Marcello's thick neck cracked, a symphony of pops releasing tension that clawed at other parts of his body – one insatiable part in particular. His shoulders rolled back with a low grind of bone on bone, biceps and forearms flexing like coiled pythons, drawing the envious gazes of scrawnier wolves. They slunk nearby, drawn by the raw, dangerous magnetism of the three alphas, cowering just beyond the reach of their palpable dominance so they didn't piss themselves.

Filthy, weak scavengers waiting for our scraps.

He stood against the gnarled trunk of an oak, the intricate darkness of his tattoos snaking over the rippling contours of muscle. Silvery scars gleamed in the moon's cold light – the pair slashing over his left eye, from brow to jawline, stark and brutal, a testament to battles fought and won. His brothers flanked him – Luciano's gaze a languid, predatory sweep that snagged on a distant wolf who looked their way for too long, while Remy's eyes, alight with undisguised hunger, fixated on the distant cage.

"Looks like they've got some prime prey this time," Remy's voice was a low rasp cutting through the night. He grinned and licked a canine, the motion disturbingly primal like a hound anticipating a kill. "Last year's catch was begging for mercy and death before I even knotted her."

A cage of prime prey ready for the taking.

The eldest brother, Marcello, watched the distant commotion, the faint sounds of whimpers and nervous anticipation. Some girls wept in fear while others waited with bated breath. Handlers accepted 'volunteers' for the hunt but it was the unwilling prey, the ones that got dragged into this mess kicking and screaming, that made Marcello's blood sing.

Genuine fear. Genuine tears. Genuine resistance that he fucked out of them in the dark of the woods where nature was the only one who heard their plight. Their nails would tear at him in desperation until it broke and their blood painted his skin, and their screams would shatter the night as he fucked them into oblivion.

He never marked them. No. The hunt was a place for brutal release, a savage balm for the rut's gnawing ache. It was not a place where men like him claimed their mates.

But tonight, something was different. A tremor in the air – a low, thrum that made his blood sizzle and his instincts flare. The beast within him, a monstrous entity, paced and snarled and clawed to be let out.

His gums throbbed with a dull, insistent ache, and his mouth watered with a metallic tang. But his cock? It ached and pulsed, a thick, insistent throb in his pants, paying homage to an ancient melody in a reaction unlike anything he'd known.

And then, in an exhilarating flash, he understood.

"Remy," his voice, a low, dangerous rumble, tore through the stillness. His pupils contracted, pinning on the tag fastened to her collar. "What's the name of 051?"

Remy stiffened, a flicker of genuine surprise in his amber eyes as they darted between Marcello and the woman in the cage, her terror a palpable shroud around her. Numbers were given for anonymity, but Remy found a subtle thrill in knowing their names.

"Her name is the prey," Remy answered, straightening a little. "Bro... what—"

"The prey," the name rolled off Marcello's tongue in a dangerous caress, like black silk dipped in venomous honey, the syllables sweeter than forbidden fruit. Something deep inside him sparked to life.

Her eyes met his as though she heard the low purr of her name all the way across the clearing, and the thought was both gratifying and arousing. She paled before snapping her head away from his smoldering gaze.

A low growl rumbled from his chest, the beast clawing to the surface as every corded muscle in his hulking form pulled taut.

"She's mine."

It wasn't a command, not in the traditional sense. He was no pack alpha, nor did he care to be. But the raw, undeniable power in his voice sent lesser wolves scattering and tumbling back, their whimpers barely audible as they put desperate distance between themselves and the massive man with his arms crossed over his chest.

Marcello's eyes never left her, burning holes through the distance. He knew she could feel the raw, consuming heat of his gaze stripping her bare, delving into her very soul. He could taste the acrid aroma of her fear, carried on the night air from across the clearing where he waited with the other hungry wolves. It ignited a primal urge within him, a ravenous need to pin her down – to fuck her in every orifice until she was drenched, inside and out, in his seed and his scent. It made him want to tear that damned collar from her throat and sink his teeth deep, marking her as his.

He growled again, a wordless, guttural warning that promised a fate worse than death for any wolf foolish enough to come between him and his chosen prey.

Remy and Luciano exchanged a dark, knowing look, but neither uttered a sound. She was off limits. Anyone foolish enough to ignore the way Marcello was almost vibrating with need was fucked.

A shrill whistle tore through the air, and Marcello's lips peeled back into a feral grin, baring sharp canines that glinted wickedly in the moonlight – teeth that ached and pulsed with an almost unbearable need to sink into flesh and claim.

Run, little mouse. Run fast. Run hard. Make me chase you.

The heavy metal bars of the cage door groaned open and the women ran out like spilled ink – a dark, frantic current across the grass, dissolving into the dense cluster of trees accompanied by a symphony of frantic breaths, soft sobs, excited giggles, and the crisp snap of twigs and leaves.

A few didn't run, cowering in the cage or huddled on the grass nearby as though that would save them from the hungry wolves – they were making themselves easy prey.

Weak. Pathetic. No match for her. For mine.

She was gone, swallowed up by the darkness of the trees.

The hunt was not a place where men like Marcello claimed their mates.

But he wasn't just a man, and he was going to make her his mate.

After he had fucked her raw and drenched her with his seed, inside and out. He would bite her. Knot her. Make her his.

But first, he had to catch her.

The second whistle shrieked and Marcello pushed off the oak, eyes glowing like liquid pools of molten gold in the consuming dark.

Ready or not, here I come, little mouse