Chapter 49 A Request
The Uber dropped Maddox at the edge of a small town that most maps didn't bother naming. The driver had given him strange looks during the ride, probably because of the dirt still streaked across Maddox's face in strange lines, the warrior's marks of determination which he hadn't bothered to wash off.
Maddox paid in cash and stepped out onto the dusty road that served as the town's main street. The air smelled different here, it carried scents that triggered memories he'd spent years trying to bury.
This wasn't a place for humans. Not really. Oh, a few lived in another town, oblivious to what their neighbors truly were. But this town belonged to the rogues, to the wolves who existed outside the traditional pack structure.
Maddox started walking, his destination clear even though his feet hadn't traveled this path in over a decade.
Eyes fell on him immediately.
Wolves on porches, leaning against buildings, walking down the street, all turned to watch as he passed. Their stares were heavy with recognition and judgment, assessing him in ways that made Maddox's skin prickle.
Some looked at him with open disdain. Others with surprise that he'd dare show his face here, and a few with expressions Maddox couldn't quite read.
But no one spoke to him. No one greeted him or acknowledged him beyond those weighted stares. It was like they could tell just by looking that he'd come here with purpose, that this wasn't a social visit.
Maddox kept his eyes forward and his spine straight. He knew what they saw when they looked at him. The Torres bastard. The half-blood who'd been rejected by his birth pack and raised outside their family. The boy who'd turned his back on the rogue family when they'd offered him a place.
He'd spent years trying to forget this town, trying to build a life separate from the complicated legacy of his bloodline. He had convinced himself he didn't need these people, didn't need their acceptance or their help.
But desperation made you swallow your pride, it made you go places you'd sworn you'd never return to.
The bar appeared ahead, exactly where Maddox remembered it. A squat, weathered building that looked like it might collapse in a strong wind but had been standing in that same spot for longer than Maddox had been alive.
The sign above the door had faded over the years, the letters barely readable. But Maddox didn't need to read it to know what it said: The Den.
He approached the entrance and found his path blocked by a mountain of a man.
Joe stood easily seven feet tall, his shoulders so broad he had to turn sideways to fit through most doorways. Scars covered his visible skin, some old and faded, others relatively fresh. His face was weathered and hard, the face of someone who'd seen too much violence and participated in even more.
"Well, well," Joe said, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to come from somewhere in his chest. "Look what we have here. The Torres bastard."
Maddox felt his jaw clench, his hands curling into fists at his sides. But he kept his voice level when he spoke. "I'm a Barker, not a Torres. And I'm here to speak with my uncle."
Joe spat on the ground at Maddox's feet, the gesture both provoking and insulting. The disgusting glob of saliva landed on Maddox's shoe. "Cowards aren't welcome here, boy."
Maddox's eyes flared, his wolf rising close to the surface as his whole body tensed, muscles coiling to spring. He could take Joe and could probably hurt him badly before the other man even realized what was happening.
But before Maddox could move, a voice called out from inside the bar.
"Joe."
It was a single word, but it carried enough weight and authority, the kind of command that didn't need to be repeated. It was a deep voice, aged but still powerful, and it made Joe's expression sour even further.
"Let the boy pass."
Joe's massive hands clenched into fists, but he stepped aside reluctantly. "You heard the boss," he growled at Maddox. "Get in there."
Maddox straightened his shoulders and walked past Joe, his head held high despite the anxiety churning in his gut. He'd been to The Den before, years ago when his mother was still alive. But walking in now, as an adult seeking help rather than a child seeking refuge, felt completely different.
The bar fell silent the moment Maddox crossed the threshold.
Every conversation stopped mid-sentence. Every eye turned toward the door, toward him. The space was packed with wolves of all ages, most of them bearing the same kinds of scars Joe had. Warriors who'd been cast out of their birth packs or chosen to leave, who'd found purpose and family among the rogues.
The air was thick with their scents, with the subtle markers of dominance and submission that dictated the hierarchy here. Maddox could feel their judgment, their assessment, their curiosity about why the Torres bastard had returned after all these years.
And in the center of it all, seated at a table surrounded by his most trusted warriors, was the man Maddox had come to see.
Elijah Barker. The Rogue King, as he was known throughout the supernatural community. He was not an official Alpha, nor recognized by any council or governing body. He wasn’t born a prince or king or any sort of royalty. But, he commanded respect and fear nonetheless, ruling over a pack of outcasts and misfits who would die for him without hesitation. Or rather… for his beliefs.
Maddox's uncle. His mother's older brother. The man who'd offered to take Maddox in when he was so little and newly orphaned.
An offer that Maddox had refused, choosing Matteo's stable human world over the violent uncertainty of rogue life.
Elijah hadn't changed much in the intervening years. His hair had more silver in it now, more lines around his eyes and mouth. But he still radiated that same dangerous authority, that sense of barely controlled power that made even other Alphas think twice before crossing him.
No one smiled as Maddox walked through the bar toward that center table. The warriors watched him with expressions ranging from hostile to curious, but none were friendly. Maddox had rejected them once and had chosen another path. Coming back now when he needed something would earn him no favors.
But Maddox didn't care about favors. Didn't care about their judgment or their contempt. He cared about one thing and one thing only.
Revenge.
And to get that revenge, he needed help from people who specialized in violence outside the law. People who had both the power and numbers.
Elijah watched Maddox approach with eyes the same warm brown as Maddox's own, the same eyes his mother had. They were the only physical reminder Maddox had of the woman who'd given birth to him.
Maddox stopped a few feet from the table, close enough to speak without shouting but far enough to show respect for Elijah’s position.
For a moment, pride made him hesitate. Made him want to turn around and walk back out, to find another way, to do this without begging for help from people who saw him as a coward.
But then he thought of Uncle Matteo's body on the floor, of Enzo's hand inside his chest, he thought of the vow he'd made under the moon with dirt streaked across his face.
Blood must have blood. And pride was a luxury Maddox couldn't afford.
To everyone's shock, including his own, Maddox dropped to his knees.
The bar erupted in surprised murmurs. Warriors who'd been watching with detached interest suddenly leaned forward. A few made sounds of disbelief. Joe, still standing in the doorway, let out a bark of laughter that held no humor.
Kneeling was submission, it was asking for mercy, for favor, for help from a position of complete vulnerability. Proud wolves didn't kneel easily, especially not in front of an audience.
This gesture was either proving that he truly was a coward, or that his loyalties had shifted.
But Maddox kept his head up even as his knees pressed into the dirty floor, his eyes meeting Elijah's directly.
"Uncle," Maddox said, his voice carrying through the now-silent bar. "I need your help."