This is the part where I say that this is a BoyxBoy story, meaning boy loves boy, werewolf, possibly cliche', whatever...let's just get to the story, shall we?
That stupid, moronic, frustrating piece of dog will die at the hands of Callum McArthur-Wolfe, mark his very words.
He stomps through the woods, grumbling as he hunts down the Chihuahua. He curses the dog, his sister, his sister’s mate, whom the dog belongs to, his parents for making him come out here in first place, the woods in general, and then the dog again.
Callum had looked up once—once—to glance at the waxing moon and when he looked down again, Bitsy was gone.
And hell if he’s not furious.
“Bitsy,” he calls, straining to keep the pure loathing that he has for this dog out of his voice. If dogs can smell fear, surely they can smell hatred. “Bitsy, come here boy.”
What kind of straight male owns a Chihuahua anyway? Callum wonders, still following the dog’s scent. It’s tangy, almost sour, like pee, but headier. Callum has to breathe through his mouth anytime he’s in close proximity with the dog (which doesn’t happen very often, he can guarantee that).
He follows the scent off of the normal path that he and his family take when they go for runs.
This is family land, in his bloodlines. Callum’s father, an alpha, married Callum’s mother, an alpha’s daughter, and their union joined the land across the state.
He is werewolf royalty, for God’s sake. He isn’t supposed to be out here hunting down some stupid dog. Callum actually has half a mind to turn right around and tell his family that Bitsy was in an unfortunate bear accident. No, that would be insulting to his extended family, who are werebears. Maybe a cougar would do?
He turns, again, when the scent whips abruptly and whips back again.
Bitsy was, apparently, running from something. Which doesn’t make any sense. They're the biggest things in the forest. Unless, of course, one of his cousins have decided to risk the wrath of Isabella, Callum’s sister, and chased the dog down.
Highly unlikely, considering that his older sister can be downright scary when she wants to.
At the thought of her expression if Callum comes home with his arms empty, the teenager quickens his search.
And suddenly, the smell hits him in the face.
Vodka. It was as if someone had sprayed the forest with it. And…something else. Something sweeter, like...cotton candy? Maybe apple pie, or the cakes that Marie bakes.
Whatever the smell is, it’s firmly mixed in with alcohol.
Callum stifles a groan.
Great. Now he has to deal with a stupid dog and an unknown, intoxicated person. It is totally his lucky freakin’ day.
He’s stomping through the underbrush now, not caring who or what hears him. With the amount of fury pulsing through his veins, he’s sure that he can take anyone on at the momeny.