"Well, fuck." That rather eloquent statement dropped from the ragged wolf's mouth in a calm, resigned tone, as if he'd given hope long ago and this recent mistake came as no surprise. Wait, not as if—Danger HAD expected to injure at least one of his paws on the way here, and he HAD abandoned hope in a ditch somewhere about ten miles back. The fact that one of his fore-pads was bleeding profusely all over the damn place seemed completely unavoidable. Bummer. Now he had another whole exciting stretch of forest to look forward to . . . or, in his case, not look forward to. Why, might you ask? Simple: because this poor clumsy bastard was blind as bat.

One might think that the haggard creature would take his time cautiously traversing the path toward his goal, but that was not the case with Danger. No matter how assiduously he brushed his paws across the terra to search for thorns, there would always be one he missed; no matter how tightly he perked his hypersensitive ears to listen for the soft rasp of wind as it curled around trees, there would always be a branch ready to high-five his face. He couldn't account for every single hazard waiting to hurt him—so he didn't. Move on, lick up the blood, and don't be a bitch. Sounds pretty hardcore, right? Wrong. Despite his badass name, Danger was far from being a badass. The poor blind wolf had earned his name doing stupid, reckless shit that other wolves in his old pack never would have DREAMED of doing; he had been forced to adapt just to scrape by, surviving, and sometimes that meant taking risks and pulling stunts that those who were able to actually see the peril before them refused to accomplish.

Yeah. He was a BAMF by necessity—not by birth.

After somehow not dying a week ago, Danger decided it was about time to start scoping out a new pack. He was still incredibly new to this land; he barely had any knowledge on the established territories, and so had no honest clue as to the best home. Who would accept him? And even if none accepted him—who would refrain from killing him on the spot just because he insulted them with his blindness?

Danger paused on his afternoon trek, lifting his head in thought. Huh. Well, if anybody did try to murder him, he’d just run away. And hope he didn’t trip on any roots or random holes or something.

A life in eternal darkness had given Danger an uncanny grace. The long-legged gentleman moved with the surety of a sighted wolf, even as his bone-pale periwinkle eyes stared blankly onward. Those useless stargazers had earned him plenty of hateful glares he never saw; a cruel birth defect had slashed the pupils of both orbs in half, giving him an eerie, catlike gaze. Perhaps it was just because his other senses had been tuned to heightened perfection . . . or maybe it was due to Danger’s current lack of self-consciousness, his steps easy and fluid simply since he knew nobody was looking at him. Gods—shove him in front of an audience, and suddenly the daredevil became all left paws and awkwardness. What was he thinking, anyway? Why the fuck was he going to join a pack in the first place? This was all just a REALLY bad idea—he should turn around now before he embarrassed himself something awful—

“Oh.” Danger hadn’t realized he’d travelled so far. He’d practically tripped over the invisible wall of a pack. He lowered his handsome dark muzzle and sniffed at the myriad musks that intertwined in the long, soft grass. Whoops. One wrong step, and he may as well have been ripped apart by a family of angry teeth. Whining slightly, Danger perked his ears and tried to capture the sound of a nearby wolf. He prayed to the moon they wouldn’t make him howl . . . he hated calling attention to himself . . . although, by the nearly imperceptible sound of rustling coming from over yonder, Danger reckoned he had already attracted a witness. His tail drooped limply between his hind legs. “I’m not trespassing,” the male called out softly.