Skylark took a deep breath in as the cold sea breeze flooded his nostrils. Storm clouds on the horizon. His copper tinted strawberry blonde hair being tickled by the wind. It had been almost fifteen years since he had been home. He could feel his heart beating in his throat, silencing all his thoughts from escaping his brain, he stood in peace and quiet. But it was a fluke.

His parents had warned him a lot had changed in his absence.

And now he was about to find out just how much.

There was a shift in the wind as footsteps approached him from behind, “You lost? Coyote.” An aggressive voice called out to Skylark. He could smell them before they even spoke—the wolves approaching him with ill-intent. He turned around slowly and cautiously as not to further escalate the situation. From the look on their faces and the smell of their pheromones he knew it was in vain. Only those of the same species could smell each other's pheromones but for as long as Skylark could remember—he could smell not only coyotes but wolves as well. In fact, smelling wolves was easier and came more naturally to him than smelling his own species putting off pheromones. Lightning cracked in the sky above as rain began to pour down. 

The smell of wet dog was overwhelming and nauseating.

"Just passing through." He replied in a dull and soft tone, trying not to wrinkle his nose in disgust.

"You chose the wrong path." The wolf on the right was light skinned, around five foot eight—give or take a few inches. His head was buzzed and bleached blonde, almost like a baby chick yellow. Terribly done. Close to a hundred and eighty pounds at a glance. Bigger in weight than the wolf accompanying him but shorter in height. 

"This is wolf territory." The taller wolf added with a snarl. He had the same skin tone as the man next to him but their tone was still not as light as Skylark's. He had the same facial structure as the other wolf as well, possibly siblings. His hair was longer and more shaggy, a medium brown tone. Way too many piercings in his face in Skylark's opinion. Neither would be his type even if they weren't wolves, but they especially weren't because they were wolves. Wolves and coyotes did not mix. Wolves were always out for blood— he could tell that these two in particular were extra bloodthirsty.

Skylark was cornered and as they began to flank him he knew they were not going to just let him walk out of here. He let out a heavy sigh, "Lets get this over with." His voice was void of emotion but on the inside he was afraid.

"Arrogant little shit!"

Immediately he closed his eyes and dropped to the floor. He figured dropping like a dead animal and playing the part would take all the fun out of it for them. He had hoped that they would lose interest quickly and leave him. But he was sorely mistaken. They were looking for something, anything to beat up on and he was the perfect target. Blow after blow he could feel pieces of his willpower and life being expelled from his body. Maybe he was going to die. That would be a shame but he was the bottom of the food chain—life never took pity on the underdog. Or so he thought until a crisp and sharp whistle broke through the air causing the wolves to abandon their prey.

Skylark was too dizzy and beaten to open his eyes in that moment. He didn't see or hear what else happened after the whistle. He groaned as he rolled onto his stomach from his side. He didn't hear the footsteps of the man approaching him. But the scent coming off of him was undeniable. The smell of black coffee and gunpowder mixed with scotch—and the feeling of being nestled up by a campfire under the starlit night sky in the summer. Skylark suddenly had the strength to open his eyes and look at the wolf almost hovering over him in the intense downpour of freezing rainfall.

"Wolf?" He questioned breathlessly as Wolfgang titled his head to the side. His umber skin riddled with goosebumps. His face bearing several scars that Skylark had never seen before. He pushed his short choppy black hair back with his fingers, slicking it back as he clicked his tongue at the pathetic sight before him. Skylark beaten to a bloody pulp.

The wolf slowly lifted Skylark’s head with his steel toed boot. His cold bright red eyes gazed into the coyote’s warm golden yellow eyes. The skin around Wolfgang's eyes was also red in a way that made them more intimidating to look at. He abruptly pulled his foot out from under Skylark’s chin causing his chin to dip into the wet earth reminding him of his position physically and socially. His days of existing in ignorant bliss within his secluded little bubble on the other side of the country were officially over.

Wolfgang slowly lowered himself down, sitting on his own heels as the rain dripped down his soaked hair—rolling off of his thick leather jacket as unbothered as his current disposition, “Welcome home, Little Red.” He muttered, his voice was barely above a whisper and almost drowned out by the oncoming storm. There was a hidden warmth in Wolfgang’s dark and rough voice that stung Skylark’s body all over like a swarm of bees finding their prey. Or maybe the warmth was the venom coming from the stinger—his sharp and bitter tongue. Skylark could feel his eyes roll to the back of his head as he lost consciousness. The flickering flames of a campfire enveloping his body in a warm and comforting embrace in the darkness.