Rory Blackfang was a ticking time bomb of testosterone, a furry Chernobyl with a hard-on that could cut diamonds. Day four of the Hornpocalypse had him teetering on insanity, his "Emperor Redwood" now a mythical beast that mocked him with every throb. His inner wolf was a deranged poet, scribbling odes to a mate he was too terrified to meet—not because he didn't want her, but because he was convinced she'd take one look at his pants-tenting catastrophe and sprint for the hills. Mrs. Howlsworth's "she's close" taunts haunted him, and that honeysuckle-and-trouble scent was everywhere, driving him nuts. He needed relief *yesterday*, but the universe was a sadistic stand-up comic, and Rory was the punchline.
The pack, in their infinite idiocy, decided the town's Moonlit Harvest Hoedown was the perfect place to "fix Rory's funk." Rory, limping from his nettle incident and sporting jeans tighter than a boa constrictor, begged to stay home. "She's out there!" Derek bellowed, flexing in a cowboy hat. "Your mate's probably line-dancing right now!" Rory's wolf whined, torn between chasing the scent and hiding from a potential meet-cute-turned-disaster.
At the festival, the air was thick with fried dough, banjo music, and that damn honeysuckle scent, making Emperor Redwood salute like a flagpole. Rory ducked behind a hay bale, figuring a quick *adjustment* might take the edge off. His hand was just grazing the danger zone—sweet, fleeting contact—when Luna's voice blared through a megaphone. "RORY! JOIN MY HOEDOWN VLOG!" She was filming, glittery boots stomping, as a crowd of humans cheered. Rory yanked his hand back, but his redwood knocked over the hay bale, sending it rolling into a pie stand. Pies flew, splattering him with blueberry goo that made his crotch look like a modern art exhibit.
A woman's laugh—low, mischievous—cut through the chaos, tied to that honeysuckle scent. Rory froze, heart pounding, but his sticky, pie-covered pants screamed "flee." He dove into a porta-potty, slamming the door, terrified he'd just scared off his mate. Inside, he tried again, fingers brushing his redwood, but the porta-potty tipped over—courtesy of a drunk human crashing into it—dumping Rory into a pile of festival mud. No climax. His wolf howled a requiem.
Back at the cabin, the pack decided to "help" with a mate-hunt, dragging Rory to town like a reluctant bloodhound. "We'll sniff her out!" Zeke declared, sucking on a bacon lollipop. Rory, paranoid about meeting her mid-boner, tried to sabotage the plan by hiding in an alley. The honeysuckle scent hit him like a truck, and, alone at last, he fumbled with his zipper, desperate for a moment's relief. His fingers grazed Emperor Redwood—hope flickered—when Derek tackled him from behind. "Gotcha! Thought you could ditch us?"
They'd mistaken a florist's shop for the mate's location, bursting in to find a terrified human woman surrounded by roses. "She smells flowery!" Luna squealed, filming. The florist screamed, spraying them with a hose, and Rory's half-unzipped jeans caught on a rosebush, ripping a hole that left Emperor Redwood dangerously exposed. As they fled, Rory spotted a scarf on the ground, reeking of honeysuckle, but a shadowy figure—another werewolf?—snatched it and vanished. His wolf snarled, sensing rival pack involvement, but Rory was too busy clutching his torn pants to chase. No relief, just a new mystery: who else was after his mate?
Mrs. Howlsworth, cackling like a witch on a bender, offered Rory a "cure" for his redwood: a potion of boiled toadstool and what smelled like gym socks. "Drink this, boy, it'll calm your loins," she said, her unibrow winking. Rory, desperate and delusional, chugged it. Big mistake. His sensitivity to the mate's scent skyrocketed—every breeze was a honeysuckle punch to the groin.
He locked himself in the cabin's attic, figuring he could handle business in private. His hand found Emperor Redwood, a brief moment of progress, when the potion's side effect kicked in: his wolf started yowling a love ballad, loud enough to rattle the windows. The pack burst in, thinking he was possessed. "He's singing to his mate!" Luna shrieked, live-streaming again. Derek threw a bucket of cold water—aimed at "exorcising" him— He fled, dripping and singing involuntarily, as a blurry vision flashed in his mind: a woman's silhouette, laughing, gone in a second. Was it her? The potion was screwing with him, and climax was a distant dream.
In town, licking his wounds (and still glowing faintly), Rory stumbled into a coffee shop, the honeysuckle scent overwhelming. A sassy barista with purple hair and a smirk served him, her perfume mimicking the mate's scent. Convinced she was *the one*, Rory tried to play it cool, hiding his redwood behind a menu. "Nice… uh… lattes," he stammered, sweating. She winked, dropping a cryptic hint: "Heard there's a new girl in town, stirring up trouble. Watch yourself, wolf boy." His wolf went berserk, thinking she was the mate.
Panicking, he ducked into the shop's bathroom to "prepare" for a suave reintroduction. His hand brushed Emperor Redwood, a fleeting promise of relief, when the barista banged on the door. "Yo, you dropped your wallet!" The door swung open—because of course the lock was broken—and Rory's menu shield fell, revealing his hard nightmare. The barista cackled, not his mate but clearly amused, and tossed him a napkin with a scrawled note: "Check the laundromat." Rory fled, no climax, just a clue that made his heart race. Was his mate at the laundromat? And why was she "trouble"?
Back at the cabin, Mrs. Howlsworth dropped a bombshell: Rory's redwood was a moon-curse tied to the mate bond. "Find her by the full moon—three days away—or that thing'll be permanent," she said, tossing a pickled eyeball into the fire. Rory, now picturing a lifetime as a walking erection, agreed to a pack ritual to break the curse. They gathered around a bonfire, chanting gibberish, while Rory stood in the center, clutching a moonstone that burned his hand.
Hoping the ritual would distract him, he snuck a quick touch to Emperor Redwood under his cloak—progress!—when the moonstone exploded, setting his pants on fire. "MOON'S WRATH!" Luna screamed, filming as Derek doused him with a beer keg. The fire died, but his redwood glowed brighter, now pulsing to the chant's rhythm. A disembodied voice—her?—whispered, "Find me," on the wind, tied to that honeysuckle scent, but Rory was too busy rolling in dirt to put out the flames. The pack cheered, thinking it was part of the ritual, while Rory's wolf wailed, no closer to relief or his mate.
Rory groaned, his wolf clawing at his brain. The honeysuckle scent hit again, stronger, mixed with smoke and trouble. His heart lurched—she was *here*, somewhere, maybe watching. But with Emperor Redwood glowing like a rave, he couldn't risk it. Three days till the full moon. Three days to tame the beast or lose his mate forever. He was screwed, and not in the fun way.