This is a more romantic and less explicit story, but the sexy times will come <3 hope you guys enjoy the change of pace!
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Hooks pending from the low roof beams sagged under the weight of fresh game, some still waiting to be skinned. The carcass was turned from side to side and the hook tingled against the iron beam. Iris held on the bone of the ankle to keep it in place, took her cleaver and separated the leg from the body, arranging i neatly on the tray. By the time the deer was fully disassembled, her hands trembled with exhaustion. Just that day, she had cleaned two whole animals alone, their weight grinding into her shoulders. 140 kilograms of meat and bone each. The leather would be hanged to dry later, the heads had been carried away for entertainment.
The butchery felt warm and stifling, pressing in around her. The mess was testing her patience, but she had to choose between cleaning it and finishing her work on time. The heavy wooden tables, deeply marked with use, remained stained no matter how hard they were scrubbed. Bones and stray feathers littered the stone floor, swept into uneven piles that never quite caught everything. Buckets of blood and viscera were stacked in the corner. The air was thick with the scent of raw meat, vinegar, and the forest beyond. A half-open window let in the rustling of leaves and the damp breath of soil, though it also invited flies, which Iris swatted away absently with a bloodied rag.
Her knife moved quickly through muscle and sinew, separating the larger pieces into smaller cuts. Work was usually kinder to her, but, just that day, the high and mighty betas went to hunt. Then they expected a feast, and Iris had to do the hard work. Soon, she'd carry the meat to the kitchens to be grilled and served upstairs. And all she would have for herself was the blood and the bone scraps she managed to store.
Away from her butchery, the bell tolled. Once, twice... seven times. The alarm. She stood still, listening. The butchery's thick door to the outside often stood ajar. The wind carried the scent of the hunt -- wolves, blood, metal. But then it shifted, and she caught something else.
Acrid sweat. Salt. Piss. A lone wolf.
Iris exhaled sharply. "Dumb cub's going to get himself killed." The thrill of pursuit was thick in the air, and she already knew how this would end if no one intervened.
Dante didn't know what flying felt like, but in his dreams, it was a lot like running. For the fleeting moment when all four paws lifted from the ground, he felt weightless, carried by air. However the fierce presence beside him censured his daydreaming. This wasn't play. This was survival.
The wolves behind him moved in coordination, their formation shifting as they tried to corner him, forcing his path toward another group lying in wait. A trap. Dante turned sharply, paws kicking up loose dirt and leaves as he tore through the underbrush. The scents around him blended--pine, blood, sweat, so many different wolves. The metallic tang of bronze. A warning. He wasn't just running from teeth.
Then came the snap of jaws just behind his hind leg at the same time a spear flew in his direction. He twisted mid-stride and jumped, pushing off a tree to help his veering. The moment of weightlessness disappeared as his muscles burned, his breath ragged. A shape lunged from his left--a grey wolf, larger than him. He ran to the right, and the two groups closing in became just one, following. Too many. Too close. But falling behind. They were not fast enough.
Then something changed. The air shifted, and a new smell tore through the scents, cutting through the tangled mess of fur, sweat, and violence. Smoke. Vinegar. Blood. That was new. That caught his attention.
The alphas of Iris' pack had forbidden outsiders years ago--they believed mating should be a matter of family, alliances, and accords, and they couldn't have their daughters, nieces, or cousins being swept away by ruffian bachelors. Every spring, lone males, driven by heat, drawn by the pull of independence, tried to cross into their land. And every spring, the betas chased them off. Iris understood the call well enough. The mating call also burned beneath her skin.
Iris wiped her hands on her apron, hung the cloth, and sat near the door, watching the afternoon. The warm air carried the scent of blood from the butchery. The rest of the pack avoided the butchery except when bringing in game, so why was she hearing the barking grow closer? She bit her tongue. The betas were on him. She should go inside, avoid the trouble. But from the tree line, a shadow broke away, slipping through the leaves until dark fur brushed against the daub wall of the butchery. He moved fast, breath ragged from the chase. The wolf was huge, as large as the most powerful betas and alphas.
Then, as if folding in on himself, his body shifted--shrinking, reshaping.
Broad shoulders. A black wool coat clinging to a heaving chest. Sand-brown skin. Black, wary eyes still shining from the thrill of the run. Dark curls on his head and his beard. The wolves were closing in. Iris met his gaze, and something unfamiliar curled hot in her gut, something reckless.
"Come inside," she said, voice low. "Into the smoker room. The coal will hide your scent."
He hesitated only for a moment, then rose, stepping toward her. An idea struck. She gripped his coat.
"Give me this," she said. "Close the door. They won't enter."
He stripped it off without question. She bent down, shifting. Gray and brown fur took her skin, and her bones broke and twisted. Iris took the fur between her teeth and ran. Behind her, the butchery door shut, sealing the scent of the man inside.
Dante pulled the door closed until it clicked. He crouched low, nostrils flaring. Vinegar and gore filled his senses, thick and cloying. So few scents, so little to track--disorienting. All the clues were hidden beneath that thick stench. He moved closer to her apron, pressing his face near the side that had been against her body. There, past the leather, past the blood and flesh, was her scent. The salt of her sweat, the faint trace of soap, the fibers of her clothes, the oil in her hair. What she had eaten, what she had drunk.
His stomach twisted, hunger sharp and insistent. The room was full of meat. His gaze landed on a severed leg, red and glistening, and it brought water to his dry mouth. His pack would have to track for days to earn such a feast. And even then, the best parts would go to his father, his mother, the uncles. The bony parts and scraps would be left for him. That was fair--he was no pup anymore, and his mother needed the strength for the next litter she was raising. Still, he wanted that juicy portion.
He reached out, fingers skimming the flesh. They would notice if an important piece went missing. Scowling, he let it go and grabbed a bucket filled with rabbit and bird heads instead. Slipping into the smoker, he sat among the coal dust and pulled the door shut.
To have rooms like this, where meat was prepared, stored, cooked--this was lavish. A luxury. His pack rarely cooked at all, rarely took human form long enough to crave it. The wolves in the towns lived too well. No wonder they ran like sheep.
Dante exhaled in frustration, plucking a small rabbit head from the bucket. He bit into the leathered skin, tearing it apart. Bone cracked between his teeth as he dug for the brain. Greasy and thick. A delicacy, still. But not enough. He moved to the next. Here and there, her smell came up again. She had cleaned these animals. He couldn't imagine what it was like to be surrounded by such plenty every day. Yet her own wolf was small, scrappy, half-starved compared to the rest. Something didn't add up.
Dante ate and sucked the bones dry. Then he held the skulls and let five of them fall around his feet.
"I am in your hands," he said to thin air and shifted back, curling on the dusty floor to rest.
Iris ran until she reached the stream that marked the edge of the fortress. She let the water take the coat away and circled back, taking a detour. The smells of the night weren't strange. Despite everything that had happened, the forest was the same. However, the betas were still everywhere, sniffing around. Before she reached the butchery, she sensed eyes on her.
"Hey, bonepicker," one of them called. "Where are you going?"
She cowered, tail tucked between her legs, head low. The man walked closer, his white tunic dragging behind him.
"You should be preparing my dinner."
It was Menelay, one of the alphas' older sons. She lay down and turned her stomach up, displaying her utmost submission. Sandaled feet poked her ribs, but just that. Thank the gods he didn't taunt her further--she was not in the mood to be kicked. He smelled like grass, but also comfort--the fireplace, the blankets, wine, dates, honey, the cozy halls where incense burned.
Having asserted his dominance, he let her go. Iris throttled away, nose up in the air. The stranger's smell was faint, scattered. She reached her safe haven and was relieved to see the betas' trails had followed the stranger to her door and then moved on, falling for her trick. She returned to her human form as she pushed the door open.
