❝All wolves are the same.
Some are closer to a real monster, and others hide in sheep skin.❞
Lennox Armstrong is a twenty-six-year-old Alpha who controls one of the biggest packs in the Northern hemisphere. The one difference between him and every...
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Lennox Armstrong is feral.
The twenty-six-year-old wolf crawled through the pits of hell to gain the status of High Alpha.
Alpha.
Alpha of a pack he's almost alien to.
Lennox killed. He knew the familiar feeling of taking someone's life, how body temperature drops within minutes after death and how air escapes like a lost soul through the open threshold of a lax mouth.
He grew used to the touch of blood, how it caused the knuckles of his skin to turn itchy as it dried into a thin sheet of red. A bitter stench always accompanied the sticky fluid, one that forced his delicate nose to scrunch up in disgust.
Lennox knew things most didn't.
He knew how deep his father's teeth dug into his throat, how if the man clenched harder and drove his canines a centimeter deeper into his neck, Lennox's artery would have been sliced clean in two. By the way his freckled skin was lined with jagged, white scars across his body, Lennox knew exactly what happened when a strong wolf ran from his pack.
The only pack he ever knew. The pack he had to leave.
Quin found him at two in the morning, naked and hardly eighteen years old. With his face planted into the mud of her garden bed, his blood painted the surrounding pansies red and all he breathed in was soil.
Despite the eight years between their meeting, Lennox could still feel the ghost of her hand on his neck, pressing around a now-healed wound in a frantic attempt to stop the blood.
Her voice had cut through the silent night air when she spotted Lennox as an eighteen-year-old, just barely a man, desperate for shelter and bleeding out on her lawn. He will never forget the way she screamed out for help. He couldn't. It was ingrained in his mind. Her voice was long and desperate, as if Lennox, a complete stranger, meant something to her.
Memories of that night were blurry, like moments sliced in half by a drunken haze. He was on Quin's porch, then he was dragged into her home, onto the smooth wooden surface of her dining room table. But pain-- that memory was always crystal clear. He remembered every single time a sewing needle poked in an out of his skin in a quick rhythm, like he was a broken rag doll and Quin was putting him back together. Quin closed up his wounds in a speed that came from a life of embroidery, and her mate, Phil, poured two bottles of Crown Whiskey over all of Lennox's mottled flesh. Wherever he bled, the bitter sting of alcohol followed.
"It'll take away infection," Quin's voice echoed somewhere above his head. The first words he ever heard. That night, Lennox clung to her soothing voice, desperate for any distraction in the heavy blanket of pain.
When his cries grew too loud, Quin shoved a rag into his mouth and cried. But still, that needle continued to sew him back together.
