Wolves in Disguise
1245 Words
The whispers hadn’t died.
Three days since the gala kiss, New York was still fed on it like wolves on a fresh kill. Screens flashed headlines every hour, tabloids churned out speculation, and pack forums boiled with opinion.
Some called it weakness. Others called it treason. A few, mostly young wolves drunk on romance and rebellion, called it destiny.
But in the Blackthorn estate, it was shame.
Aiden walked the halls with his head high, but every time he passed another wolf, he heard it—the shift in tone, the too-quick silence, the half-hidden smirk. Pups snickered. Elders muttered. Even his father’s men looked at him differently, as if the kiss had stained him more than any wound ever could.
At the training yard, one of the younger enforcers sneered loud enough for everyone to hear. “Careful sparring with him. He might kiss you instead of killing you.”
Laughter rippled.
Aiden’s fist connected with the boy’s jaw before the laughter had even died. The wolf crumpled in the dirt, and silence fell sharp.
“Anyone else?” Aiden snarled, chest heaving. His wolf pressed against his skin, furious.
No one answered. But their silence was worse than insults.
On the other side of the city, Dante faced a different kind of ridicule.
His men didn’t laugh. They whispered. He caught scraps of it in the corridors, in the gym, in the garage where cars gleamed under fluorescent light.
“He’s slipping.”
“Alpha doesn’t lose control like that.”
“Maybe he’s weaker than we thought.”
The words slid under his skin, hot and bitter. Dante smirked, mocked, barked orders sharper than usual—but every whisper cut deep.
And worst of all, Lucien watched with cold eyes, saying nothing. Which meant he was waiting. Waiting for Dante to prove himself. Waiting for him to fail.
Dante poured himself harder into training, into strategy, into anything that would drown out the roar in his head. But at night, when the house was quiet, he still tasted the kiss.
Julian lit a cigarette on the balcony, the city glowing beneath him. Smoke curled silver in the air.
Leo lounged in a chair, glass of whiskey in hand, grin sharp. “It worked. The whole city’s doubting them now.”
Julian exhaled, his smile smooth. “Doubt is a seed. But seeds need water. Tonight, we water it.”
Leo’s eyes glinted. “The warehouse?”
Julian nodded. “Neutral ground. Blackthorn and Veyron supplies are stored together. A rogue strike there will cut deep. And with the right insignia…”
“…it’ll look like Dante’s wolves turned,” Leo finished, smirking wider. “Your cousin won’t know whether to kill him or kiss him.”
Julian’s eyes gleamed cold. “And either way, he loses.”
They clinked glasses, sealing the plot.
The attack hit at midnight.
Aiden was already on site, checking the shipments with a handful of his men. Crates lined the warehouse floor, filled with weapons and supplies meant to support the joint patrols.
Then the howls came.
The doors burst open, and shadows poured in—wolves with eyes glowing amber, teeth bared. Rogues. But not just rogues.
Aiden’s blood froze. Their jackets bore the silver Veyron crest.
Julian’s words crashed back. Strange how rogues wore your insignia.
Fury ignited, hot and instant. His wolf surged. Dante.
The first rogue lunged. Aiden met him with a fist to the jaw, sending him sprawling into a crate. Another came low, claws raking his thigh. Pain flared, blood hot. He snarled, shoving him back.
The warehouse erupted into chaos—wolves clashing, wood splintering, steel groaning under the weight of battle.
And then Dante was there.
He barreled through the fray like fire, golden eyes blazing, tearing into rogues with brutal precision. His men followed, their howls echoing off the walls.
For a split second, Aiden froze. Because for all the world, it looked like Dante was leading the rogues.
And yet—he fought them. Hard. Deadly. Wolves in his own colors fell under his fists.
“Blackthorn!” Dante barked, ducking a strike. “Left flank!”
Aiden’s heart pounded, rage tangled with doubt. But instinct moved faster than thought. He spun, slamming a rogue to the ground, his claws tearing into his shoulder.
They fought back-to-back, chaos swirling around them. Rogues lunged from every direction, claws flashing, teeth snapping. Aiden’s ribs burned with every breath, but Dante was there, covering his blind side, striking with ruthless precision.
For every doubt screaming in his head, Aiden’s body knew the truth: they fought better together.
Minutes stretched into eternity. Blood slicked the floor, howls filled the air. One rogue slammed Aiden against a crate, claws slicing across his arm. He staggered, vision blurring.
And then Dante was there, ripping the wolf off him, golden eyes blazing. “Stay on your feet!”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” Aiden snarled, shoving him back even as another rogue lunged.
They finished the wolf together—Aiden’s fist to the throat, Dante’s knee to the ribs. The rogue crumpled.
Silence fell. The last wolf hit the floor, groaning.
Both heirs stood heaving, bloodied, backs still pressed together. The warehouse stank of blood and sweat, broken crates scattered across the floor.
Slowly, they turned to face each other.
Aiden’s gray eyes burned with suspicion. Dante’s golden ones burned with fire.
“They wore your crest,” Aiden rasped.
Dante wiped blood from his lip, smirking faintly despite the bruises. “So I killed them anyway. You’re welcome.”
“You expect me to believe you had nothing to do with this?”
“If I wanted you dead, Blackthorn, you’d already be in the ground.”
The words cut sharply. Too sharp.
They stood close, too close, heat thrumming between them in the wreckage. Their chests rose and fell in tandem, sweat and blood mingling in the air.
For one dangerous heartbeat, Aiden’s wolf snarled not with rage, but with hunger.
He shoved it down. “Stay away from me.”
But his voice shook.
Julian watched from the shadows, unseen, a smile curling his lips.
Leo leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed. “They’re still breathing. Not part of the plan.”
Julian exhaled smoke, eyes glinting. “Patience. The cracks are spreading. Soon, they won’t need us to tear each other apart.”
That night, Aiden sat on his bed, bandaging his arm. His body ached, but it wasn’t the wounds that gnawed at him. It was the way Dante had fought—feral, loyal, unstoppable.
It was the way their wolves had moved in sync, as if born to fight together.
And it was the heat still lingering in his chest, the memory of golden eyes burning too close.
He clenched his fists. He hated him. He had to.
So why did it feel like hate was the only thing keeping him from falling?
Across the city, Dante leaned on his balcony, bruised and bloody, a drink untouched at his side. His father’s words still burned. His men still whispered.
But all he could think of was gray eyes, silver in the chaos. The feel of Aiden’s back against his, solid, unyielding. The taste of fury and fire.
Dante laughed, low and bitter. “We’re going to kill each other,” he muttered.
But his wolf growled low, as if it wanted the opposite.
- Writer
