Chapter 3: River's Edge

The car’s engine sputtered as Elara turned onto the dirt road, headlights cutting through a wall of fog. The river gurgled somewhere in the dark, its current a low, hungry whisper. She parked beside a rotting dock, her breath fogging the windshield, and stared at the vial in her lap. The serum glowed faintly, as if alive—but so did the mark on her wrist, throbbing in time with the distant howl of a wolf.

Liam’s dying. She grabbed her coat, the scalpel digging into her palm through the fabric. Don’t think. Just do.

The dock creaked under her boots. Mist curled around her ankles, cold as a grave, and when she looked down, the mark on her wrist cast a silver glow over the planks—a trail, she realized. It’s showing me the way.

A shadow detached itself from the trees.

Elara stiffened, fingers closing around the scalpel. But it wasn’t him. A wolf, lean and black as pitch, stood at the edge of the woods, its eyes twin embers. It bared its teeth, but didn’t attack—just watched, as if waiting for something.

“Go on.” His voice materialized behind her, making her jump. “He won’t bite. Unless I tell him to.”

Elara spun. He leaned against a tree, arms crossed, his cloak fluttering in the river breeze. The moon peeked through the clouds, catching the silver streak in his hair, and she noticed the way his jeans strained over muscles that shifted like liquid beneath his skin.

“Your guard dog?” she said, nodding at the wolf.

“Scout.” He pushed off the tree, and the wolf melted back into the woods. “He doesn’t trust humans. Can’t blame him.”

“Mutual.” She held up the vial. “Prove it works. Then I’ll follow.”

He tilted his head. “Distrust looks good on you, Dr. Voss. But time’s wasting.” He plucked the vial from her hand, uncapped it, and tossed it to the wolf. The animal caught it midair, crunched through the glass, and swallowed.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the wolf’s fur rippled—gray patches fading, eyes dimming from amber to brown—until it stood as a shaggy golden retriever, tail thumping tentatively against the ground.

Elara’s jaw dropped. “That’s… impossible. Lunar serum reverses active degeneration, not—”

“Not the full transformation?” He smiled. “Your textbooks are outdated, little doctor. My pack’s been refining the formula for centuries.” He nodded toward the woods. “Shall we?”

The path was barely a rutted trail, overgrown with thorns that snagged at her coat. The mark burned hotter with each step, a compass pulling her toward him. When he ducked under a low-hanging branch, his shoulder brushed hers, and heat erupted—not the mark this time, but something lower, warmer, coiling in her gut.

“Stop,” she said, grabbing his arm. His skin was fire under her fingers, and he froze, turning to face her. “Why me? There are other humans. Other scientists. Why choose a woman who hates your kind?”

His golden eyes searched hers, and for a second, she saw something raw there—pain, maybe, or regret. “Because you’re the only one who can carry it.”

“Carry what?”

But he pulled away, continuing down the trail. “You’ll see.”

The trees thinned, and Elara gasped.

The den wasn’t a cave, but a fortress—ancient stone walls covered in ivy, with torches flickering in iron sconces. Wolves patrolled the perimeter, their fur shifting between animal and human as they moved, but they all fell silent when he passed, heads bowing in deference.

“Your palace,” she said, voice tight.

“Prison, more like.” He pushed open a wooden door, and the scent hit her—cedar and smoke, and something sharper, coppery, like blood. “Wait here.”

Elara stepped inside, her boots clicking on stone. The room was circular, with a fire pit in the center, and walls lined with tapestries—wolves hunting under a red moon, a woman with silver eyes, a blood pact seal identical to her mark.

Her fingers traced the fabric. “Who is she?”

“Your ancestor.”

She spun. He stood in the doorway, his cloak discarded, revealing a shirt stretched tight over his chest. “Margaret Voss. 1692. The first human to bear a Lycan heir.” He nodded at the tapestry. “They burned her for it. But the bloodline stuck.”

Elara’s throat went dry. “You didn’t choose me. You knew me.”

“I knew your name.” He crossed the room, his boots silent on the stone, and the mark flared so hot she thought her skin would split. “The Voss women carry a gene. A mutation that lets our pups survive. Without it…” He trailed off, staring at the fire. “We die out in three generations.”

So this wasn’t a bargain. It was a hunt.

Elara’s hand moved to the scalpel in her pocket. “And the serum? Is that a lie too? Just bait to drag me here?”

He pulled a leather pouch from his pocket, tossing it to her. She caught it, opening it to find a vial identical to the one the wolf had swallowed—and a syringe. “Enough for a week. To prove I’m not lying.”

Her fingers trembled as she tucked it away. “A week. Then what?”

“Then you fulfill your end of the pact.” He took a step closer, and the air thickened, charged with something electric. “Or I let your brother turn. Slowly. Painfully. Like the others.”

The mark screamed, and suddenly she was pressed against the wall, his body a cage of heat and muscle. His hand wrapped around her wrist, pinning it above her head, and his thumb brushed the mark—a caress, almost gentle.

“Fear smells different on you now,” he murmured, his breath hot against her neck. “Sweeter. Like you’re starting to crave it.”

Elara bared her teeth, channeling every ounce of her brother’s stubbornness. “I crave my brother’s survival. That’s it.”

But when he leaned in, his nose brushing her jaw, the scalpel slipped from her fingers. It clattered to the floor, and in that moment, she knew—he’s right. The mark had burrowed into her, rewiring her fear into something else, something hungry.

A howl echoed through the den, long and mournful.

He pulled back, his golden eyes darkening. “The moon’s rising. Time to meet the pack.”

Elara stared at the scalpel on the floor, then at the pouch in her hand. A week, she told herself. Just a week to find a way out.

But as he led her toward a stone staircase, the mark pulsed, and for a split second, she heard a voice in her head—not hers, deep and rough and his:

There’s no way out, little doctor. Not for you.

The door slammed shut behind them, and the last of the moonlight vanished.