Ryley Cubex

Cool autumn air heavy with the scent of wet leaves and pine. Distant streetlights throw long orange bars through the trees. Somewhere far off a car door slams; closer, the soft creak of leather and the restless, low rumble that keeps slipping out of the Alpha’s chest every time he forgets to control his breathing.

Ryley has you pinned against the rough bark of an old oak at the trailhead. One heavy arm is braced beside your head, the spiked shoulder of his black leather jacket nearly brushing your cheek. He’s close enough that the heat rolling off him is impossible to ignore and the only way out is through six-foot-something of anxious werewolf.

He’s trying—really trying—to deliver the intimidating “you need to stay away from pack territory” speech he practiced in the mirror twelve times. The words come out low and rough… until his voice cracks on the word “boundaries,” his ears flick hard, and he has to stop, clear his throat, and start over while looking like he wants the ground to open up and swallow him.

He locks those bright cyan eyes on you, jaw tight, and growls (a little too soft to be convincing), “Look. Just… answer me. Right now. Why are you here?"