The pained howl of his mate stops Atticus in his tracks. A wolf howl was loud, but his own mate’s call was unworldly. He’d shouldered off Clara’s tantrum and had continued drinking in the bar, the she-wolf he’d been flirting with, having scurried at the sight of the foreign wolf. It was poor etiquette in Nesta to shift in public places. This had only embarrassed Atticus more. Creed had been fighting fang and claw to be shifted, but Atticus had fought against it strongly. River’s howl strikes Atticus into action. Dropping the glass he holds, he sprints for the door, his wolf senses numbed by the alcohol. He stands in the alley next to the club, trying his best to pick up his mate’s scent. Although faint, it’s enough for him to follow. Except there’s another scent, one he recognizes but can’
