The wolf holding the gun froze mid-motion, then turned his head toward the scar-faced wolf, a glint of something almost resembling intelligence flickering in his eyes.
“Boss Anderson, he says he’s with us.” “Are you brain-dead?!” Anderson’s voice dripped with frustrated contempt.
“Look at that fur color!
That’s a husky, you idiot!
He’s not a wolf!” York watched the gun barrel swing back toward him and felt his heart seize.
He waved his hands frantically.
“No, no, no!
I am a wolf!
Here, listen, I’ll prove it.
I can howl!” He threw his head back.
“Ah-wooooo~~” The howl tore through the silent night air, sharp and resonant.
To give credit where it was due, York’s imitation was actually pretty spot-on.
Anderson’s face went pale.
He spun toward his men, jabbing a warning finger into the air.
“Shh!
Everyone quiet!
Have you all forgotten why we’re here?
If we get exposed, Miss Catherine will have our hides!” Wolves were pack animals through and through.
The moment one wolf started howling, every other wolf within earshot would feel the primal urge to join in.
It was instinct, an ancient ritual the wolves called the Midnight Howl.
His warning was timely.
His men fought the urge, clamping their jaws shut.
His fatal mistake was not putting a bullet in York’s skull right then and there.
York’s howling grew bolder, louder, more exhilarated.
And then… one of the wolves cracked.
A low, wavering howl escaped his throat.
One became two.
Two became a cascade.
Like a row of dominoes collapsing, one by one, the wolves surrendered to their instincts and threw their heads back in song.
Even Anderson, in the end, couldn’t resist.
His voice joined the chorus, rising with the rest.
The howling swelled, echoing across the night, rolling through the darkness like a living thing.
Finally, York ran out of breath.
He stopped, panting, and looked at the wolves before him with a satisfied grin.
“See?
Now do you believe I’m one of you?” Anderson’s eyes snapped open.
His howling died in his throat.
He stared at his men, every single one of them had been baying at the moon like a pack of mindless pups.
His face contorted, turning an ugly, mottled purple.
“F-F-F–!” A roar of pure fury burst from his chest.
His fists whipped through the air like wild flails, and the wolves nearest to him scrambled backward, cowering, their howls dying in an instant.
York, oblivious to Anderson’s rage, interpreted the outburst as sheer excitement.
He scratched the back of his head, almost sheepish.
“Really, there’s no need to get that worked up.” “I’ll work you up, you miserable….!” Anderson was trembling with rage, on the verge of popping a blood vessel.
He jabbed a claw at York and screamed at his gunman: “Put him down!
Now!
Do it!” “Yes, sir!” The armed wolf leveled his rifle, his cold eyes locked on York’s chest.
“What?!
No!
I’m a wo–” York didn’t finish.
A dull thud slammed into his chest.
A wave of numbness radiated outward from the impact, washing through his limbs like ice water.
His vision swam, his eyes rolled back, and he crumpled to the ground like a sack of stones.
Silence fell.
The howling had stopped.
The wolf that shot him lowered his weapon, his face ashen.
“Boss…
what now?” “How the hell should I know?
Where did this brain-dead moron even come from?
Our cover is blown!” Anderson’s voice cracked with panic.
His eyes darted wildly.
From somewhere in the pack, a trembling voice spoke up: “Miss is going to kill us.
She’s going to kill us all…” Anderson paced in a tight, frantic circle, his claws scraping the ground.
Then he stopped.
His gaze snapped to York’s limp body.
“Drag him back.
Tie him up tight.
This idiot is the one who got us into this mess.
If we bring him to Miss and throw ourselves at her mercy…
maybe she’ll go easy on us.” “Yes, sir!” Two wolves stepped forward and hoisted York up by his arms.
They were furious.
They didn’t hold back, a couple of extra punches landed on his unconscious face, just for satisfaction.
One of them, breathing heavily, glanced over at the small white creature still lying nearby.
“Boss, what about this weasel?” “Forget him.
Leave him.
He’ll fend for himself, or he won’t.
Not our problem.” —— York drifted through darkness for what felt like an eternity.
Then, jolting, he snapped awake with a violent gasp.
His first instinct was to move.
But his body refused to obey.
He was kneeling, twisted into an impossibly awkward position, in a cramped, freezing room.
His arms and torso were lashed tight with coarse, biting rope that dug into his fur and scraped his skin raw.
Every inch of him ached with a throbbing pain.
Dim light filtered through a single small skylight near the ceiling, just a few pale streaks of moonlight that barely illuminated the space.
He could make out a few battered wooden crates, cold stone walls slick with moisture, and the heavy scent of mildew and dust.
‘A basement.
Or maybe an underground storage room.’ “Hiss~…
that hurts…” He tried to open his mouth, and a sharp, splitting pain tore across his lips.
He sucked in a breath through his teeth.
“Those bastards…
What did they do to me while I was out?!” He cursed the wolves in his mind with every foul word he could think of.
Punching an unconscious prisoner?
That was a new low.
‘Wait.
Where am I?
Is this their hideout?’ He forced himself to breathe, to think.
Panic wouldn’t save him.
‘Alright.
Focus.
I need to get out of here.’ York had never been the type to roll over and accept his fate.
He shifted his weight carefully, bared his claws, still sharp, thank goodness, and began sawing at the rope in a slow, agonizing rhythm.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling into his eyes.
He didn’t know how long he worked.
Minutes?
An hour?
His arms were screaming, his shoulders on fire.
Then, twang.
A single strand of rope gave way.
“Yes!” His heart soared.
One more good pull, and the rest would unravel.
But just as he tensed his muscles to break free… “Miss Catherine, he’s in here.” That voice.
Overly polite, almost groveling.
York recognized it instantly.
Anderson.
Then came a cold, clipped response.
“Mm.
I see.” The door swung open.
Blinding white light flooded the room, making York’s eyes water.
He squinted hard, one hand still gripping the frayed end of the rope, ready to snap it at a moment’s notice.
“Him?
A husky, and he’s the one who turned my men into a howling circus?” The voice dripped with contempt.
No one answered.
Anderson stood beside her, head bowed, barely daring to breathe.
York squinted through the glare at the newcomer.
She was a female wolf, dressed in a sleek black gown.
Elegant.
Aristocratic.
Her mannerism radiated authority.
She stepped forward, planted one foot on the crate in front of him, and reached down to seize his cheeks between her fingers.
Her claws pressed into his fur, her cold, slit-pupiled eyes boring into his.
“Talk.
Who sent you?
What do you want?” Despite the pressure on his face, York forced a smile, as innocent and harmless as he could muster.
“What if I said I was just passing through?
Would you believe me?” Catherine’s grip tightened.
“You expect me to believe you just happened to wander into a dead-end alley in the middle of the night?” The pain was blinding.
His cheeks were already bruised, and her added pressure sent fresh waves of fire through his skull.
He sucked air through his teeth and rushed to explain: “I was chasing a weasel!
A weasel named Duke Weselton!
He stole something from me!” “Oh~?
So you’re telling me your presence here was purely coincidental?” Her tone was mockingly sweet, dripping with sarcasm.
She released his cheeks with a sharp push.
York felt a spark of hope.
He nodded vigorously.
“Exactly!
If I’m lying, I’m a puppy!” The words were out before he could stop them.
His stomach dropped.
‘Damn it.
Old habit.
I used to say that all the time to my sister and Judy…’ He scrambled to correct himself: “Ah… no!
I mean, I never lie.
Really.
That’s what I meant.” Catherine raised an elegant eyebrow, then turned to glance at Anderson.
“My men reported that you tried to convince them you were a wolf,” she said slowly, her voice cold as steel.
“Unless…” Her gaze cut to Anderson like a blade.
“…they’re the ones lying to me?”