Claimed by the Wolf King of Another World

Before there were doors between worlds, there were stories.They whispered from hearth to hearth and ship to ship— of wolves that ran like midnight wind, of foxes with nine tails and nine more tricks beyond that, of fae who looked like carved moonlight and smiled like knives. Humans loved those stories—as long as they stayed in books and bedtime. The moment a story breathed, the moment a pair of eyes glinted from a tree line or a shadow stepped out of the corner of a room, humans did what humans do best when they’re afraid.They reached for fire.History will tell you that era was a fever. The old names for it vary—witch hunts, purges, “the cleansing,” depending on who had the quill—but what it looked like was simpler. Traps set with iron teeth, silver bullets lined up on clean tables, glass jars with nothing inside them except air and the memory of a scream. The first wolf fell in a farmer’s field. The first fae vanished on a road at dusk and left a bruise in the shape of a handprint

ZoeyThe first growl should have been enough. The kind that rumbles in your chest and reminds you that no matter how many documentaries you’ve binge-watched about predators, you’re still basically a meat burrito wrapped in cotton.But no, apparently my survival instincts had taken a personal day, because instead of fainting or playing dead, I ran.Branches clawed at my hoodie. My lungs burned, each breath dragging like broken glass. The mist curled around my ankles, glowing faintly in the moonlight—because yes, apparently it was night now, which was fantastic since I’d only been out hiking in the early afternoon.This place didn’t care about Earth’s clock; the light here shifted like moods—one blink of storm and suddenly the sky had decided it was moon o’clock.Behind me, paws pounded the moss. Heavy. Coordinated. Too many. Snarls snapped through the mist, sharp and wet. My brain screamed, Pack. They’re hunting you like a deer.“Great,” I wheezed between ragged breaths. “I skipped car

ZoeyWe came to a break in the trees and the world opened. Down below, a ribbon of river stitched silver in the dark. Farther, across a carpet of meadow that looked like the moon had spilled her dress, I saw spires—tall and delicate as needles, veined with light, connected by bridges that looked like threads mapped by a spider with ambition. Airships—actual airships with balloon-swollen bodies etched in runes—rode the sky like responsible balloons, slow and sure.My mouth made an O. “Okay,” I breathed. “That’s… not Kansas.”“Home,” he said.“Yours,” I said quickly, because I could feel what he was going to say and my heart couldn’t afford it.He didn’t answer out loud. Every part of him answered in the negative space. Whatever this pull was—bond, curse, cosmic prank—I hated it, resented it, felt it anyway. It tightened like a belt.The ground tilted. My breath shortened to half-sips. My legs sent emails about unionizing. He didn’t touch me. He slid two fingers under the strap at my sh

ZoeyI scooped the bundle and ducked into the stone closet. The fox-spout poured cool glow across my fingers. Soap, herb-scent, a basin that made my skin remember it existed for reasons other than fleeing. The mirror’s curve showed a version of my face from three days after a breakup. Puffy eyes. Hair in a treaty with chaos. Dirt like I’d napped in a flowerbed.“Zoey?” Kaia called, not intrusive. “If you feel dizzy, brace yourself. The den’s enchantment takes a second to decide whether you belong.”“Love that journey,” I muttered.I dressed. The tunic fell clean. The pants forgave my hips. The boots fit like they had heard good things. When I stepped out, Kaia scanned me with quick, professional eyes.“Better,” she said. “You look less like a story that got interrupted.”“Still feels like one,” I said.“It is.” She tucked my ruined clothes under her arm. “Your pack is there,” she added, nodding to a corner table. “We removed nothing.”“Thanks.” I didn’t touch it. The paperback inside

ZoeyWe found a rhythm. Milo sat on the floor and drilled the knock like a secret handshake. Jarek listened to the world with the whole line of his body. When footsteps passed—light, heavy, hesitant—he named them. “Kitchen carriers.” “Outer rotation.” “Messenger running fast.” When I guessed right, one nod—gold star.Milo tried to fix my dead phone by whistling scales at it until the screen flickered an offended gray. “See? Progress.”“It thinks you’re a flute,” I said.“It’s not wrong,” he trilled. The wall purred. My phone did not.“In Nytherra,” he added, “if you call a device a familiar, it gets ideas.”“Noted. This is not my familiar. It is a brick.”“Sturdy brick,” Jarek offered.“Tell me about you,” I blurted. “When you’re not guarding and juggling and insulting my technology?”“Gambling,” Milo said. “Stealing hearts. Occasionally bread.”“Training,” Jarek said. “Repairing what Milo breaks.”“I improve vibes,” Milo protested. “Also teach pups to howl in harmony.”“You teach the