Chapter 5

[Sera]

Six days since I threw his money back in his face. Six days of pulling double shifts, dodging my landlord's texts, and pretending the mark on my neck is just a really committed hickey that refuses to fade. It's darker now. Deeper red, the edges threading out like roots digging in. I stopped looking in mirrors three days ago. Denial is cheaper than therapy.

Riley slides a fresh mug of black coffee across the counter, the good stuff she saves for when I look like roadkill. "You look like death. Again."

"Charming." I wipe down the steam wand without meeting her eyes. The café's dead tonight. Full moon has the wolves tucked away doing whatever primal nonsense they do. Howling, shifting, eating their feelings. For me it's just another Tuesday. "I'm fine."

"You've said that fourteen times this week. I counted."

I almost smile. Almost. "Fifteen now."

The grinder hums behind me, steady and familiar. Busy is good. Busy means I don't think about gold eyes or whispered promises or the way he looked at me that morning like I was something he needed to scrub off his record.

My phone buzzes in my apron pocket. Calendar reminder. Payment due: The Hollow. $800.

Right. That.

The debt's been my shadow since I was twelve. Mom and Dad's hospital bills, insurance gaps, money borrowed from people who don't ask how old you are, just whether you can pay. Eleven years of interest piling on interest. The principal hasn't budged. I've got six hundred in my account. Two hundred short. Again.

They'll come. They always do.

---

 

I clock out at nine, shoulders aching, the mark on my neck throbbing in time with my pulse. The walk home is the same as always: three blocks past the closed pawn shop, past the corner where the streetlight stutters on and off like it can't decide whether to die. My apartment building smells like mildew and someone's burnt dinner the second I push through the front door. The elevator's been "temporarily out of service" since before I moved in, so I take the stairs. My sneakers squeak on the concrete.

Third floor. Keys already in my hand. Almost home.

"Miss Winters."

I freeze mid-step.

Two men wait by my door. The shorter one has slicked-back hair and a smile that belongs on a used-car salesman who knows the odometer's been rolled back. The tall one is just… tall. Built like a refrigerator that's learned how to hold a grudge. No smiles from him. Just quiet menace.

"Gentlemen." I don't move closer. "Little late for a house call."

Slick spreads his hands like we're old pals. "The Hollow appreciates punctual clients, Miss Winters. You've been… less than punctual lately."

"I have four days until the due date."

"Consider this a courtesy visit." His smile widens, all teeth. "Confirming your address. Making sure you haven't… relocated."

The threat lands exactly where he wants it. I keep my face blank, but my stomach twists.

"Still here. Still broke. I'll have the money by Friday."

"Eight hundred." He tilts his head. "In full."

"I know what I owe."

"Do you?" He takes another step. The tall one mirrors him, boxing me against the stairwell railing. "Because our records show a pattern. Late payments. Excuses. A young woman living alone, no pack protection, no family…"

His eyes drop to my neck.

My hand flies up too late. The scarf must've shifted when I tensed. The mark is right there, angry red against my skin, impossible to miss.

Something changes in his face. The business mask slips, replaced by something oily and pleased.

"Well, well." He leans in, nostrils flaring. "Someone's been busy."

I step back. Hit the railing.

"Marked," he says, almost to himself. "But no Alpha scent. No claim." His grin turns ugly. "Used and tossed. That's rough, sweetheart."

"Back off."

"No wonder you can't pay." He's enjoying this now, voice dripping fake sympathy. "Thought you could spread your legs for some Alpha and make your problems disappear? How'd that work out?"

The tall one laughs, low and thick, like something clogged in a drain.

Heat floods my face. Not embarrassment. Rage. Sharp and clean and welcome.

"Funny, I don't remember hiring you as my life coach." The words come out sharp, precise. "What's the matter, business slow? Have to terrorize orphan girls to hit your quota?"

Silence.

Slick's smile dies. His eyes go flat, reptilian.

"Hold her."

The tall one moves faster than he should. His hand clamps around my throat, slamming me into the wall. My skull cracks against concrete. Stars burst behind my eyes. Pain flares hot and bright.

"Mouthy little bitch." Slick cracks his neck like we're still discussing the weather. "We came here to confirm an address. That's all. But since you want to play…"

His fingers brush the collar of my shirt, grazing the mark. I thrash. Kick. My heel connects with the tall one's shin. He grunts but doesn't let go. Slick laughs, soft and ugly.

"Relax. We're just going to—"

The window at the end of the hallway explodes.

Glass rains down in a glittering shower. A shape hurtles through the frame, massive, black, moving so fast it's a blur of shadow and fury.

The tall one releases me. Turns.

The wolf slams into him like a wall of concrete. The impact is sickening, the thug's body cracking against the opposite wall so hard the sound echoes down the hallway. He doesn't get up.

Slick scrambles backward, hands raised. "Wait—wait, we didn't know she was—"

The wolf rounds on him. In the dim hallway light I finally see it clearly.

Huge. Black fur sleek and rippling over powerful muscle. And its eyes—

Gold. Pure molten gold, burning in the darkness.

Not looking at Slick. Looking at me.

Slick bolts. Footsteps thunder down the stairs. A door slams somewhere below.

The wolf doesn't chase. It stands there, chest heaving, those impossible eyes fixed on my face.

I should run. Every survival instinct I own is screaming it. A wolf this size could tear me apart before I drew another breath.

But I can't move. Can't look away.

It steps closer. Slow. Deliberate. Not predatory, almost cautious, like I'm the one who might bolt.

I press back against the wall. "Stay back."

It stops. A low sound rumbles from its chest. Not a growl. Something softer. Almost… pained.

Then it moves again, closing the distance, and before I can react its massive head presses against my neck. Right where the mark is.

Heat floods through me. The mark pulses, a rhythm I feel in my teeth, my fingertips, the base of my skull. The wolf exhales, a shuddering breath that sounds less animal than human, and nuzzles deeper, desperate, reverent.

A whine escapes its throat. Low. Broken. Nothing like the predator that just put a man through a wall.

My hand moves without permission. Touches coarse fur. Feels the tremor running through its massive frame.

And then I hear it. A voice in my head—not my thoughts, something older, deeper—pressing against my consciousness like a tide I can't hold back.

A single word.

Mate.