Chapter 3: The Roar of the Ravens

The Ravens ride for me under an inky black sky, their bikes screaming like spirits—I'm the quarry they've been hunting since the wedding. Night has been rolled in, fog heavy and wet, devouring campus lights as I blast through the back lot, my dorm a shadowy shape in the distance. My breath scorches in my lungs, bitter with the sting of fear and the acrid residue of Tara's threat still dancing on my tongue. The air's thick, weighing down like a hand on my windpipe, and my sneakers slip on the wet pavement, scattering gravel that rings off the rusted shells of parked cars. The mark on my wrist throbs, a steady pulse syncing with Jack’s heartbeat, a reminder he’s out there—watching, waiting, owning me.

I’m almost to the dorm’s side door, keys jingling in my shaking hand, when the first roar splits the silence. It’s not thunder, not a car—motorcycles, too many, too close. Headlights slice through the fog, etching mad curves as motorbikes scream around the corner, tires shrieking like claws of metal on steel. My stomach twists. I run, legs thudding, but the engines rev harder, catching up, and I hear it—a shout, raw and triumphant: "There's Jack's little bride!"

The Ravens. They had heard about the wedding—someone's been talking since that night three years ago, the one with all the blood. My chest tightens, Lily's dress burning in my mind, her blood on my hands, and now they want mine. I dart behind a dumpster, the stench of rotting garbage wafting to me, and look out. Five of them, maybe more, their leather jackets glinting with claw scars, their faces contorted with grins that promise pain. The leader's wiry, all sinew and bad, his shaved head glinting as he revs up his motorcycle, a jagged scar running through his lip.

"Kill the omega, cut Jack's pride!" he yells, and my blood congeals—they're here to kill me. A gunshot cracks, and the dumpster rings, metal splintering inches from my head. I run, my heart racing, and sprint between the trees at the rear of the lot, fog swirling about me like a shroud. Bullets whiz by, one biting into my sleeve, its warmth smarting, and I grit teeth against a cry.

My omega claws rip out—long, curved, glinting in the night—and I slash at nothing, my body taking over. I don't know how to fight, not exactly, but the thing inside me does, growling to life as gravel crunches up behind me.

I spin around, and Scarface is there, off his motorcycle, a knife in his hand glinting like a fang. "Pretty little bride," he growls, attacking, and I sidestep, just barely, his blade slicing the fog where I'd been. My claws rip his arm, blood splattering, and he screams, stepping back.  Another Raven charges, bigger, a bat for my head, and I sidestep, slashing his leg.

He crumples, cursing, but more bikes close in, lights blinding me, and I'm wheezing, surrounded, the wet earth dragging at my shoes.  Then Jack's there—a whirlwind of leather and rage, tearing through the fog like a mad bull loose. His growl shakes the ground, low and feral, and he dispatches Scarface, fists thudding into flesh with wet meaty slaps. Blood sprays the pavement, red exploding in the gray, and I freeze, breath snagging as Jack's gold eyes lock with mine in the middle of battle—protection or possession, I have no idea. He is a beast, all rage and muscle, shredding the Ravens like paper. A gun goes off, and he snarls, blood dripping from his arm, but he doesn't slow, snapping a guy's neck with a sickening crunch.

Tim yells out—\"Ben, get out of the way! \""—and I wake up, watching him weave between the bikes, serene and lethal. His silenced pistol cracks, two Ravens dropping, their engines sputtering to silence. He's Jack's brother, but there's something sharp in him tonight, something guarded behind his eyes, and I don't know what he's hiding.  My claws prickle to join them, but I'm paralyzed, the chaos spinning around me—fog, blood, the throb of bikes receding into the distance as some of the Ravens disengage.

A hand grabs my arm, dragging me behind a tree, and I strike out, claws bared, only to hesitate in mid-air. It's Max—silent, green-eyed Max from literature class, his dark hair damp and stuck to his head, his breathing rough. His eyes glow, soft amber, and my jaw falls—he's a werewolf as well. "Don't move," he growls, voice steady despite the madness, and he pulls me down, the bark scratching at my back. A bullet splinters the trunk above us, and I flinch, but Max's grip is rock solid, holding me in place. His scent reaches me—pine and ink, new on the copper reek of blood—and my heart flops, a searing blade cutting through fear.

Jack's roar breaks through. He's at Scarface's throat again, pinning him down, both of them smeared with blood. "You touch what's mine," Jack snarls, and his fist comes down, staying it. The last of the Ravens scatter, bikes screaming off into the darkness, leaving behind a tire iron in the mud with "Omega's ours" scratched on it. The fog closes around their taillights, and silence falls, heavy and misplaced, broken only by my ragged breathing and the splat of blood on asphalt.  Jack creeps up, leather creaking, his arm red with wetness.

He grips his hand on my chin, rough and warm, turning my head up. "They'll just keep on coming, kid—you're my job to keep you alive," he growls, his mouth cigar-scented, gold eyes boring into me. I shrink back, pounding heart, hating the tug in my stomach, the flame his fingers ignite. Max steps closer, silent, and Jack's glower shifts to him, warning flickering for a moment there, but says nothing, merely wipes blood off his pants and heads away. Tim puts his gun away, smiling faintly. "Nice claws, Ben.

You're catching on." His calmness unnerves me—too slick, too calculated—and I see papers poking out of his pocket, smothered in lines and arrows. Plans, maybe, but to what? My head spins—Tara's warning, the Ravens' vendetta, Max's shine, Jack's blood on my feet. Kate's face occurs to me—she'd shadowed me before, could have been here—and I hope she's in her dorm, out of it, unaware. The fog rolls in, swelling around us like a beast, and I hear once more the trees, that gentle howl, not Jack's, not Max's, but mine, growing in my throat. My omega rouses, burning and untested, and I curl my fists into balls, claws rethreading with anguish.  Jack's watching me, blood smearing his leather, and Max's stillness pulls at me, a rope in the storm.

The Ravens are departed—at least for the time being—but their warning sears in my brain, and Tara's smirk lingers. I'm no longer Jack's alone—I'm a target, a trophy, and I don't even know how to get through this, much less how to fight against it. But I will. I have no choice.