment, then shed his human form, allowing the slight pain of transformation to wash over him like an old friend—not the lingering torment of convalescence and recovery, but the sharp, bright, pinprick sparks that always accompanied shifting and immediately disappeared along with his human body. His bones cracked and reshaped, his muscles rippling under his skin as he dropped to all fours, his muzzle elongating and his bright white fur emerging all over his new shape.

Bronx shook off the last vestiges of his shift and began to run through the dense woodland of Yellowstone Park, paws thudding against the ground in a rhythmic cadence.

The wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the scent of the forest animals—rabbits, otters, deer—prey he often hunted. Bronx’s heightened senses fed him information as he ran, his powerful legs propelling him forward. The pain from his battle wounds throbbed in time with each step, a constant reminder of the perils that had befallen the Moonstone Pack. Jagged lines marred his once-unblemished skin, an outward testament to the battles he’d fought and won, but also to the ones that had left their indelible mark on his soul.

As he ran, he felt the loneliness that dogged him lighten just a little. In this form, he could almost forget about everything else for a while—the responsibilities of being Moonstone Pack’s head guardian, his scars both seen and unseen. Instead, the wind whipped past him as he bounded between trees, a blur of pale fur and focused determination.

Bronx slowed his pace, listening to the rustle of leaves and examining the wildlife that called the park home. A family of deer grazed nearby, their ears flicking nervously at the sound of his approach.

His attention shifted to a squirrel chattering angrily at him from a high branch, its tiny tail twitching in agitation. Bronx smiled inwardly at the display, knowing that even the smallest of creatures held a fierce spirit within them. As he moved on, his ears caught the distant sound of a pack of Yellowstone’s wolves—true wolves, not shifters—howling together, their voices harmonizing in a wild melody that called to him.

For a moment, Bronx considered joining them but quickly dismissed the thought. His duty lay with his own kind. Still, he couldn’t shake the longing that filled him as he listened to the distant howls.

“Bronx!” a voice called out, breaking him from his reverie. He skidded to a halt, his eyes narrowing as he searched for the source. Nick Reagan, a relatively new Moonstone Pack shifter—one of the pack’s sentinels—emerged from the shadows in his human form, his long, sandy brown hair twirled atop his head in a bun and his expression unreadable.

“Everything okay?” Nick asked as he glanced at Bronx’s still-healing wounds, visible even in his wolf form.

Bronx nodded, flicking his eyes away from the other shifter’s gaze. He didn’t need pity or worry; he’d almost become accustomed to the scars that now covered his body, the limp that refused to disappear, no matter how often he shifted. It was the loneliness they represented that weighed on him—the knowledge that his disfigured appearance might forever keep him from finding a mate of his own.

“Check it out,” Nick said, nodding toward the border where both Idaho and Moonstone Pack members stood guard. “It looks like the Idahos are fitting in.” Their vigilant gazes swept the land, their postures tense yet united. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the two packs were working together as one cohesive unit.

Finally, Bronx thought, watching the guards with approval. The two packs were stronger together.

As he and Nick stood side by side, surveying the united pack members before them, a glimmer of hope flickered through Bronx. Perhaps, in this new world where Idaho and Moonstone stood as one, he might someday find the connection he’d longed for—the mate who could look past his scars and see the fierce, loyal guardian within.

A few minutes later, Bronx began his journey back to Moonstone Lodge, moving through the lush forest to the tree where he’d stashed his clothes. His muscles ached as he shifted back into human form, the pain from his still-healing wounds reverberating through his body.

As he stepped into the lobby of the lodge, the fireplace offered a welcome contrast to the chill outside.

“Bronx!” A familiar voice called out to him. He turned to see Steele, the alpha of the Moonstone Pack, standing with his new mate, Mila, by his side. Her long dark hair framed her face, and her eyes lit up when she saw him.

“Hey, Steele, Mila,” Bronx greeted them, his voice rough from disuse.

“Have you been out for a run?” Mila asked. “It’s good to see you up and around.”

Bronx nodded and gave a slight smile. Although he—along with everyone else in the pack—had been surprised when Steele chose a soft, round human as his mate, Bronx could see how happy his alpha cousin was. And Mila’s kindness and strength had impressed the entire pack.

“Can you come with me to my office?” Steele asked Bronx, his gaze meeting Bronx’s with an intensity that hinted at something important.

“Sure.” Bronx nodded his goodbye to Mila and left her behind in the lobby, following Steele down the hallway. “Everything okay?” he asked, worry coiling in his stomach.

“Things are fine,” Steele reassured him, opening the door to his office. “There’s just something I need to discuss with you.”

“Okay,” Bronx said, curiosity piqued as he stepped inside the room and took a seat at Steele’s gesture. He wondered what could be so important to pull him away from his duties at the border, but he knew better than to question Steele’s judgment.

Seated across from Steele at the wide desk in the brightly lit office, Bronx shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The wooden furniture creaked beneath his weight.

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