Chapter Two: Callum
1706 Words
The house reeked of money and expectation. Beneath the glittering chandeliers, conversations buzzed like flies over rotting fruit—pretty, polished, and entirely hollow. Callum Cavell stood near the staircase, shoulders square, spine straight, eyes scanning. He didn’t fidget, didn’t lean. But everything about his stillness was tension, like a bow pulled taut.
He wore a custom-tailored suit, sleek black with subtle embroidery tracing the cuffs like ivy. It fit him flawlessly, yet it might as well have been a uniform. A lie. His mask, dark and severe, matched his expression beneath it, all control, no softness. Rowan had quipped earlier that he looked like a bouncer, not a bachelor. Callum hadn’t bothered responding.
Around him, alphas and betas mingled, glittering like rare coins. All dressed up to sniff each other out. All hoping fate would do them a favor.
His jaw clenched.
His wolf, Bracken, paced just beneath the surface. The beast was agitated, yellow eyes narrowed, claws tapping in irritation against Callum’s ribs. This party wasn’t for wolves like them. It was a spectacle. A performance.
Rowan, lounging a few feet away like he belonged in this atmosphere, gave a low whistle. “You look like you’re about to strangle someone.”
“Not yet,” Callum muttered. "But the night's still young."
Rowan’s smile was tired at the edges. “Another year, huh?”
Callum didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. As fraternal twins, it was understood they’d share a mate, and for many years they looked. In their twenties they'd split up, moving to different states in search of their mate before they returned to their hometown empty-handed. It was then that they started attending the mating parties, ceremonies of sorts where packs gathered in hopes of meeting their destined half. Now, six years in, they still walked away with the same cold emptiness
No mate. No bond. Nothing.
Worse, this year they were hosting the event themselves and the failure stung sharper than ever.
Bracken paced and huffed in his minds eye as Callum yet again greeted people, the fake smile he wore at work plastered across his face.
What’s got you so amped up? He asked Bracken.
Bracken rumbled, not quite mad, not quite sure. If I knew, I’d tell you. Something’s different.
Callum and Rowan moved as gracefully as they could through the crowd, doing their best to greet everyone, welcome them for attending, even if the words wanted to get caught in his throat.
It was just after the band’s first cool down song that he smelled it.
The scent hit him like wildfire—feral and bright, citrus‑slick and electric, slicing through the air and anchoring in his chest. A blaze of raw omega scent that stole the breath from his lungs.
Bracken lunged upward like he’d been shocked.
Mate.
Callum’s body moved before thought could catch up. He pushed off the wall, movements fluid but sharp, senses narrowing. The world went quiet except for that scent—growing stronger, pulling him through the crowd like a tether. He didn't look back to see if Rowan had smelled her, he was sure he had.
He saw her.
Not because she stood out, but because she didn’t.
She wore black. No frills. No jewelry. Her posture was tight, shoulders braced like someone waiting for a hit. Her mask didn’t match the others—cheaper, probably handmade. And her scent—gods, her scent—curled around him like smoke.
When her eyes met his, time slowed.
She took an involuntary step toward him, her steel grey eyes stormy with emotion. But wary. Confused. She was fighting with her wolf—he could sense it. The rancid scent of fear swung wildly to the sweetness of longing and back again.
Then panic.
She bolted.
Callum ran after her, taking as big of strides as he could within the densely packed house.
The crowd protested around him—startled murmurs, someone’s champagne sloshing—but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even think. His wolf howled inside him, wild with the need to follow, to find, to claim.
She ran like a hunted ghost—past startled guests, through half‑open doors, every move born of survival, not sport.
Then Rowan was beside him. “Did you see her eyes?”
Callum growled. “Focus, Rowan.”
“She’s terrified.”
“I saw.” Callum’s voice was tight. “We need to talk to her. At least.”
The chase took them through the east hall and out the French doors. Cold night air slammed into him, but the scent trail burned hotter than ever.
“She’s heading for the woods.” Callum said, running past the pool toward the field that stretched out before the tall pines.
Rowan veered left, flanking. “I don’t think she shifted,” he sniffed the air. “I don’t smell her wolf.”
“She’s staying human.” Callum agreed.
Branches whipped at his shoulders, clawing at his shirt and face. Leaves and loam crushed underfoot, kicked up with every stride. The scent danced—wild and elusive. Fainter now, but still there.
She was fast. Faster than expected. But not desperate.
She moved like someone who’d grown up running.
Like it was burned into her bones.
A low growl rumbled in Rowan’s throat beside him.
“Don’t shift,” Callum snapped. “Not yet.”
Rowan gave a tight nod, though both Bracken and Riven strained beneath their skin, aching to give chase in full form.
Callum felt it too. Their wolves were close to the surface, ready to shift and give an even faster chase. But if she saw them shifted—even for a second—she’d never stop running. Alpha werewolves were naturally larger than the other dynamics, and with as terrified as their mate already was, he doubted shifting even to catch her would help the situation.
The thought of her being afraid of them—of him—twisted something in his chest. A hot, hollow ache that made his step falter for half a heartbeat.
We’re not the threat. Not to her. Never to her. Bracken, his wolf whined, sensing his dilemma.
They broke through the thickest of the undergrowth and reached the tree line. Beyond it, the forest thinned into a moonlit field. Pale grass stirred in the wind, silvered by the glow.
Silence.
No footsteps. No breath. No twigs snapping.
“She’s close,” Callum said, low. Instinct guided him now. The scent was thinner, but still present. Lingering.
They split without a word. Rowan curved left up a slope while Callum pressed forward, eyes scanning: a crushed fern, a bent stalk, a sharp heel gouge near a root—
Then—
Nothing.
The trail cut off. Mid-stride. Like a blade through thread.
Callum stopped short. Frowning. Heart pounding.
Rowan slowed too, catching his eye across the dark space between them. Confusion. Frustration. A little awe.
“She covered it,” Callum muttered.
“What?” Rowan called softly, stepping closer.
“She doubled back. Masked it. I don’t know how—” He crouched low, sniffed. “But the scent just… ends.”
Rowan knelt, nose flaring. “That’s impossible.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Callum’s jaw tightened. “She’s gone.”
A long pause. Only wind moved now. No footsteps. No heartbeats but their own.
Bracken snarled deep inside him. Find her.
“She’s scared,” Rowan murmured. “And she’s smart.”
Callum gave a terse nod. “Smarter than we gave her credit for.”
But even as the trail vanished, he felt it—a tether beneath his skin. Quiet, but unbroken. He couldn’t track her with scent anymore.
But he felt her.
Somewhere, just out of reach.
And he would find her.
He sniffed the air again. Bracken growled—low, frustrated.
“She doubled back,” he repeated, tighter now.
Rowan scanned the brush, eyes narrowed. “She could have had clothes stashed. Changed. Could be why the scent’s off.”
Callum caught a faint thread of scent on the wind—ten paces left, under a low branch. Something pale in the moonlight.
He knelt by a dirt-smudged backpack tossed haphazardly into the tree roots. The canvas material smelled like her, he grabbed it carefully, unzipping it for clues.
Inside lay jeans, a faded tee, boots—and her black dress, balled in haste..
Every stitch smelled of her—sun-warmed skin, fear-sweat, citrus brightness. It hit him too hard, too vivid, too real to be just a fleeting face.
Rowan crouched beside him, rifling the contents until he held up a chipped name tag. “‘Val,’” he said. “Think it’s real?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Callum’s voice was low, flat. He swallowed past a lump in his throat; his eyes locked on the badge. A piece of her he hadn’t earned, yet he was going through her things like they were his.
“She works in town,” Rowan stated, tipping the badge so it could reflect the moonlight enough to read. “Diner logo matches the one near the highway. Some people from our office visit there from time to time. They say the manager’s a nasty piece of work, but the food’s cheap. She could’ve overheard someone talking about the masquerade there and decided to see what it's about.”
“Maybe,” Callum muttered. But the word felt like ash. “She snuck in then. No invitation. No backup. And yet got away. It's our house, Rowan, yet she managed to get through it like it was hers.”
"Luck?" Rowan guessed.
Callum snorted, "She still got away.”
It stung. Pride didn’t want to admit it. But truth always cut clean.
They’d known alphas who’d lose their minds over a failure like this.
Once upon a time, he might’ve joined them. Standing on the proverbial high hill, bragging that no omega would ever outrun him and yet.... He stood in the dark, with nothing but a backpack. A scent on the wind. A phantom heartbeat already too far away.
His hand curled around the strap, knuckles pale with pressure.
She was gone.
- Writer
