Im just a girl

the limo, she nor Sophie called for but showed on the solstice night climbed the winding, mist-choked road of the Blackwood estate, the engine straining against the incline. Beside her, Sophie was a nervous flutter of blue silk and excited gasps. Anna, however, felt like she was heading toward the gallows.

She looked down at her hands, encased in delicate black lace gloves. Beneath the emerald silk of her dress, her skin felt tight, the scent-masking oil she’d brewed acting like a secondary, invisible skin. It suppressed the Devonshire musk,that sharp, wild scent of pine and iron that marked her father's lineage,and dampened the electric hum of her mother's magic.

"Remember," Anna whispered as the massive stone iron gates loomed out of the fog. "We stay for two hours. We drink nothing we don't pour ourselves. And we keep our sober faces on."

“I am Anna Jameson,” She whispered thinking Sophie wouldn't hear. 

"Anna Jameson, the mysterious college girl. I got it," Sophie teased, though her voice wavered as she saw the armed sentries at the gate.

Jameson. 

The last identity her and her mother stole. The last one she clung to. Her name , as legal heir, was McKinnley. Her school ID, Jameson. Her blood….

Her wolf. 

Devonshire. 

The Devonshires were not just another pack; they were a legacy of blood and iron. If the Blackwoods were the "Royalty" of the North Carolina supernatural scene;polished, political, and wealthy,then the Devonshires were the "Warlords." Based in the rugged crags of the Appalachian border, they were known for their brutality, their massive physical size, and a primal territorialism that made them the natural, ancient enemies of the Blackwood line.

Anna’s father had been a high-ranking Devonshire Enforcer, a man whose very scent was designed to intimidate. She had never met him. She didn't even want to know his name. To her, he was just "The Beast"—the man who had seduced her mother in a moment of reckless magic and primal heat, siring a child that shouldn't exist. Being a Devonshire hybrid was a death sentence from both sides: To the Warlocks: She was "Tainted Blood," a waste of a noble McKinnley lineage. To the Blackwoods: She was the "Bastard of the Enemy," a spy and an abomination that needed to be put down before the "Devonshire rot" could spread to their territory.

Anna didn't acknowledge the wolf. She ignored the way her muscles coiled with a predator’s grace and the way her ears could pick up a heartbeat from across a campus quad. She treated her father’s heritage like a malignant tumor;something to be suppressed, ignored, and eventually cut away by the McKinnley inheritance. To her, she was a Jameson. She was a student. She was a human.

But as thought of going to the Blackwood Manor, the Devonshire blood inside her began to stir. It recognized the Blackwood scent;not as a host, but as a rival. It wanted to snarl. It wanted to claim the room. It wanted to tear the throat out of every Blackwood in the building just to prove it was the superior predator.

"I am not him," she whispered to herself, her fingers digging into her palms until her nails nearly drew blood. "I am Anna Jameson. I am a ghost."

She took a deep breath, letting the scent-masking oil settle over her skin like a shroud, and mentally prepared to step into the den of her enemies.

As they approached the manor cars slowed for the first security check. Every pack has its safeguards. Every pack has its insane resident group that revels in blood and malice. Every pack had enforcers and their first test was getting past them. 

The guards didn't just check IDs; they were the pack's primary "sniffers." As the car stopped, a massive man with a jagged scar across his nose leaned into the window. He was an Enforcer, trained to detect the slightest hint of a rival pack or a magical threat.

Anna held her breath. If the oil failed now, if a single molecule of Devonshire wolf or McKinnley witch escaped, they wouldn't even make it to the front door.

The guard’s nostrils flared. He lingered on Anna, his eyes narrowing. He smelled the rain-and-cedar "perfume," a scent so clean and void of biological markers that it was almost suspicious. But to him, she just smelled like a high-end human socialite with expensive taste.

"Enjoy the Solstice, Miss Jameson," he grunted, waving them through.

Anna let out a long, slow breath. They were in.

The Great Hall

The Blackwood Manor was a masterpiece of predatory elegance. Vaulted ceilings, flickering candlelight, and floors of polished black marble that reflected the guests like a dark lake. The room was packed with the elite of the supernatural world;men in tailored tuxedos who moved with too much fluidity, and women in jewels that cost more than Anna’s entire inheritance.

At the top of the grand staircase, Killian Blackwood stood like a king overlooking his domain.

He looked bored, dismissing the sycophants around him with one-word answers, until his gaze hit the door. He saw the flash of ice-blue silk, and then he saw her.

Anna Jameson, stepped into the light. The emerald dress moved like liquid shadows around her legs, her black hair pinned up to expose the vulnerable curve of her neck.

Killian’s glass nearly shattered in his grip.

He didn't smell the thunderstorm he’d encountered in his dream. He smelled... nothing. A void. A clean, herbal mask that infuriated him. She was a ghost standing right in front of him, and the mystery of her was like a drug in his veins.

"She’s here," he murmured, his voice a predator’s purr.

He didn't care that she was a "Jameson." He didn't care that she was supposedly human. He wanted to break that mask. He wanted to see if the girl in the emerald dress would scream or bite when he finally got his hands on her.

"Sophie," Anna whispered, her eyes scanning the room for the exits as the "Pull" of the Manor began to heavy the air. "Don't let go of my hand."

But even as she said it, she felt Killian’s eyes on her. It wasn't a look; it was an anchor. The hunt had officially moved from the woods to the ballroom.