### Chapter One: The Redwood Rebellion
Rory Blackfang woke to the soft glow of dawn creeping through his cabin's curtains, the air thick with the scent of pine and the distant howl of a morning breeze. He stretched, his muscles rippling under his skin, a 27-year-old werewolf who'd built a life as the Crescent Moon Pack's golden boy—capable, composed, a pillar of society who kept his inner wolf, Red, on a tight leash. But this morning, something was… off. A faint tickle danced in his groin, a gentle, teasing warmth that felt like a playful nudge from his body. Just morning nonsense, he thought, yawning and scratching his stubbled jaw. He swung his legs out of bed, the wooden floor cool against his bare feet, and shuffled to the bathroom, dismissing the sensation as nothing more than a fleeting annoyance.
In the bathroom, the tickle persisted, soft and tingly, like a whisper of silk against his skin. He stood at the sink, toothbrush in hand, the mirror reflecting his tousled black hair and amber eyes, still bleary from sleep. The sensation was there, nestled low in his pelvis, but it was subtle enough to ignore—a faint pulse, a gentle heat, nothing to derail his day. He splashed cold water on his face, the droplets sliding down his neck, and told himself to focus. Pack meeting at ten. Budget reports. Solstice festival planning. No time for distractions. The tickle gave a playful twitch, and Rory chuckled, shaking his head. "Settle down, Red. You're not running the show."
But as he dressed, pulling on his boxers and a pair of well-worn jeans, the brush of fabric against his groin sent a shiver through him. The tickle sharpened, a spark of heat that made him pause, one leg halfway into his pants. His erection—still soft, but undeniably *present*—pressed lightly against the denim, a warm, tingly insistence that made his breath catch. He frowned, adjusting himself with a quick, awkward tug. "Nope. Not today," he muttered, willing it away. Red, his wolf, seemed to smirk in the back of his mind, but the sensation stayed manageable—more of a flirtatious nudge than a full-on rebellion. Rory grabbed a flannel shirt, buttoned it over his broad chest, and headed out, determined to keep his day on track.
The drive to the pack's meeting hall was where things started to unravel. Behind the wheel of his beat-up truck, the rumble of the engine sent vibrations through the seat, each jolt a cruel caress against his groin. The tickle, once soft and ignorable, began to intensify, morphing into a steady throb. Rory shifted uncomfortably, his jeans suddenly feeling like a traitor, the denim brushing against his now semi-hard erection with every turn of the wheel. The shaft pulsed, a flushed, veiny presence that seemed to swell with every bump in the road, its reddish hue visible when he dared a glance down. "Oh, come on," he growled, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened. The heat was building, a coiled spring in his pelvis, and Red's primal presence stirred, a low growl in his mind urging him to *let go*. Rory gritted his teeth, trying to focus on the pine trees flashing by, but the sensation was relentless, each vibration stoking the fire.
By the time he pulled into the gravel lot outside the meeting hall, Rory was sweating, his heart pounding in sync with the growing ache in his jeans. He adjusted himself again, wincing as the movement sent a jolt of pleasure-pain through him, the redwood—as he was starting to think of it—now a throbbing, hypersensitive beast. He took a deep breath, willing his body to behave, and hobbled into the hall, his gait awkward as he tried to hide the bulge. The meeting room was packed with packmates, their chatter a dull roar as Rory slid into a chair at the long oak table, praying no one would notice his flushed cheeks or the way he was sitting like a man guarding a live grenade.
That's when the torture truly began.
Sitting still was a nightmare. The pressure in his groin escalated, the redwood now a rock-hard, pulsating monstrosity that strained against his zipper like it was planning a jailbreak. Every shift in his seat, every accidental brush of his thigh against the table's edge, sent a shockwave of sensation through him—half agonizing, half maddeningly pleasurable. The erection was so rigid it felt like it could snap, its flushed, veiny surface hypersensitive, the slightest touch sparking a wildfire that made his hips twitch involuntarily. A bead of precum slicked the inside of his boxers, and Rory clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to keep his composure. Red's voice in his head was louder now, a primal snarl: Run. Hunt. Claim. And then, like a cruel twist of fate, an old pack legend surfaced in his mind: an uncontrollable urge could mean his destined mate was near. The thought hit like a sucker punch, flooding him with a mix of longing and panic that only made the redwood throb harder.
Rory tried to focus on the meeting, but Kael, the beta, was droning on about festival budgets, his pen tapping rhythmically on the table—a sound that, to Rory's tortured mind, mimicked something far less innocent. Tap. Tap. Tap. His breathing hitched, his vision narrowing as the sound became a wet, insistent slide in his imagination. He crossed his legs, then uncrossed them, each movement a fresh torment as the denim scraped against Red's sensitive skin. "You okay, son?" Kael asked, his brow furrowing. "You're sweating like you ran a marathon." Rory forced a grin, his voice cracking. "Fine! Just… hot in here." His heart raced, and he could've sworn Red *laughed*, a low, primal chuckle that vibrated through his core.
Desperate for relief, Rory excused himself, muttering about needing the bathroom. He staggered down the hall, the redwood screaming with every step, and locked himself in a stall, hands shaking as he fumbled with his belt. The promise of release was intoxicating, a fleeting spark of pleasure cutting through the pain as he gripped himself, the redwood hot and pulsing under his touch. Finally, he thought, his breath ragged. But before he could act, the door slammed open, and Luna's voice, One of the office assistants echoed through the tiles. "Rory! We need you for the vote on the bonfire permit!" Rory froze, a strangled yelp escaping him as he yanked his hands away, the redwood throbbing in protest. "Be right there!" he croaked, his voice a mix of rage and despair.
Back at the table, the torture escalated. Mrs. Howlsworth, the pack's knitting-obsessed elder, plopped down next to him, brandishing a half-finished wolf-shaped mitten. "Look at the paws, Rory! So detailed!" she chirped, waving yarn in his face as he hunched forward, trying to hide the redwood's defiant bulge. Every word she spoke, every rustle of her knitting bag, felt like a personal attack, amplifying the heat in his groin. He tried to focus, but the room was a sensory minefield: the creak of a chair, the slosh of someone's water bottle, the faint scent of Luna's lavender shampoo—all twisted into erotic triggers by his traitorous mind. Red's whispers grew louder, urging him to ditch the meeting and run wild, while the mate legend gnawed at him, filling him with a restless, aching need.
By the time the meeting adjourned, Rory was a wreck—sweaty, trembling, and teetering on the edge of sanity. He bolted for his truck, hoping for a moment of privacy, but the universe had other plans. As he fumbled with his zipper in the driver's seat, a park ranger tapped on his window, asking if he was "lost." Rory's scream of frustration rattled the glass, his hands slamming the steering wheel as Red pulsed mockingly. "By the moon's furry balls, *why*?" he roared, caught between laughter and growls. The redwood stood tall, unyielding, a sentient reminder of his wild side and the cosmic possibility of a mate he hadn't even met. One thing was clear: this was only the beginning of Rory Blackfang's very, very bad day.