The Breaking Point
Harry was done.
He had tolerated a lot in his life. He had been beaten, betrayed, and nearly killed more times than he could count.
But when Scott McCall lunged at him, claws extended, eyes burning red—something in him snapped.
He didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
He let Scott come at him.
And when Scott's claws raked through thin air—when his attack was deflected by an invisible force—everyone felt the shift.
The air crackled. Magic pulsed.
Harry tilted his head, green eyes glowing with something ancient, something dangerous.
"You done?" he asked, voice flat, unimpressed.
Scott growled.
Harry sighed. "Alright then."
And then he moved.
One second Scott was standing. The next, he was flat on his back, pinned to the pavement by something he couldn't see, couldn't fight.
Harry crouched beside him, expression cold. "You don't like me. I don't care. But if you ever try that again, I'll make sure you regret it."
Then, just as quickly as it had come, the pressure vanished.
Harry stood, brushed himself off, and walked away.
And behind him, the pack watched, protective instincts flaring, the realization settling in.
Harry wasn't just theirs to protect.
He was theirs, period.
And Peter?
Peter just smiled.
This was going to be fun.