Rory Blackfang was a werewolf in hell. His "Emperor Redwood," a glowing, throbbing monstrosity, had declared itself dictator of his life, turning day five of the Hornpocalypse into a nightmare of biblical proportions. The moon-curse loomed—two days until the full moon, when his painful erection would become permanent. The honeysuckle-and-trouble scent of his fated mate, was everywhere, driving his wolf to the edge of insanity. But Rory was paralyzed by terror: meeting her with a hard-on the size of a rocket would send her sprinting to the next continent. The Ironclaws, a rival pack of mate-stealing bastards, were hunting her, believing her Starborn blood could awaken through a werewolf bond and produce pups to dominate their turf war. Rory needed to find her, save her, and—above all—*not* scare her off with his radioactive redwood. But first, he needed relief, or his wolf would start humping lampposts in broad daylight.
Rory barricaded himself in the pack's tool shed, a musty, cobweb-draped dungeon reeking of rust, motor oil, and shattered dreams. The pack was passed out after a venison binge, and the honeysuckle scent was faint enough to give him a sliver of hope. This was his moment—his last stand against Emperor Redwood. He wedged a rusty shovel and a broken lawnmower against the door, ensuring no interruptions. His jeans, strained to the point of mutiny, hit the floor with a *thud*. He faced his huge redwood. "You're going down, you bastard," he muttered, his inner wolf panting like it was starring in a werewolf porno.
He gripped Emperor Redwood with both hands, the dim eerie lights shadows on the shed walls. His movements were frantic, fueled by days of pent-up agony. He tried every trick in his mental playbook—picturing moonlit forests, the pack's old pinup calendar, even that one time he saw Luna's yoga pants split during a cartwheel. His wolf howled encouragement, tail thumping like a metronome. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his breath ragged, and—miracle of miracles—he *came*, a shuddering, earth-quaking release that should've sent angels singing and his redwood into retirement.
But it didn't. Emperor Redwood stood prouder, as if it had just won an Oscar for "Best Cosmic Prank." No climax, no relief—just a mocking pulse that felt like the moon itself was flipping him off. Rory stared, horrified, his wolf collapsing into a whimpering heap, as if it had just been dumped by its high school crush. "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" he bellowed, his voice echoing like a banshee's wail. Rory bolted, his redwood a traitor, his desperation now a shrieking demon. The laundromat—where the barista's note pointed—was his only shot at answers.
The Ironclaws, a roughneck pack from the next county, are notorious for stealing rare mates to boost their bloodline. Town whispers say they're after a Starborn human—Rory's mate—whose latent powers could awaken through a werewolf bond, producing pups to crush Rory's pack in their turf war. The scarf-snatcher was scouting her, but why her specifically? Is she clueless about her Starborn nature?
The Suds 'n' Spin laundromat was a fluorescent hellhole, reeking of soap and the honeysuckle scent that made Rory's redwood throb like a jackhammer on steroids. His stolen hoodie—Derek's, reeking of protein shakes—barely hid the glow, and his wolf clawed to chase the scent, but Rory's terror of traumatizing his human mate kept him skulking like a glowing criminal. He needed a clue, not a viral mugshot. Behind a dryer, he found the monogrammed sock—"V"—drenched in honeysuckle. The scent sent his wolf into a frenzy, and, alone, he saw a chance. He ducked into a shadowy corner, hand slipping under the hoodie, fingers grazing Emperor Redwood. It pulsed as he worked, his mind racing with desperation. He was *this close* to some relief, his wolf whining like a lovesick pup, when a growl shattered his focus.
"Blackfang, you fucking pervert," sneered Vince, an Ironclaw thug with a neck like a cement mixer, clutching the honeysuckle-scented scarf from the festival. "This Starborn's ours. Her powers'll make us unstoppable." His words confirmed the rumors: the Ironclaws wanted Rory's mate to awaken her Starborn potential, breeding a pack of super-wolves to dominate the turf war. Rory's wolf snarled, but his redwood glowed brighter, a neon traitor.
"Eat shit, Vince!" Rory snapped, lunging, Vince cackled, tossing the scarf into a spin cycle. "She's marked. Our alpha's got her number." Rory dove for the scarf, slipped on a detergent slick, and slid crotch-first into a laundry cart that rolled into the street.
Rory, a soapy mess, limped back to the laundromat, clutching the sock like a holy relic. Luna's vlog had exploded—#BonerMan was global, with memes of Rory's redwood as savior of horniness. He hid in a backroom, the honeysuckle scent so thick his wolf started scribbling love sonnets again. Desperate, he tried once more, shoving a laundry basket against the door. His hand found Emperor Redwood, he worked with grim determination, picturing anything to dull the ache—greasy diner burgers, Mrs. Howlsworth's unibrow, anything but his mate's scent. His wolf panted, tail thumping, but just as he felt a spark of progress, someone tried to Enter Rory scrambled to cover himself, finding a note in the towels: "Mill. Midnight." His mate—or an Ironclaw trap? No relief, just a clue.
Rory crept to the old mill at midnight, the honeysuckle scent a gut-punch. His wolf sensed her—human, fragile, powerful—but his terror of scaring her with his hard disaster kept him cautious. In a dark corner, he tried one last time, hand brushing Emperor Redwood, pulsing like a heartbeat. He worked fast, muttering curses, his wolf whining for release, but Vince and two Ironclaw goons appeared, holding a vial of honeysuckle liquid. "Lure for the Starborn"
Rory's wolf roared, tackling Vince. The vial shattered, flooding the mill with the mate's scent, sending Rory's wolf into a frenzy. A human woman's whisper—"Run"—echoed, laced with fear, but Rory was wrestling Vince, who snarled, "She's the last Starborn!" Rory escaped, just a fight and a bombshell: his human mate was a Starborn, and the Ironclaws wanted her power.