Chapter 1: The Moonlit Pact

The moon hung like a cracked mirror over Blackpine Forest, its silver shards slicing through the trees to paint the mossy ground. Elara’s boots sank into the loam, each step muffled by the scent of damp earth and something sharper—pine, iron, wildness. She wrapped her white coat tighter, but the chill seeped in anyway, settling in the hollow of her throat where her pulse hammered.

In her pocket, the medical report crumpled like dead leaves. Liam Voss, 19. Lycanthropy Degeneration Stage 3. Prognosis: irreversible without lunar serum. Her brother’s face flashed behind her eyelids—gaunt, his once-brown eyes clouded with the sickly gold of a failing transformation.

A low growl rippled through the woods. Not a wolf’s. A man’s.

Elara froze. He materialized from the shadows as if woven from them, his cloak billowing like smoke. His frame blocked out the moon, and when he stepped forward, she saw the way his boots crushed twigs without effort, the way his fingers curled slightly, as if itching to claw.

“Dr. Voss.” His voice was a purr, velvet over gravel. “You brought the contract.”

She lifted her chin. The folder in her hand suddenly felt too thin, too fragile to hold the weight of what she was about to trade. “I brought terms. One year. A healthy pup. In return, Liam gets the serum.”

He tilted his head. Moonlight spilled over his hood, revealing a slash of a smile—too white, too sharp. “Bold, for a human in my territory. You’ve read the old grimoires, then? Know what happens when a Lycan marks his mate under the full moon?”

Elara’s tongue felt like sandpaper. She’d studied those texts until her eyes burned—mating bonds that rewrite DNA, cravings that turn rational minds to ash, bodies that learn to ache for a touch they once feared. “I know enough.”

The hood fell back.

Her breath hitched. His jaw was carved from obsidian, a scar snaking from his left eyebrow to his jawline like a lightning strike. Midnight hair fell in waves, shot through with a single silver streak that glinted when he moved—a Lycan alpha’s mark of power. But it was his ears that made her fingers curl into fists: pointed, tufted with black fur that stood on end, twitching at the sound of her ragged breathing.

“Enough to sign your life away?” He plucked the folder from her grasp. His fingers brushed hers, and heat seared through her skin—too hot, unnatural, like touching a live wire. “You think this is a transaction, little doctor? That you can rent your womb and walk away?”

“I think your pack hasn’t had a pureblood heir in a decade.” Elara forced the words out, though her voice trembled. “I think your kind is dying out, and you need me more than I need you.”

He laughed—a low, rumbling sound that made the trees shiver. “Clever. But you forget one thing.” He flipped open the folder, his golden eyes scanning the pages with inhuman speed. “When the moon hits its peak, the bond won’t just tie you to me. It’ll change you. Your veins will burn when I’m near. Your nose will learn to crave my scent. And when I—” he paused, letting the implication hang “—claim you, your body will sing for it. Even if your mind screams no.”

Elara thought of Liam’s hospital bed, the way his fingers had clawed at his own skin, begging for release. “I can endure pain.”

“Can you endure longing?” He closed the folder with a snap. “Blood seal. No signatures. No take-backs.” He drew a dagger from his belt, its blade etched with glowing runes that pulsed like a heartbeat. “Hold out your hand.”

Her palm shook as she stretched it toward him. The blade pricked her thumb, and a bead of blood welled up—crimson, human, fragile. He sliced his own thumb, then pressed his wound to hers.

Pain exploded up her arm. Not the sharp sting of a cut, but a molten burn, as if liquid silver were being injected into her veins. She gasped, trying to pull away, but his grip was iron. When he finally released her, a mark bloomed on her wrist: a wolf’s head, its jaws clamped around a crescent moon, the lines glowing like embers.

“The pact is sealed.” His voice was rough, almost hoarse. “Three nights. Midnight. The den.” His gaze raked over her, slow and deliberate, lingering on the curve of her collarbone where her coat gaped open. “Wear something… easier to remove.”

He vanished into the trees before she could reply, leaving only the echo of his footsteps and the scent of cedarwood—warm, masculine, dangerous—clinging to her skin.

Elara stared at the mark. It throbbed in time with her pulse, a second heartbeat. She’d bartered a year of her life for a chance to save Liam. But as she turned to leave, the wind shifted, carrying a distant howl that curled around her like a promise.

Somewhere in the dark, a wolf was calling. And for a heartbeat, she could have sworn it said her name.