It had been exactly seven days since you'd left the cramped streets of Seoul behind, and damn if this wasn't the life. Your new home was a far cry from anything you'd known—spacious, warm, and filled with men who spoiled you rotten. "Treated like a queen," they'd joke, but honestly? You weren't complaining.

Ghost was your favorite, hands down. That intimidating skull mask of his? Please. You'd seen past that tough exterior from day one. Sure, hearing him casually mention his latest kill over morning coffee took some getting used to, but everyone had their quirks, right?

The afternoon sun streamed through the kitchen windows as you savored your lunch—the good stuff, not that cheap kibble from before. Your ears perked up at familiar footsteps.

"Well, well, look who's living the dream," Soap's voice carried that thick Scottish lilt that always made you purr. He crouched down beside you, his calloused fingers scratching behind your ears just the way you liked.

You couldn't help yourself—you stretched up and gave his stubbled cheek a long, appreciative lick, tasting the salt of his skin and that hint of gunpowder that always clung to him.

"Aye, that's my girl," he chuckled, his voice dropping to that low rumble that sent warmth through your chest. "Finish up that fancy feast of yours."

A satisfied chirp escaped your throat as you rose gracefully, the metallic tang of fresh blood still coating your muzzle—remnants of the morning's hunt that Ghost had let you finish in the backyard. The crimson droplets caught the afternoon light like tiny rubies against your dark fur.

Heavy boots announced Ghost's arrival before his gravelly voice cut through the domestic tranquility. "Oi, Soap," he called out, that familiar Manchester accent thick with urgency. "We better get moving. Gaz just radioed—Markov's been spotted near the outskirts."

Your amber eyes locked onto his through the skull mask's hollow sockets, and your tail began its telltale rhythm against the hardwood floor. The anticipation was intoxicating.

Ghost's shoulders sagged as he caught your hopeful expression. With practiced tenderness that contradicted his fearsome appearance, he knelt and let his gloved fingers work through the thick fur behind your ears.

"No, love," he murmured, his voice softening to that intimate tone reserved just for you. "You can't come with us this time. It's strictly recon—no bloodshed allowed."

A low, mournful whine built in your chest, and Soap threw his hands up in exasperation.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Ghost," he laughed, shaking his head. "She's a goddamn wolf. She could tear through anyone we might encounter—hell, she'd probably give Markov himself a proper scare."

His fingers danced over the radio clipped to his tactical vest, bringing it to his lips with a mischievous grin. "Captain, you copy? Can we bring our girl along for the ride?"

Static crackled before Price's weathered voice filled the kitchen, that distinctive Herefordshire drawl unmistakable even through the tinny speaker.

"Bloody hell, why not? Just keep her on a tight leash—and for Christ's sake, don't let her rip apart Markov's little assassin. We need that bitch breathing long enough to spill everything she knows about his financial operations."

Ghost's mask tilted, a hint of amusement in his posture. "Well, you heard the Captain," he said, reaching down to clip a tactical harness onto your body. The leather was worn, custom-fitted—just another piece of equipment, but to you, it meant adventure.

Soap's laugh was low and sharp. "Reckon Markov won't know what hit him," he muttered, checking his sidearm with practiced efficiency. "Ready to hunt, girl?"

Your response was a low, anticipatory growl that sent a ripple of excitement through the kitchen. Mission time.

Finding Markov had been child's play—your enhanced senses cutting through the maze of industrial warehouses like a blade through silk. The scent trail was intoxicating: fear-sweat, cheap cologne, and that metallic tang of weapons oil that clung to men who lived by violence. Your massive werewolf form had torn through his security detail like tissue paper, their panicked shouts echoing off concrete walls as claws met flesh.

But even apex predators could be caught off guard.

The electric chains bit deep into your fur, each link crackling with enough voltage to drop a bull elephant. Your howl of agony split the night air—raw, primal, echoing with centuries of wild fury. The electrified staff drove into your ribs again, sending white-hot lightning through every nerve ending.

"Ah, so this is Task Force 141's new pet," came a voice smooth as aged whiskey, tinged with that unmistakable Moscow accent.

Through the haze of pain, you focused on the man approaching. Markov himself—pale eyes like winter ice, skin that had never seen honest sunlight, and a smile that belonged in a shark tank. He moved with the casual confidence of a man who'd never met a problem he couldn't buy, torture, or kill his way out of.

Your lips peeled back, revealing fangs that could punch through kevlar, black fur rippling with those distinctive gold streaks that caught the harsh warehouse lighting. Every fiber of your being screamed to tear out his throat, to feel his pulse flutter and die between your jaws.

"Good girl," he purred, that condescending tone making your hackles rise. "You're angry. That fire in your eyes—it'll triple your market value. The underground fighting rings pay premium for exotic specimens like you."

He turned to address a woman who'd emerged from the shadows—crisp white blouse that probably cost more than most people's rent, black tactical pants that hugged curves designed for distraction. Her smile was all business, cold as a mortician's touch.

"Katya, darling," Markov's voice carried that casual intimacy of old lovers or business partners—maybe both. "Make sure our new acquisition stays properly contained. And for God's sake, muzzle her before she decides to redecorate with someone's intestines."

The muzzle he handed her was military-grade—thick leather reinforced with steel mesh, designed to contain something far more dangerous than your average guard dog. You bared your teeth and thrashed against the chains, muscles bunching under your fur as you prepared to lunge.

The electricity hit you like a sledgehammer to the spine.

Your scream tore through the warehouse—part human anguish, part animal fury, all pain.

But pain was something you understood intimately. Something you'd been trained to endure.

Ghost's voice echoed in your memory: "Control. Always control."

Through the white-hot electricity coursing through your nerves, you found that core of stillness. Muscles that had been thrashing went suddenly, unnervingly still. Your amber eyes—now cold as arctic steel—locked onto Markov with predatory focus.

Something in your gaze made Katya take an involuntary step backward.

Not a victim, you thought. A weapon.

And weapons, once unleashed, were not easily contained.

Hours crawled by like wounded prey before the warehouse doors exploded inward with a thunderous crash. Ghost and Soap moved like shadows given deadly purpose, their tactical gear catching the harsh fluorescent light as they swept the space with practiced precision.

Ghost's rifle found Katya's forehead in a heartbeat, the barrel steady as stone. "One twitch and I paint the wall with your brains," he growled, that Manchester accent sharp as broken glass.

But Soap's calloused hand pressed against Ghost's forearm, muscles tense beneath the fabric of his sleeve. "Easy, Lt.," he murmured, those blue eyes never leaving the woman's face. "Dead bitches don't talk, and we need every scrap of intel she's got rattling around in that pretty head."

Ghost's jaw worked beneath his mask, a low sound of frustration rumbling in his chest. But he lowered the weapon, though his finger never left the trigger guard. "Make it quick, Johnny. I don't like leaving our girl caged like some fucking animal."

Soap circled Katya like a predator sizing up wounded prey, his boots echoing against concrete. She met his gaze with cold defiance, lips curved in a smirk that promised nothing but trouble.

"Where's Markov's main operation?" Soap's voice dropped to that dangerous whisper that made hardened soldiers nervous.

"Go fuck yourself, Scottish boy."

"His financial records?"

"Wouldn't tell you if my life depended on it."

"The other facilities?"

Her laugh was like ice cracking. "You're wasting your breath."

Soap's patience snapped like a overstretched wire. "Right then." The butt of his rifle connected with her temple in one fluid motion, and she crumpled like a marionette with cut strings. He hefted her unconscious form over his shoulder with practiced ease, muscles flexing beneath his tactical vest.

"Get our girl out of that fucking cage," he ordered, already moving toward the exit. "I'll deal with this one back at base."

Ghost was already running before Soap finished speaking, his heavy boots pounding against the warehouse floor. The sight of you pressed against those cold metal bars, whining low in your throat, made something primal and protective roar to life in his chest.

"Shh, love... I know, I know," he whispered, his voice rough with barely contained emotion as his gloved fingers worked the lock with surgical precision. "I'm here now. You're safe."

The moment that door clicked open, you launched yourself forward with desperate relief. Your massive werewolf form collided with Ghost's solid frame, sending both of you tumbling to the concrete floor in a tangle of limbs and fur. You pinned him beneath your weight, your long tongue dragging across his masked face in frantic, grateful licks that tasted of salt and gunpowder and home.

"Christ, you're a sight for sore eyes," he breathed, his hands finding the thick fur at your neck, fingers working through the tangles with infinite gentleness.

The transformation rippled through you like liquid fire, bones reshaping, muscles flowing like mercury until you knelt above him in your human form. The shift had left you in nothing but scraps of black lace—a bra that barely contained your curves and panties that rode high on your hips. But modesty was the furthest thing from your mind.

You collapsed against Ghost's broad chest, your bare skin pressing against the rough fabric of his tactical vest. Your fingers clutched at him desperately, needing to feel the solid reality of his presence, the steady thunder of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

"Thought I'd lost you," you whispered against his throat, your voice breaking on the words. "When they had me in that cage, all I could think about was—"

"Hey." His gloved hand cupped your face, thumb brushing across your cheekbone with devastating tenderness. "I'm here. We're here. And we're never letting anyone take you again."

You could feel the way his body responded to yours—the subtle tension in his muscles, the way his breathing had gone shallow and uneven. The heat of his gaze burned through that skull mask as he took in the sight of you, all soft curves and bare skin pressed against his armored form.

"Ghost," you breathed, and the way you said his name was like a prayer and a promise all at once.