CHAPTER ONE : Hazel Ellis

"I’m fine, Mom," I said, balancing my phone between my shoulder and ear as I slid off my cherry-red Ducati. After hanging my helmet on the handlebars, I tucked my key into my bra and headed toward the run-down bar.

The neon sign above read “OM’S.” The letters were too faded to make out, even under the full moon, so I shifted into my wolf form. It was second nature at this point. My body remained human as I read the full name: Tommy’s.

"Get back to New York and bite Noah," my mom snapped. "The trials start next week. You know he can save your life, and—"

"And probably die trying," I cut her off, smoothing the frizz in my hot pink hair.

I wasn’t sure what city I was in, but I knew it was in Maine. Thick forests stretched for miles, soothing the wolf in me.

After checking into a sketchy motel, I was told the bar down the street had the best food, so I made my way over to satisfy my growling stomach.

I was nauseous—not from the food, but because my hot pink hair marked me as an unmated ruby wolf. Being one of the rare, natural Alphas wasn’t exactly a blessing. There were supposed to be two ruby wolves per generation, but somehow, I was the only one.

Magical trials could make a normal wolf a ruby but were deadly. Most who tried didn’t survive. My friend Noah was all in, but I wasn’t ready to risk his life.

"What do you want me to do, Hazel?" My mom’s voice was tired, and I felt it too. We had all been worn out for years. "There’s no other option."

"I don’t know," I admitted. "Maybe start planning my funeral? I could head to South America, find a rickety zipline, and hope my claws snap it while I’m having fun."

She growled. "No."

Classic Mom—always blunt. She was the most honest person I knew, and though we clashed when I was a teenager, we had grown into more of a friendship as I got older.

I sat at the bar, dropping my arms onto the counter. "I’ll call you if I do something stupid. Love you." I hung up just as the bartender came over. He was around my age—rugged, with that undeniable charm that made him a hit with every girl, whether they admitted it or not.

"Your best whiskey, on the rocks," I said, pulling my ID and cash from my bra and placing them on the counter. The bartender took a quick look at my pink hair, then my chest. While I wasn't exactly blessed in that department, a good push-up bra worked wonders.

"Coming right up," he said and walked off. I leaned back to survey the surprisingly busy bar.

It was probably a Friday evening, but it could’ve been any day. The bar was clearly the town’s go-to hangout. It was a bit run-down but had a cozy, welcoming feel that I liked.

My phone lit up. Dad. I picked it up.

"Hey, pops." I accepted my drink and took a sip. My dad was always protective, and I could tell from his tone that Mom had probably filled him in on my wild idea.

"Where are you?" he asked, his voice strained.

"I’m fine." I ignored the question, intentionally avoiding the topic of me leaving.

"Noah is ready," he began.

"I’m not," I interrupted, knowing he wouldn’t like that answer. He’d understand, though. I was my mother’s daughter, and she was his best friend.

"Come home," he said, his tone firm.

"Dad, I need time. This is my choice, and I expect you to respect that."

"I’m worried about you."

"I know, but I need space right now. I’ll come back when I’m ready." I hung up, dropping my phone on the counter and sipping my whiskey. I hated making them worry, but if Noah tried the trials and didn’t make it, I’d never forgive myself.

As I mulled over the situation, I felt eyes on me—nothing new. People stared at my pink hair, but I didn’t mind. I leaned into it, dressing in clothes that highlighted my tattoos and showed a little skin—short tops, tight skirts, fishnets—always with my motorcycle boots, just in case.

When I finished my drink, I debated leaving and heading back to my motel room to avoid its musty smell. But then the bartender brought me another drink, and I spotted a text from Olivia.

LIV: Finally snuck away, heading toward you now.

I knew Liv’s parents were likely grilling her about my disappearance. She was the only one who had access to track my phone.

I tapped my fingers on the counter, weighing my options. None of them felt right.

The door slammed behind me, but I didn’t turn. I’d lived twenty-two years without meeting anyone who was a real threat. If I ever did, I’d look forward to the challenge.

A giant of a man slid onto the barstool beside me. I glanced over at him. He was massive—easily over six and a half feet, with shoulders like a linebacker and arms covered in tattoos. His presence was almost overwhelming, and I couldn’t help but glance down at his thighs, impressed by the sheer size.

His scent was a mix of sweat and pine trees, and I found myself wanting to lean in closer for another whiff. But there was too much going on for me to indulge in that kind of distraction, especially when I was still considering my options for mating.

The guy leaned toward the bartender, practically growling his order for a bacon nacho bowl, chili fries, and a beer. As he paid, I caught a glimpse of his ID—Merrick Blake. The card moved too quickly for me to get a good look at his picture.

He downed the beer in one go, his eyes locked on the bartender as if daring anyone to interrupt his meal.