Rory Blackfang was no longer a werewolf. He was a walking, talking, blue-balled catastrophe. His redwood—his personal nickname for the unrelenting erection that had declared war on his sanity—hadn't budged since yesterday. If anything, it was angrier, throbbing like a bassline at a werewolf rave. Mrs. Howlsworth's "fated mate" bombshell had only made things worse. His inner wolf was now a horny lunatic, howling sonnets to an imaginary mate while Rory tried not to punch a hole through the cabin wall. He needed relief, and he needed it *now*. But the universe, that sadistic cosmic comedian, had other plans.
The Meditation Misadventure
Rory had heard meditation could calm the body. Maybe it could shrink Mount Redwood to a manageable hill. He found a quiet corner of the pack's common room, lit by a single flickering bulb and smelling faintly of wet dog and regret. He sat cross-legged, closed his eyes, and tried to "breathe through his chakras" or whatever the hell that yoga app Zeke swore by was on about. He pictured serene forests, babbling brooks, anything to distract from the pulsing crisis in his pants.
He was almost there—well, not *there* there, but calm-ish—when Luna burst in, blasting a Bluetooth speaker with a remix of "Who Let the Dogs Out." "RORY! You're meditating? That's so zen!" she squealed, flopping onto the couch and spilling glitter from her crop top. "Wanna join my mindfulness vlog? I'm calling it 'Wolfing Your Inner Peace'!"
"Luna, I'm begging you, shut up," Rory growled, his redwood twitching like it was auditioning for a drum solo. His wolf whimpered, caught between Zen and *send help*.
"Wait, are you… *tense*?" Luna leaned in, her nose wrinkling. "Dude, you smell like a horny pine tree. Is this about that mate thing Mrs. H was yapping about?" Before Rory could strangle her with her own glitter, she shoved her phone in his face. "Smile for the vlog!"
Rory bolted, tripping over a rogue chew toy that squeaked mockingly. Meditation was a bust, and his redwood was now doing push-ups.
The Barn Blunder
Fine. The barn. Nobody went to the pack's old barn except for the occasional raccoon orgy, and even they had better manners than Rory's packmates. He snuck in, dodging cobwebs and a pitchfork that looked suspiciously bloodstained. The hay bales were soft, the air was quiet, and Rory was *this close* to sweet, sweet release when a deafening *BANG* shook the barn.
"RORY, YOU IN HERE?" It was Derek, the alpha-in-training, hauling a crate of what looked like illegal fireworks. "Found these in the woods! Thought we could set 'em off for the pack barbecue tonight!" He dropped the crate, which exploded in a cloud of sparkler dust, coating Rory like a disco ball.
"DEREK, I'M BUSY!" Rory roared, scrambling to cover his redwood, which was now glittering like a Fourth of July float. His jeans were half-down, stuck on his boots, and he faceplanted into a hay bale, sneezing violently.
"Whoa, bro, you're *sparkling*," Derek said, grinning like an idiot. "Also, damn, you're giving off vibes like a rutting moose. You sure you're not dying?" He sniffed the air, then tossed a firecracker at Rory. "Lighten up, man! Wanna help me blow shit up?"
Rory crawled out of the hay, sneezing glitter and cursing the moon. His redwood was now a patriotic nightmare, and his dignity was AWOL.
The Diner Disaster
Desperate times called for desperate measures. Rory drove to the Greasy Paw, the pack's favorite diner in town, figuring a public bathroom might be his salvation. He locked himself in a stall, the fluorescent lights buzzing like his own personal tormentor. He was ready to end this saga when the stall door rattled.
"Occupied!" Rory barked, his voice echoing off the tiles.
"Rory? That you?" It was Zeke, because of course it was. "Dude, you gotta try the new bacon milkshake! It's like liquid pork!" He banged on the door again. "Also, the pack's outside, and Mrs. Howlsworth's telling everyone you're gonna meet your mate any second. She's reading chicken bones or some shit."
"ZEKE, I WILL EAT YOUR FACE!" Rory's wolf was now clawing at his brain, torn between humping the air and committing murder. The door rattled harder, and then—horror of horrors—the lock gave way. Zeke stumbled in, holding a milkshake that smelled like a pig's funeral.
"Whoa, dude, you okay? You look like you're smuggling a baseball bat." Zeke's eyes widened. "Is this a mate thing? 'Cause you're, like, *radiating*—"
Rory shoved past him, milkshake splashing across his shirt, and fled the diner, his redwood leading the charge like a divining rod of doom. The pack outside cheered, thinking he was just excited about the barbecue. Mrs. Howlsworth waved a chicken bone at him, shouting, "She's close, boy! I can feel it in my bunions!"
The Rooftop Ruin
Last straw: the cabin roof. Nobody would find him up there. Rory climbed the rickety ladder, nearly castrating himself on a rusty nail, and settled among the chipped shingles. The night sky was clear, the moon taunting him with its smug glow. He was *finally* about to get some peace when a drone buzzed overhead, its camera blinking red.
"RORY BLACKFANG, YOU PERVERT!" Luna's voice crackled through a megaphone. Apparently, she'd borrowed the pack's new "security drone" (stolen from a human delivery service) and was live-streaming to the pack's group chat. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP THERE? IS THIS FOR MY VLOG?"
The drone swooped low, its propeller nearly taking out Rory's ear. He swatted at it, lost his balance, and slid down the roof, landing in a pile of leaves that smelled suspiciously like Derek's "lucky" jockstrap. The pack below erupted in laughter, Luna's phone broadcasting Rory's red-faced, redwood-raging tumble to the entire clan.
"Mate's gotta be close, man!" Derek yelled, tossing a beer can that bounced off Rory's head. "Your junk's practically a GPS!"
The Tease
Rory limped to the porch, leaves in his hair, glitter on his crotch, and bacon milkshake staining his shirt. His redwood was now a mythical entity, possibly sentient, definitely vengeful. Mrs. Howlsworth shuffled over, her chicken bone clutched like a wizard's wand. "Told you, boy," she rasped, her breath like expired yogurt. "Your mate's out there. Moon's whispering her name. Probably in town, buying tampons or something."
Rory groaned, his wolf whining like a kicked puppy. "Can't I just… deal with this *first*?" He gestured vaguely at his pants, which were now a war zone.
"Nope," she cackled, poking him with the bone. "Moon says wait. Your mate's scent'll hit you like a brick soon. Till then, keep your paws off your pecker." She shuffled off, leaving Rory to contemplate a life of eternal torment.
As the pack partied, Rory caught a faint whiff on the breeze—something sweet, like honeysuckle and trouble. His wolf perked up, tail thumping, but the scent vanished. His redwood pulsed, his heart raced, and he knew: his mate was close, but not close enough. Until she showed up, he was doomed to be the horniest werewolf in history, with a pack full of idiots making it so much worse.