Chapter 49: Protection

Chapter 49 – Protection Cameron I exhale. I close my eyes and walk into the town square. I’ve stood in boardrooms filled with billionaires. I’ve taken hostile questions from press mobs, handled mergers that shook the market, but I have never felt this level of bone-deep pressure. Every step I take echoes off the cobbled stone like a declaration, and yet I’ve never felt more small. The town is quiet, but not silent. It’s the kind of hush that hums—packed with bodies, heavy with judgment. Every wolf’s gaze is on me, and I can feel their senses dragging over my skin like searchlights. Wearing simple jeans and a black T-shirt—Ronan’s suggestion—I walk to the square. The clothes are nothing fancy. Looking around, I realize a six-piece suit might have been overkill I’m glad I didn’t don one. I walk in slow, measured steps, and I’m met with every expression you can imagine. Curiosity. Pity. Distrust. Some amusement, but more wariness. The kind that says you don’t belong here. And still—I keep walking. Lenora is standing beside Eamon at the front, and the moment I see her, the nerves quiet. She’s visibly nervous, in a way I’ve never seen her. Her jaw clenched tight. Her shoulders a little too straight. Her hands locked in front of her. She’s in a black dress, simple and loose to the knees. I know she hates dresses, but she looks like a goddess anyway. Her hair is pulled back in a high ponytail, a few strands falling out, lit by the lantern glow like molten silver. For a moment, I’m not afraid. I can’t let her lose everything. Not because of me. Not because the goddess, in her strange sense of humor, gave her a half-broken mate. I walk forward, until I’m facing Alric, who stands near the statue at the center of the square, flanked by his son and two pack warriors. "Allow me to introduce my niece’s mate," he says, voice booming with effortless showmanship. I step forward. "Cameron. Cameron Anderson." A few murmurs run through the crowd, but they die out when Alric lifts a hand. "Yes, Mr. Anderson. I’m sure many of you have heard about his situation." His tone shifts, every word sharpened. "A half-breed. Barely able to shift. With no pack. No lineage. No understanding of what it means to belong. And yet, the goddess—in all her grace—bestowed my niece upon him." A quiet rolls over the square like thunder before a storm. Alric’s son smirks. My jaw clenches. Was saying all that necessary? I meet his gaze but say nothing. I can already feel the urge under my skin—the familiar heat that rises when I’m being challenged. I inhale and let it go. One fight at a time. But I swear on my life, I will deal with that bastard, Alric’s son for everything. The crowd stirs when a broad-shouldered man steps forward from the ring of warriors. "This is Gideon." Alric gestures with a grand sweep of his arm. "Our strongest fighter. Captain of the hunt. Undefeated for fifteen years." Gideon looks like he was carved from granite. Older than me, maybe early forties, but built like he’s never lost a battle in his life. His arms are thick with corded muscle, a thin scar trailing over one cheek. He doesn’t smile, but his eyes size me up like I’m prey that’ll go down quick. "Your task," Alric says, "is to protect what is yours. You have been given a mate. A family. And the weight of a name. If you cannot protect yourself, how can you protect them?" Fair enough. The circle clears. Someone throws down a pair of hand wraps. I bend to pick them up and start winding the cloth around my wrists. My hands are steady. I hear someone mutter, "He’s gonna get destroyed." Someone else responds, "He’s the one who beat Fredrick, right?" I block it out. Eamon once said—"If you can take my hits, you’ll survive anything the pack throws at you." Well, he didn’t go easy on me. My ribs still remember it. Gideon steps into the center, cracking his neck, rolling his shoulders. "You ready?" he asks, voice deep, almost kind. I nod. The crowd holds its breath. The whistle blows. He charges. I pivot. Not away—into him. I drop low, and drive my shoulder up into his chest. He grunts, surprised, but doesn’t fall. Instead, he grabs my arm, twists, and slams me sideways. I hit the ground hard. Alright. Fair. I roll just in time to dodge his boot, spring back up and throw a punch. It lands—square in the ribs. He snarls. "You hit harder than you look." I grin. "You should meet my trainer." We trade blows. And I realize something. He’s strong, yes. Skilled. But he’s predictable. Tactical. Disciplined. Unfortunately I had a ruthless teacher. Eamon taught me how to take hits. How to use pain. How to stand up when every instinct told me to stay down. And he didn’t teach me to win pretty. He taught me to win ugly. The first punch to the gut is solid. It knocks the air out of me, but I don’t fold. I grit my teeth, duck under the next swing, grab Gideon by the waist, and flip him over my hip. He hits the ground hard. Dust flies. The crowd lets out a sharp gasp. But he’s back on his feet in seconds. Furious. His lips curl into a snarl. I watch the shift take over—his bones crack, skin stretches, fur rips through flesh, and his body expands. It’s grotesque and fast. He’s not just shifting—he’s giving in. By the time he’s done, there’s a wolfman in front of me. Not quite human. Not quite beast. Something monstrous in between. By the time he’s done, there’s a full-on wolfman in front of me. Not quite human. Not quite beast. Something in between—snout, claws, fur. Big. Brutal. Loud. I would love to match that. Really. But I still can’t shift. Welp. I crack my neck, bounce on my heels. "Let’s do this, then." He lunges first. Claws wide, slashing. I duck. He swipes again and slices my arm open. Blood pours, the sting sharp. From the crowd comes a delighted cheer. Heavens. I get it—bloodthirsty werewolf audience. Still. I’m in pain here. And now I’m annoyed. I dodge again, this time I pivot, and slam my fist into his gut. He stumbles. I follow up with a right hook to the jaw and send him flying. He crashes into the stone tiles and snarls, real pissed now. Clothes shred as his body fully shifts into a wolf—a big one, dark-furred, foaming at the mouth. Fantastic. That irritation in me? Yeah. It’s back. Eamon’s voice echoes in my head from one of our many weird training sessions: "You keep treating the wolf like it’s something else—some demon in your skin. It’s not. It’s you. You wouldn’t tell your dick ’don’t get hard’ and assume it’s not yours, would you?" Very uncomfortable for me to hear, given my girlfriend is his daughter, but it helped me understand the whole thing way better. So it’s not the wolf getting irritated, I’m getting irritated. The wolf circles me, growling low in its throat. Then it springs. Mid-air, I move. Fast. I catch the damn thing by the scruff of its neck. It’s huge. Easily double my size. But my body doesn’t care. My claws dig in. Not too deep, just enough. And I pull it closer, hold it off the ground like a misbehaving mutt. "Enough." It doesn’t come out like a shout. It comes out low. Final. My voice is rough—somewhere between a growl and a command. The wolf freezes. Like a switch flipped. Legs stop kicking. Snarling halts. Its ears twitch once. Then drop. It whines. Loud enough for everyone to hear. The crowd, which was shouting, howling, vibrating with excitement, just...stops. Then a murmur. Then gasps. Then silence. I let go. The wolf drops to the ground, panting, tail tucked. He doesn’t lunge again. Doesn’t snarl. He bows his head.