A Werewolf's Unexpected Mate

[Gale’s POV]

The dark mana pulsed from somewhere deep within the alley—a narrow, garbage-strewn passage between two buildings that reeked of stale urine and rotting vegetables. I stood at its mouth, my gray eyes straining to pierce the shadows beyond the reach of the festival lanterns.

Of course, I thought bitterly. Every shady thing in every village always happens in a dark alley.

I stepped inside.

And the world shattered.

Static exploded in my mind—a deafening, piercing screech that felt like needles driven into my skull. I staggered, grabbing the rough brick wall for support. The stuffed toys nearly slipped from under my arm; the cookbook nearly fell. I clenched my jaw, forcing my fingers to tighten, to hold.

Stop...

The voice came through the static—faint, fractured, desperate.

...not... ready...

The green-haired fairy’s voice. Again.

The static grew louder, more insistent, a physical force pushing against my consciousness, shoving me back toward the alley’s entrance. Every step forward felt like wading through tar.

Then, abruptly, it stopped.

The dark aura vanished—snuffed out like a candle flame. The static ceased. Silence rushed in to fill the void, so absolute I could hear my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.

I stood there, panting, my body trembling with residual tension.

Damn it. I slammed my fist against the wall. The bricks held, but the impact sent a dull ache up my arm. What does that green-haired Fairy want from me? Is she trying to warn me? Protect me? If so, why couldn’t she just say what she meant clearly? Why the cryptic messages, the half-words, the maddening static? It was infuriating.

I turned and ran back toward the festival grounds, my feet slapping against the cobblestones. I had left Ovelia alone for nothing. Ace would be furious when he found out. Hell, I was already furious with myself. Ray would give me that disappointed look that was somehow worse than any threat. Ann would probably try to stab me.

Ovelia is not far, I reassured myself, pushing my legs faster. She’s fine. She’s fine.

[Ovelia’s POV]

I stood beneath the warm glow of a lamppost, the bouquet of flowers cradled in one arm, the paper bag of takoyaki hanging from my other hand. The festival swirled around me—laughter, music, the sizzle of cooking food—but I felt oddly isolated, a small island of stillness in a river of motion.

I scanned the crowd constantly, my red eyes searching for any familiar face. Ace. Gale. Ann. Ray. But the sea of strangers rolled on, indifferent to my solitude.

They’re taking so long.

Worry gnawed at my stomach, a cold, persistent ache. What if something had happened to Ace? What if Gale had run into danger? What if—

Someone slammed into me.

I stumbled, nearly dropping the bouquet and the paper bag. My heart lurched as I fought to keep both safe.

"You’re blocking the way."

I looked up. Three young women stood before me, all around my age. The one who’d bumped me wore a pink headband, her arms crossed and her expression hostile. Behind her, a woman with a flower tucked behind her ear smirked, while a third with an ornate hairclip inspected her nails with studied disinterest.

"But I’m just standing here," I said, my voice quieter than I intended. I gestured vaguely at the wide space around us. "The path is very wide—there was plenty of room to—"

"Are you saying this is my fault?" The headband woman’s voice rose, drawing glances from nearby festival-goers.

"No, I just meant—"

The three of them laughed. It was a sharp, cruel sound, designed to wound.

"They’re definitely looking for a fight," Lady Firera’s voice observed calmly in my mind.

"But I haven’t done anything wrong," I thought back, confused and hurt.

"You look cheap," the woman with a flower tucked behind her ear declared, her eyes raking over me with obvious disdain.

"Right," the third one—wearing an ornate hairclip—agreed. "That dress. That rose hairpin. Those flowers." She gestured dismissively at my bouquet. "All of it looks cheap. What’s even in that bag? Smells like cheap food."

The words landed like small, sharp stones. Anger flickered in my chest—a hot, unfamiliar spark. But I pushed it down, buried it beneath years of training in endurance. Gale told me to stay here. I can’t leave. I don’t want a fight. I just want to wait for everyone in peace.

I started to turn away, to find a different spot, a quieter corner.

A hand clamped around my wrist. The headband woman yanked me back. "Where do you think you’re going? You didn’t even apologize."

The words triggered something deep and ugly. A memory. Natasha’s voice, sharp and endless. "Apologize. Again. Again. Until you mean it." Standing for hours, repeating the same word until my throat was raw, even when I’d done nothing wrong.

"Sorry." The word slipped out before I could stop it. I just wanted this to end. "Please let go of my hand."

She released me.

Then she slapped me.

The impact was sharp, a crack of skin against skin. My head turned with the force of it. A few passersby glanced our way, then quickly looked down, hurrying past. No one intervened.

But the slap itself... it didn’t hurt. Not really. Natasha’s blows had been harder. Much harder.

The three women laughed, their voices bright with cruel amusement. "Pathetic," the flower-haired one declared.

And then I remembered.

"Express your feelings more. The happy parts and the sad parts and the angry parts. Every part."

Gale’s voice, raw and urgent, echoed in my mind.

The angry parts.

I bent down carefully, placing the bouquet and the paper bag on the cobblestones at my feet. Then I straightened and looked directly at the headband woman.

She was still laughing. "What?" she sneered. "Going to cry?"

I drew my arm back and slapped her.

The sound was louder than her slap had been—a sharp *CRACK* that echoed off the nearby stalls. Her head snapped to the side. Her hand flew to her reddening cheek. Her friends gasped, frozen in shock.

"I don’t care if you call me cheap," I said, my voice shaking but clear. "I don’t care if you slap me. It doesn’t hurt anyway." Tears pricked at my eyes—anger, frustration, the release of years of swallowed silence—but I held them back. I would not cry. Not here. Not in front of them. "But do not insult this rose hairpin. Do not insult these flowers. And do not insult that food. Ever."

The woman in the headband recovered from her shock, her face twisting with rage. "How dare you—" She raised her hand, ready to strike again.

"What’s going on here?!"

The voice cut through the tension like a blade.

I turned.

Gale stood there, his gray eyes blazing, the stuffed toys and cookbook clutched under his arms, his chest heaving from running. Behind him, the crowd had parted, sensing the shift in atmosphere.

"Gale..." I whispered..

The world seemed to hold its breath.