— Moonbound: The Reluctant Pack —

In the shadowed fringes of the Pacific Northwest, Johnny Walker lived a life of deliberate isolation. At 28, he was a werewolf hiding in plain sight, his secret buried under layers of sarcasm and engine grease. His days were spent at Full Moon Customs, his auto shop where he restored vintage muscle cars with a precision that mirrored his desperate need for control. The work kept his hands busy and his mind focused, drowning out the primal urges that simmered beneath his skin. Born into a dormant bloodline, his curse had erupted on his 18th birthday under a supermoon, leading to a tragic accident that forced him to flee his past. Now, under a false name, he navigated life with wolfsbane tea, reinforced basement locks, and solitary hikes to scout safe transformation spots. He dreamed of a sanctuary for others like him, but fear, of hurting someone, of losing himself to the wolf, kept him alone. Until her.

Across the country in suburban Connecticut's Hudson Valley, Alma Lowell embodied polished perfection. At 33, she was another concealed werewolf, her wild nature compartmentalized behind a facade of luxury and control. As a high-end real estate broker, she sold dream homes with a "sixth sense" for clients' desires, her heightened senses sniffing out truths others missed. Raised in an emotionally distant family that prized appearances, Alma's lycanthropy awakened in her early 20s during a trip abroad, triggered by an ancient curse. She channeled the terror into empowerment, building a life of yoga, baking, wine tastings, and home renovations. Her fortified wine cellar served as a monthly prison, and her style, luxe loungewear, statement jewelry, dark nails, projected untouchable elegance. But cracks were forming: unexplained injuries, nosy neighbors, and a growing fear of exposure. Her secret desire? To find someone who could love her fully, beast and all.

Their worlds collided not by chance, but by the inexorable pull of fate.

— The Scent of a Stranger —

Johnny Walker had never liked open houses.

They made him itchy in his skin, the glass walls, the manicured lawns, the lemon-scented air that screamed nothing here is real. But he needed a storage space. Somewhere out of town. Quiet, remote, and private, the kind of place you could chain yourself up in once a month without alarming the neighbors.

That’s what led him to Lot 29 on Pine Hollow Road, and to the woman who changed his life the moment he smelled her.

She was already there when he arrived, clipboard in hand, phone in the other, pacing in front of a sleek Mercedes. She wore lavender joggers and a fitted black crop top that somehow made her look like both a housewife and a gym instructor. Her hair was perfectly waved. Her nails were sharp enough to draw blood.

Johnny stepped out of his truck, dust on his boots and oil on his flannel.

Their eyes met.

Then came the snap.

A scent hit him. Not perfume. Not sweat. Not even the faint, sweet metallic tang of someone hiding something with wolfsbane. No, this scent was raw, ancient, and carved deep into his biology. Something clicked in his brain and spine like a trap springing shut.

She was like him.
And worse, she was his.

Alma's posture stiffened as soon as he got close. Her pen slipped from her fingers. The moment the wind shifted and his scent hit her, she physically recoiled like a startled deer, but not out of fear. Out of recognition. Her pupils dilated. Her jaw clenched.

He was like her.
And he was hers.

Neither spoke for a few seconds.

Then Johnny tilted his head slightly, nostrils flaring, one brow raised in challenge.
“You smell... familiar,” he said slowly.

Alma took one long, hard look at him, at his boots, his old truck, his stupidly relaxed grin, and internally screamed.
“I’m sure it’s just the pine,” she snapped. “It clings to everything up here.”

But they both knew better.

— The Bond —

Werewolves didn’t date. They didn’t swipe left or right.
They recognized.

It was rare. Incredibly rare. Most never met another unbound werewolf in their lifetime. But when it happened, when two unbound wolves came across each other’s scent and it struck the right chord, the bond happened instantly. Without warning. Without logic.

Like the moon choosing sides.

It wasn’t just desire. It was a biological locking of instincts, hormones, and psychic imprinting. They didn’t fall in love, they were claimed by a force older than civilization. Whether they liked it or not.

Johnny didn’t mind it. He even found it a little romantic in a weird, beastly way.
But Alma? Alma despised it.

She hadn’t clawed her way into upper-middle-class respectability just to end up biologically shackled to a car mechanic who owned three shirts and referred to every woman as “ma’am.”

She tried to fight it. She cut off contact. Changed her route to work. Repeated daily affirmations in the mirror. Went on dates with a corporate lawyer. Slept with someone else just to test the bond (it only made her nauseous). Nothing worked.

The universe had decided. Johnny was her mate. Her biological husband. Her Alpha, except, maddeningly, he refused to act like one.

— The Fights —

Their relationship began with cold silence.

Then came the barbed remarks.

Then came the shouting matches in the woods under full moons, the two of them pacing in circles, baring teeth, growling with half-transformed jaws.

Johnny, ever the calm one, would avoid confrontation until Alma pushed him too far. She wanted him to fight, to dominate, to prove that he was worthy of the bond she didn’t ask for. That was werewolf courtship: dominance, submission, battles of will that led to blood and bonding.

“You’re supposed to be the Alpha,” she snarled once, shoving him into a tree. “Act like it.”

“I didn’t ask for this either,” he snapped, voice gravelly, eyes yellowing. “But I’m not about to turn into some asshole just to satisfy your beast.”

“Oh, so you do admit you’re a coward.”

That night ended with them both transforming in a frenzy, tearing into each other, not to kill, but to feel. Bruised ribs, torn shirts, blood on lips, and later, in human form, breathing side by side on the forest floor. Touching. Not speaking.

And strangely, closer than ever.

— Growl If You Mean It —

The moon wasn’t full, but it was close enough to itch.

Johnny was in the garage behind Alma’s house, hammering away at the warped siding, something he offered to fix weeks ago. Not that she’d asked. Not that she’d thanked him.

Alma stood in the doorway, arms crossed, tail twitching with agitation just beneath the surface.

"You gonna fix that thing or hump it into submission?" she called out.

Johnny didn’t look up. "I could say the same about your last boyfriend."

"Careful, grease monkey. You’re treading close to insult territory."

"And you’ve been camped out in hostile since you smelled me six months ago."

That got her attention.

Alma stepped inside, slow and sharp, like a knife in heels. She didn’t walk so much as stalk, even barefoot. “You think just because some ancient wolf god decided we’re soulbonded, I’m gonna roll over and let you play Alpha?”

He dropped the hammer with a loud clank. Turned. And something in his posture changed, spine straighter, chin lifted, his yellowing eyes catching the dim light like polished brass.

“Maybe I’m tired of pretending I’m not,” Johnny growled.

The air thickened. Their breathing synced, short, sharp, quick.

Alma took another step forward. "Then prove it.”

Johnny crossed the space between them in two strides, grabbing her wrist and slamming it gently, but firmly, against the wooden wall. His voice was low, not yelling, not pleading, commanding.

“You want a fight? You want me to pin you down and show you what being my mate means?” His breath was hot against her cheek, his grip firm but respectful. “You keep pushing me like you want to be dominated.”

Her pupils dilated. Her fangs peeked from behind her lip. Her scent changed, heat rolling off her like steam from a boiling pot.

Her body said yes.

Her mouth said, “Go to hell.”

Johnny snarled, and that was it.

Clothes came off in frenzied tugs and tears. His flannel shredded. Her joggers were yanked down like prey fur. They crashed into each other like waves in a storm, clawed hands and bruising kisses. She bit his shoulder. He gripped her hips like they’d vanish if he let go. No gentle caresses, just raw, feral need, dominance, submission, the unspoken language of the wild made flesh.

The old workbench groaned under them, but didn’t break. They did, again and again.

— Aftermath —

An hour later, Alma sat on the hood of his truck, her hair a mess of curls and her arms folded tight across her chest.

Johnny stood nearby, shirtless, body scraped and flushed, lighting a cigarette and not offering her one.

She glared at him like he’d insulted her ancestors.
“That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

He exhaled smoke and shrugged. “Didn’t hear you complaining.”

“I wasn’t thinking, Johnny. That was just... hormones. Moon proximity. Primal override.”

“Sure,” he said, nonchalantly, “Just two wild animals blowing off steam.”

She hissed. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend like this is normal. It’s not. I don’t even like you.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

She threw a rag at him. “It was a one-time thing.”

He didn’t respond, just smirked and walked back toward the barn, like he’d already accepted her denial as temporary.

Alma scowled at his retreating back. Her heart thudded with fury, embarrassment... and something far more dangerous.

She hated how he smelled on her.
She hated how she wanted it again.
She hated how being underneath him made something ancient inside her purr.

She would never admit it. Not out loud.

Maybe not even to herself.

But in the dark, when she curled into bed that night, one hand tucked beneath her jaw like a wolf hiding her throat, Alma whispered:

“...It won’t happen again.”

Pause.

“Probably.”

— How They Live Now —

They don’t live together. Not yet.

Alma still calls him “a walking embarrassment” and Johnny still calls her “Highness.” But he’s fixing up the old barn behind her house. Quietly. Without asking.

She still dates other men, trying to shake the bond, and then ghosts them the moment she smells their blood. Johnny still drinks alone on Fridays and tells himself he’s free, then gets twitchy if she hasn’t texted by Saturday night.

But they can’t stay apart for long.

When the moon rises, they find each other. Sometimes it’s a fight. Sometimes it’s a run. Sometimes they just sit side by side in the dark and breathe in sync.

They hate it.
They love it.
They are it.

— Closing Thoughts —

Johnny and Alma are bound not by love, but by nature, a kind of primal gravity that no amount of logic or pride can defy. They clash because they’re different. They grow stronger because they clash. Each full moon is a reminder that their souls are tethered, unwillingly, irrevocably, and permanently.

Their relationship will never be peaceful. But for werewolves, peace is never the goal.
Survival is.
Loyalty is.
And most of all, pack is.

Even if your pack is just one other snarling, stubborn soul.