Rory Blackfang's truck was no longer a vehicle; it was a torture chamber on wheels. After the park ranger's interruption had left him screaming into the void, Rory slumped in the driver's seat, his hands gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him sane. His erection—Red, the sentient, snarling embodiment of his inner wolf—was a throbbing, veiny monstrosity, its flushed, reddish hue practically pulsing through his jeans like a neon sign screaming *LOOK AT ME*. The heat radiating from his groin was unbearable, a molten core that made every brush of denim feel like sandpaper on a sunburn. His heart pounded in sync with the redwood's relentless beat, and a bead of precum slicked his boxers, sending a shiver of panic through him as he clenched every muscle to keep from losing it entirely. "By the moon's hairy ass," he growled, his voice a mix of rage and desperation, "give me five minutes."
Red, of course, had other plans. In the back of Rory's mind, his wolf's growl was louder now, primal and unyielding: Run. Hunt. Claim. The words sent a jolt through him, not just because of their intensity, but because of the old pack legend that had started haunting him. An uncontrollable urge like this could mean his destined mate was near. The thought was a double-edged sword—thrilling, because who didn't want to find their mate, but terrifying, because Rory was in no state to woo anyone with a sentient erection staging a coup. He took a shaky breath, adjusted his flannel to cover the bulge, and decided to ditch the pack meeting's aftermath for the forest. Surely, a secluded clearing would give him the privacy to deal with this nightmare.
Big mistake.
The pack's solstice festival prep site was a chaotic sprawl of tents, tables, and overly enthusiastic werewolves, and Rory stumbled into it like a man walking into a minefield. The air was thick with the scent of grilled meat and pine, and the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of packmates hammering tent stakes felt like a personal attack on his groin. Each strike sent a vibration through the ground, syncing with Red's pulsing, making Rory's legs wobble and his face flush a shade that rivaled the redwood's angry glow. He hunched forward, clutching a stray clipboard as a makeshift shield, and muttered, "Just blend in, Blackfang. Find a corner. You've got this." But Red disagreed, surging with a fresh wave of heat that made his hips twitch involuntarily, the hypersensitive skin screaming for relief.
That's when he saw her. A new face in the pack, was stringing fairy lights across a tent, her dark hair catching the sunlight, her laugh low and husky enough to make Red roar. She wore a tight tank top that hugged her curves, and when she stretched to reach a high pole, Rory's breath caught, his erection throbbing so hard he nearly dropped the clipboard. MATE! Red snarled in his mind, and Rory's heart skipped—not just from arousal, but from the sudden, gut-punching possibility that the legend might be true. "No way," he muttered, shaking his head. "You're just horny, Red. She's just… new." But when She turned and flashed him a playful smirk, her green eyes sparkling with mischief, Rory felt a spark that wasn't just Red's doing. "Hey!" she called, tossing him a coil of rope. "Help me tie this up?"
The brush of her fingers as she handed him the rope was electric, sending a shockwave through his body that made Red pulse like a jackhammer. Rory fumbled the rope, his hands trembling, and stammered, "Uh, yeah, sure. Tying. Great." His voice cracked, and he turned away, pretending to focus on the knot while his mind screamed, Don't look at her! Don't think about her! But Red was having none of it, flooding his brain with vivid, unbidden images—Her laugh, her curves, the way she smelled faintly of cedar and wildflowers. The redwood strained harder, its veiny surface so sensitive that the rope's rough texture in his hands felt like a cruel tease. He bit his lip, suppressing a groan, and prayed no one noticed the sweat beading on his brow.
The festival site was a sensory nightmare. Luna, his overzealous assistant, bounded over, waving a checklist. "Rory! We need your input on the bonfire layout!" she chirped, oblivious to his hunched posture and the clipboard now strategically pressed against his groin. "Not now, Luna," he growled, his voice rough with desperation. But before he could escape, a kid with a squirt gun ran by, blasting juice across Rory's jeans. The cold liquid hit his oversensitive bulge, and he yelped, the sensation a maddening mix of shock and fleeting pleasure that made Red throb harder. "By the moon's furry balls!" he snapped, earning a confused look from Luna and a giggle from the delicious stranger, who was now wrestling with a runaway banner. The banner flapped in the breeze, smacking Rory in the face, and he stumbled, the clipboard slipping just enough to reveal the redwood's defiant outline. "Checking for ticks!" he blurted, diving behind a table as her laughter rang out, sending another jolt through him.
Desperate for escape, Rory bolted for the forest, his gait awkward as the redwood screamed with every step. He found a secluded clearing, the air cool and quiet, the rustle of leaves mimicking his ragged breathing. "Finally," he panted, fumbling with his belt. The redwood was a pulsing, overheated beast, its flushed skin so sensitive that even the breeze felt like a caress. As he gripped himself, the fleeting pleasure was intoxicating, a spark of relief cutting through the pain. Red growled approvingly, urging him to let go, to surrender to the wildness he'd spent years caging. Rory's mind wavered, torn between his civilized self and the primal pull—until the crunch of footsteps shattered his focus. "Rory! Perfect timing!" Mrs. Howlsworth's voice chirped, her knitting bag swinging as she led a pack nature walk into the clearing. "Help us identify these ferns!" Rory froze, hands halfway down his jeans, and scrambled to cover himself, his face burning as Red pulsed in protest. "Ferns. Great," he croaked, his voice a mix of rage and despair as the group crowded around, oblivious to his torment.
By the time he limped to the local diner, Rory was a sweaty, trembling wreck. He slid into a booth, hoping for a coffee and a moment to regroup, but the universe wasn't done with him. The diner was packed, the sizzle of bacon and clink of spoons a sensory assault that made Red throb in time with the noise. Worse, the sexy new face was at the counter, chatting with Luna, her husky laugh cutting through the din like a siren's call. Rory hunched over, the vinyl booth squeaking against his jeans, sending a jolt through his groin that made him bite back a groan. The redwood was relentless, its veiny, reddish shaft so hard it felt like it could carve his initials into the table. She caught his eye and teased, "Rough day? You look like you're fighting a bear." Her playful smirk and lingering gaze made his heart race—and Red surge, the slick heat in his boxers a constant threat.
As Rory tried to sip his coffee, an elder at the next booth leaned over, her eyes sharp. "Heard you muttering about your condition," she said, her voice low. "When the wolf rises, the heart finds its home." Rory choked, coffee sloshing onto his lap, the hot liquid hitting his oversensitive groin like a cruel prank. He yelped, his hips jerking as Red pulsed mockingly, and Sage's laugh echoed in his ears, a mix of amusement and something warmer that made his chest ache. Was she the one? Or was Red just screwing with him? As he mopped up the coffee, his hands shaking, Rory knew one thing for sure: this day was a cosmic conspiracy, and his redwood was winning.