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The wolf had given up on the idea of a mate, of a partner that shared his every hope and desire, long before he had met the boy.
The boy that smelled of a sky with rain on the horizon, of the woods when it is lush and full, and a slight chemical undertone that made the wolf want to whine when it had first hit his nose.
The wolf does not need a mate, but he still follows this boy, this boy that looks like prey but runs into challenges like he is the predator. He watches as the boy gives loyalty, strength, and blood to those unworthy of such gifts and gains nothing back but ridicule.
So, the wolf - after observing what a good Beta this boy is, how resilient, how perfect - shows how such loyalty should be repaid.
With every creature analyzed, he praises the intelligence that brings them there. For every brazen word to a Hunter or other foe that tries to tear them apart, he protects those the boy holds most dear. For all the blood spilt - both of the creatures they fight and the boy’s own - he holds and cares for the boy as he heals, as he deals with what he has become.
Mine, the wolf says, with claws and hands and lips.
Yes, the boy says, his own hands reaching back, his own lips curled into a grin that would do any wolf proud.
As you are mine.