Page 4 of Tender Wild

Miguel pulled out his phone, fingers smearing dirt across the screen as he dialed Matias. “It’s hyenas,” he said, keeping low. “Four of ’em. They’ve got tranq darts.”

“Get down. Stay down,” Matias ordered, his voice deadly calm. “We’re thirty seconds out.”

Now that he heard his alpha’s voice, Miguel wasn’t sure if he wanted to face him or take his chances with the hyenas.

“Haven’t popped my head up yet.” Miguel glanced up at Diablo, jaw clenched.

The line went dead as Miguel spotted the pack’s bikes cresting the steep incline, tearing up the asphalt as they approached. Matias led the charge, bent low over his handlebars like Satan coming to collect a final debt.

I’m in so much trouble.

Matias gunned his engine, aiming straight for the parked sportbikes. At the last second, he veered into the grass, his heavy cruiser plowing through where the hyenas had taken cover.

Luca and Tomas roared past next, legs extended, knocking the hyenas’ bikes over like bowling pins. Metal scraped against asphalt, sparks flying as the bikes skidded across the road.

Three shots echoed, followed by an eerie silence that lasted only seconds. When Matias emerged, his boots were dark with blood, jaw tight. He walked toward Miguel and Diablo, eyes cold as winter. Two words fell like stones. “Home. Now.”

Miguel pushed himself up from the ground. His muscles ached, adrenaline fading into bone-deep exhaustion. He turned to Diablo, who stood there as if they hadn’t just nearly died. As if those bodies in the warehouse weren’t still fresh in their minds. As if he hadn’t practically begged to be shot.

His fist connected with Diablo’s jaw before he even realized he was swinging, knuckles cracking against bone. Diablo’s head snapped sideways, blood spurting from his busted lip.

Nobody moved to stop him. The pack stood there, silently watching.

“You ever offer yourself up as a sacrifice again and we’re done,” Miguel snarled, getting right in Diablo’s face. “You’re not giving me a front row seat to watch you die like those poor bastards in the warehouse.”

Diablo’s eyes narrowed. “I was trying to—”

“To what? Be a martyr? Fuck whatever bullshit you’re about to say.”

Miguel turned toward his bike. The dart quivered in his seat, its orange feathers mocking him. He yanked it free with a snarl, fingers tightening around the cylinder. For a moment, he stared at it—this tiny thing that could’ve transformed him into one of those twisted corpses back at the warehouse or trapped his beasts inside of him.

The needle glinted in the sunlight. Blood pounded in his ears as images of the dead shifters flashed through his mind.

He flung it into the weeds, imagining it sinking into the eye of one of those dead hyenas instead.

Mounting his bike, Miguel ignored the blood on his knuckles from punching Diablo. Keys jangled in his shaking hand before he jammed them into the ignition.

“Miguel,” Diablo called out.

The engine roared to life, drowning out whatever the male was about to say.

In his mirrors, he caught a glimpse of Diablo's bloodied face, staring after him with something that looked too much like acceptance. Like he’d expected this all along.

Fuck him. And fuck that look.

Pebbles sprayed as he gunned it, leaving the pack behind. The wind tore at his face, welcomed against his heated skin. His jaw clenched so tight his teeth might crack.

Stupid goddamn Diablo. Standing there like target practice. Like he wanted to end up as a science experiment. Like his life meant nothing. It meant something to Miguel.

The road stretched ahead, empty and straight, a perfect invitation to open up the throttle and let the wind scour away the stink of death. Miguel leaned forward, pushing his bike faster, the needle climbing past eighty.

His hands trembled slightly on the grips, aftershock from the adrenaline crash. Six dead bodies twisted in agony, dumped like they were trash.

And Diablo, standing like a target, arms spread wide: Let it.

The memory made his stomach churn. Diablo wasn’t just his brother—he was family. And family didn’t get to peace out while Miguel watched.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it, focusing on the road ahead, on the pull of wind against his face and the thunder of his bike beneath him. Another buzz. Then another.

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