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Nate inhaled calmly, bringing the torn fabric of the shirt to his face. The smell hit him immediately: dampness, earth, and that characteristic, penetrating wet-dog stench. Any trace the garment might have held before, any chance of following the scent of his grandmother's killer, had been erased.
His fingers clenched on the fabric as he slowly lowered his hand. His gaze lifted to Jacob, still standing alongside Seth and Leah. The wolf—until a moment ago defiant—slightly pinned back his ears when he heard what Nate said, in a low, controlled, almost cold tone:
"You just destroyed my best chance to hunt down the one who killed my grandmother."
Silence spread through the forest, heavy, suffocating. Branches creaked softly in the wind, and yet everything seemed suspended. Jacob understood, at least for a moment, the weight of those words.
Then Nate stopped speaking.
The air seemed to tighten, as if the entire forest were holding its breath. What happened next was too fast for the wolves to process. Nate lunged forward, a blur in the shadows, moving with a speed that defied anything the pack had ever known.
Jacob's first charge was intercepted by a brutal knee that lifted him off the ground; his body was sent flying several meters, rolling until he collided with a tree trunk. The impact reverberated like a drum, leaves dislodging from branches in the tremor. Before he even hit the ground, Seth was already lunging at Nate, a roar tearing through the air. But Nate grabbed him mid-leap, spun, and slammed him into the earth. The young wolf's body became an improvised shield against Leah, who collided with him with a dry thud; both rolled across the ground, tangled, shaking the foliage with a harsh crash.
Jacob tried to get up, growling with fury, but Nate reached him in a blink. A sharp elbow strike to his side left him winded, a ragged breath escaping his snout. Another strike, this time with an open palm squarely on his muzzle, slammed him into the earth, sending a cloud of dust rising. Nate didn't stop: he grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and, as if he were dead weight, hurled him against a nearby trunk. The cracking of bark under the impact mingled with the wolf's muffled groan.
Seth charged again, eyes burning with desperation. Nate dodged with a minimal twist, so fast it seemed he dematerialized, and punished him with a direct kick to the side. The blow sounded like a breaking log, and Seth rolled across the ground, a choked growl escaping him. Leah tried to intervene, launching a fast swipe, but Nate caught her mid-air with a sharp movement, spun, and threw her into a bush. The shrub cracked and bent under her weight, branches splintering.
No pause. No words. No restraint. Every strike was clean, precise, devastating. The difference in power had become insulting.
Jacob gathered his strength, trembling but stubborn, and lunged again, this time with all the rage he had left. Nate met him head-on. He caught him by the neck mid-leap and slammed him into the ground with a crash that made the earth beneath his feet vibrate. The wolf let out a muffled howl, immediately immobilized by Nate's knee pressing against its back.
Leah, barely recovered, tried to take advantage of the distraction. She lunged from the flank, jaws open, but Nate twisted impossibly fast. The elbow struck squarely against her side, the dry impact silencing her roar. She fell again, rolling across the ground.
Seth roared with all the strength he had left, even as his body faltered, instinct overriding pain. Nate received him effortlessly: he stopped him with one hand on his head, halting his momentum humiliatingly. The wolf's entire body vibrated under the pressure of that relentless hand. With a simple push, Nate drove him into the ground as if he weighed nothing.
The scene became a cycle of futile attempts and brutal reprisals. The three wolves attacked again and again, each movement met with precise violence: slammed into the ground, shoved and rolled, knees cutting through their charges, solid strikes keeping them down. The forest echoed with cracking branches, blunt impacts, and the sound of bodies falling repeatedly onto the damp earth.
Nate, in contrast, made no sound. No scream, no word, not even a change in expression. His eyes remained cold, his face impassive, as if he weren't fighting, but executing a mechanical task. It was a silent, methodical, crushing fury.
When the three finally tried to regroup, forming a shaky semicircle around him, Nate took a step forward. That simple gesture was enough to make them instinctively retreat, fear seeping into their movements despite the pride that still held them upright.
The wolves panted, their fur dirty with earth and leaves, their bodies marked by impacts. Nate, on the other hand, stood tall, motionless, with the torn jacket the only sign of battle.
He didn't need to speak. The beating had said it all.
As if that punishment weren't enough, Nate, with a swift, calculated move, leapt into the canopy of a nearby tree. The wolves froze, bewildered. Their bodies tensed, spinning in circles for a few seconds, unable to anticipate where the next attack would come from. The branches creaked under Nate's weight, but he seemed to float, making barely a sound, as if gravity bent to his will.
Then, without warning, Nate descended like a projectile. The axe-kick he launched was sharp, lethal. It struck the gray wolf directly, who didn't even have time to react. The animal's body hit the ground like a sack of sand, the dull thud echoing through the trees. Unconscious, the wolf lay still, a mere puppet in the hands of Nate's strength.
The sandy-colored wolf, witness to the brutality, whimpered—a nearly human gesture of fear and doubt—and stepped back, trembling. Nate, cold and methodical, didn't let the opportunity pass. With a flurry of short, rapid jumps, he caught the wolf before it could regroup. He gripped its neck with absolute firmness, gradually tightening. His tense, controlled muscles made the wolf feel trapped in an iron snare with no escape.
Jacob, alarmed and desperate, lunged to aid his companion. But Nate, with a nearly indifferent motion, repelled him with a sweep of his hand, sending him rolling several meters across the ground. That brief reprieve gave Seth only a few seconds to shake himself and catch his breath, but Nate kept him pinned. Motionless. His eyes remained fixed on Jacob, and that gaze alone was a silent message: if he didn't act, this would end in tragedy.
Jacob began to grow desperate, launching attacks that became faster and more violent with each attempt. Every charge he made met an invisible wall of force. A single swipe from Nate was enough to send him crashing to the ground, a sharp impact that resonated like a hammer striking metal. Seth whimpered weakly under the pressure that stole his breath, each inhale an impossible effort.
Time seemed to stretch, suffocating, while Nate maintained absolute control. Every muscle, every movement, every breath of the wolves was under his dominion. The air thickened with tension, leaves fell slowly, and the forest seemed to hold its breath, aware that something irreversible was happening.
Seeing his companion lose consciousness, Jacob let out a pitiful cry. His ears pressed to his skull, and for a moment, his gaze filled with doubt. Almost reluctantly, he lifted his muzzle to the sky and released a deep, powerful howl, resonating through the trees. Nate heard it clearly. It wasn't just a cry: it was a desperate call, a plea for help that only he could perceive in its full depth.
The sand-colored wolf glanced at him one last time, hidden pleas in his eyes, fear and lost trust reflected in his trembling body. Nate, relentless, seized the opening: a palm strike aimed at the skull sent him to the ground like a lifeless sack, unconscious, the predator's eyes never leaving Jacob.
Finally, Nate spoke, his voice deep and controlled, resonating through the air like a hammer of authority:
"If you're not going to intervene for me as your old friend, then speak to your alpha for your pack. I could have killed them all before you called the others, and no matter how many wolves you bring… the outcome will be the same. The Cullens are under my protection, and Forks is no longer yours."
Jacob froze, stunned. Each word sank deep, ripping a shiver of recognition and respect mixed with fear. In his mind, the voices of the rest of the pack began to stir: his companions were arriving. Nate, simply sniffing the air, sensed the same thing and added in a calm, threatening tone:
"You already know the difference between us. I'll wait for your answer by the end of the week, at the edge of your reserve. You'll know what to do, Jake."
With an agile leap, Nate disappeared among the treetops, moving with the same speed and precision with which he had appeared. The forest fell silent, broken only by the panting and trembling of the defeated wolves, their bodies marked by the strength of their adversary.
Jacob remained motionless, a whirlwind of emotions tearing him from within: fury, wounded pride… and, above all, sadness. He didn't know if Nate had called him "Jake" to hurt him even more or if it had been a coincidence. Yet hearing that name dragged him into memories of simpler days, when everything was less complicated, less bloodied, and less filled with resentment.
He remained lost in those thoughts until the footsteps of the rest of the pack reached the clearing.
The pack arrived with stealthy, firm steps: twelve wolves emerging from the trees, their large, muscular bodies carrying instinct, curiosity, and an aura of alertness that made the air vibrate around them. Each breathed carefully, measuring sounds, scents, and the vibration of the ground. Their movements were coordinated, yet each wolf maintained its own attention, ready to react to any change.
Jacob paused for a moment, surprised to see two unfamiliar figures among them. His chest tensed, ears swiveling toward the newcomers, assessing their size and posture. For a moment, his gaze tightened—a mix of surprise and caution—but then, through the mental bond that linked the pack, he understood the situation: they were just recently transformed children. Sam had found them and planned to give them the "talk," to teach them pack limits and discipline, but Jacob's howl had accelerated everything. There was no time for formalities.
The arriving wolves immediately focused on Seth and Leah, still lying unconscious on the ground, marked by the blows and pressure of the recent battle. With precise, cautious movements, small nudges of their muzzles pressed gently against the sides of their companions, applying just enough pressure to stimulate awakening without causing harm. Each contact was measured, with the utmost delicacy their lupine forms could offer. Within seconds, Seth and Leah blinked, slowly regaining control of their bodies.
Seth rubbed his head with his paw, his mental voice weak and pitiful, almost a whisper reverberating only inside the minds of his pack:
"Ow… my head… why did it take so long?"
None of the wolves responded. They remained still, focused, as if absorbing every thought and emotion coming from the others. Each mind was a screen, a movie showing the recent events: Nate's brutal beating, the unstoppable force he had exhibited, his movements calculated with surgical precision, and Jacob's desperate struggle against a power that exceeded his own. Some wolves displayed restrained fear, others fury, some pure tension, maximum alert to the invisible threat still lingering in the air.
Sam stepped forward with slow, measured steps, approaching Leah. He tilted his head as he evaluated her state, extending a mental thread of communication: "Are you okay?" he thought, with genuine concern, aware that rushing could make things worse. But Leah, still recovering, stood with an effort, showing pride and determination, walking alongside Seth and leaning slightly on him for balance. For a few moments, a heavy, almost tangible silence covered the clearing. The pack's mental voices faded, each wolf observing, analyzing, and processing in silence what they had just witnessed.
Some exchanged quick glances, evaluating the expressions and movements of their companions, recalling Nate's speed, precision, and power. In their minds, the scene of the beating replayed like a recording: Leah knocked down with a sharp blow, Seth immobilized under Nate's pressure, and Jacob—the strongest among them—repelled with a swipe like a fly… and all of it without a single sign of emotion on the cold one's face.
Then Paul, unable to contain the disbelief and the mix of indignation and fury coursing through his mind, broke the silence with a strong, abrupt thought:
"What the hell was that!"