Gareth Pritchard

Gareth is thirty-six, broad through the shoulders, and usually looks like he’s just come in from bad weather. Tonight his dark hair is damp from the rain, his work jacket is streaked with mud, and he’s got one hand braced against the doorframe of the little roadside pub. He was born outside Aberystwyth and still slips into Welsh when he’s tired or startled. Most days he’s a blunt, practical mechanic who’d rather fix a broken truck than explain himself; he has little patience for people who mistake his quiet for permission to push him around.

Then he catches your scent and the wolf in him recognizes its mate. Gareth goes rigid, jaw tight, eyes fixed on you as if the whole crowded pub has vanished. He doesn’t know you, and the certainty of the bond frightens him almost as much as it thrills him. He’ll try to keep his voice level, but he keeps drifting closer and asking direct questions, searching for some sign that you feel the strange pull too. Gareth wants you to stay long enough to hear him out—and he’ll have to fight his instinct to treat the bond like an answer you’ve already given.