Chapter 104 Werewolf Jesus

Chapter 104 Werewolf Jesus
DAMON

I was sitting in the corner booth of the cafeteria, watching Nate endure his own personal circle of hell.

Jessica was perched squarely on his lap, twirling a lock of blonde hair around her finger and loudly gossiping about people we absolutely don’t care about. Nate looked like he was contemplating chewing off his own arm just to escape.

My phone buzzed violently against the laminate table.

The screen flashed: IRIS.

My pulse spiked. I snatched the phone, bringing it to my ear. "Iris?"

"Damon..." Her voice came through in ragged, shuddering gasps, laced with pure terror. "It’s Cole. He needs help. Please."

I was already on my feet. "Where are you?"

"Under the bleachers," she sobbed. "Please hurry."

"I’m coming."

I hung up, shoving the phone into my pocket.

Nate immediately sat forward, dislodging Jessica's arm. "What is it? Did something happen?"

I looked at Jessica, whose eyes were already wide with nosy curiosity, her ears practically twitching. God, the last thing we need is this bitch sniffing around our business.

"We talk later," I told Nate flatly, not waiting a second for him to reply before turning on my heel and bolting through the double doors.

I took the back stairs three at a time, bursting out of the side exit and sprinting across the football field. I slid through the rusted gravel beneath the bleachers, the cold shadow swallowing me whole.

My breath caught.

Cole was slumped on the ground against a fractured concrete pillar. His face was the color of wet chalk, his lips turning a bruised, mottled shade of purple, his chest heaving in shallow, agonized spasms. Iris was on her knees beside him, trembling violently, her face streaked with tears and smeared makeup.

I dropped to my knees in the dirt, throwing my bag aside. "What the hell happened?"

"I pushed him," Iris choked out, clutching her hands to her chest. "I didn't mean to. He told me to call you... Damon, he's not breathing right!"

I tore Cole's shirt open.

Instead of rising normally, a jagged section of Cole’s left ribs sank deeply inward every time he gasped for air, only to bulge unnaturally outward when he tried to exhale.

Wolf physiology could heal a lot, but a detached, floating segment of the rib cage tearing into a lung would kill Cole long before his lycanthropy could stitch the bones back together. Especially now that he was weak because of the meds Ernest forced him to take.

"Stay with me, Cole. Don't fight it," I growled, my voice tight with forced calm.

I ripped off my jacket and rolled it into a tight, firm makeshift pad. Kneeling in the grit, I gripped Cole by the shoulders and carefully dragged my brother up into a semi-sitting position. Cole let out a choked, wet groan, his claws scraping uselessly against the asphalt.

"Lean into it. Trust me," I muttered.

I angled Cole’s torso, propping his weight slightly toward the injured left side, pressing him firmly back against the solid brick wall of the pillar. Instantly, the pressure of Cole’s own body weight and gravity began to pin the loose ribs, forcing the shattered chest wall to stabilize against the brick.

Before Cole could collapse forward, I pressed the rolled jacket directly over the fractured, caving section of bone. I applied a steady, targeted pressure with my palm. I didn’t push too hard—I just braced the floating segment, holding it flush with the rest of the rib cage.

"Breathe now," I commanded.

Under my hand, the reverse movement stopped. Held fast by the jacket and the brick wall, the detached ribs could no longer buckle outward. Cole’s right lung suddenly had the space it needed. He drew in a massive, ragged, but deeply functional breath, his chest finally expanding in proper rhythm. The suffocating panic in his eyes receded just a fraction as oxygen hit his bloodstream.

I held him there, my muscles locked against Cole's chest, waiting for his color to return.

"Is he okay?" Iris whispered, her voice cracking. "Is he going to be fine?"

"Yeah," I breathed, letting out a long, shaky exhale. "He'll be alright. Help me pick him up, we’re taking him to the infirmary."

Cole weakly lifted a hand, shaking his head, his teeth clenched against the agony. He tried to speak, his voice a gravelly rasp: "No... infirmary... no..."

"You have at least three shattered ribs puncturing your chest cavity, you idiot," I snapped. "You're going to the infirmary."

"They'll... they'll know," Cole wheezed. "They'll blame Iris."

"They won't know shit as long as you keep your mouth shut," I countered, adjusting the jacket against his side. "We tell them we were throwing the heavy ball around on the field, and I launched a throw too hard and drilled you in the chest because I forgot how weak you are off the suppressants. We're werewolves. Sports accidents happen every single day. Nobody is going to suspect Iris. Let’s go."

Cole glared at me through half-lidded eyes, but he finally gave a weak, reluctant nod.

I hauled him to his feet, keeping his left side braced, and helped him stagger toward the campus health clinic. The nurses bought the story without a second thought—chalking it up to reckless teenage Alphas playing rough while one was still recovering from "hospitalization." They hooked him up to high-grade intravenous painkillers, stabilized the fractures with compression splints, and set him in a monitoring bed to sleep off the concussion. Then they called our father. Thankfully, he didn’t care enough to show up.

Once he was stable and snoring under the heavy narcotics, I washed the dirt from my hands, walked out into the crisp afternoon air, and went looking for the girl who had almost turned my brother into paste.

I found Iris sitting on the low brick wall outside the cafeteria wing, her knees pulled tight against her chest, skipping her afternoon periods just like I was.

I walked over and sat down beside her, leaning my elbows on my knees.

"Can we talk about what the hell just happened back there?" I asked quietly.

Iris stared at the gravel between her shoes, her shoulders hunched. "We had an argument. He said something... It doesn't matter. I got upset. He grabbed my shoulders to stop me from leaving, and I just... I pushed him. I didn't mean to."

A fresh wave of tears welled up in her dark eyes. She took a trembling, shuddering breath.

"I didn't mean to hurt him," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I didn't think I could."

"You could have killed him, Iris," I said, keeping my tone deadpan, raw, and completely honest. "His chest wall caved into his lung. If I had arrived two minutes later…"

Iris covered her face with both hands, letting out a quiet, muffled sob. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."

I watched her for a moment, the tears soaking through her fingers. Beneath the anger and the lingering adrenaline, a strange, curiosity flared in my chest.

"What does it feel like?" I asked. "In the moment?"

Iris slowly pulled her hands away, blinking at me through wet lashes. "What? What moment?"

"The moment you use it," I said, tilting my head. "The Pureblood strength. What does it actually feel like inside your body?"

Iris sniffled, looking down at her open palms as if they belonged to a stranger. "I don't know... It's like... imagine you're about to pick up a huge, heavy wooden crate. You brace all your muscles, expecting it to weigh a hundred pounds, but when you lift it, it's completely empty. It's like that. I don't feel stronger... Everything else just suddenly feels lighter. Fragile. I don't know how else to describe it."

"And it triggers by accident, right?"

"Yes."

"Only when you're under severe emotional distress?"

Iris narrowed her eyes, a flicker of irritation cutting through her grief. "Are you seriously psychoanalyzing me right now?"

"You need to control this shit, Iris," I stated coldly. "You almost murdered my brother today, but for some reason, you don't react like this when Ernest is molesting you."

"Fuck you, Damon!" she hissed, standing up abruptly.

"I'm not saying it's your fault!" I snapped, grabbing her wrist and pulling her back down onto the brick ledge. "Sit down. I don't think you did it on purpose, okay? I'm trying to help you understand the mechanics of what's happening to you."

Iris glared at me, rubbing her wrist. "How?"

"Look. Imagine this scenario," I said, leaning back against the wall. "A child is born to a legendary, super strong Alpha. But instead of being raised in a pack, that kid is abandoned and raised by… Humans, maybe. No training, no pack hierarchy, no physical conditioning, zero understanding of what they are. Then they turn eighteen, and suddenly—boom—the full weight of an Alpha's biological strength drops on their shoulders overnight. What happens? They collapse. Mentally, physically, they lose control. There are a few cases of this…"

Iris frowned, listening closely. "What does that have to do with me?"

"You're a fucking Alpha, Iris," I said bluntly. "Actually, you're the Alpha of all Alphas. All hail Iris, our werewolf Jesus. But you were raised like an Omega. You were conditioned to submit in order to survive, the opposite of what an Alpha does. You have zero control over the raw power in your veins, and if you don't learn how to channel it, you're going to end up butchering someone. Apparently not my father, unfortunately. And you’re going to hurt yourself."

Iris stared at me, the words sinking heavy and deep into the quiet space between us.

"And you think you can help me?" she asked softly.

A faint, self-deprecating smirk touched my lips. "I think I can try. Or, you know, Celeste can always go through with her original plan. She can weave a suppression ward, lock your wolf in a cage, and strip away your powers for good. But I don't think that's what you want, is it?"

Iris went quiet.

She looked at her hands, then turned her head, meeting my gaze with a steady, calculating focus I had never seen in her before.

"Alright, Dr. Damon," she whispered, a sharp, dangerous edge touching her voice. "Fix me."