CHAPTER ONE

LIORA’S POINT OF VIEW

My name is Liora Hale.

Daughter of Alaric Hale, once the powerful Beta of the Blessed Moon Pack.

Or maybe I should say was. Because that title, that blood in my veins, that entire world? It doesn’t mean a damn thing here.

Not in this place. Not where I’ve been hiding for the past five years, pretending I’m human. Pretending I belong.

I was sixteen the day my father left me.

I still remember the way his hand gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, jaw locked like he was chewing on something sharp and bitter.

Then he looked at me. Just once. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to my forehead.

“This is just for now, sweetheart,” he said, voice tight with something he wasn’t saying. “I’ll come back for you when it’s safe. I swear it.”

And then he was gone.

I stood on that broken sidewalk until the fog swallowed his taillights. I didn’t cry. Not then. I kept whispering that he had a reason. That he wouldn’t leave unless he had no choice.

I believed him and I waited.

Days blurred into weeks. Weeks crawled into months. Then the years came, thick and heavy.

Now I’m twenty one. Still here. Still waiting. Still carrying his name like a curse I’m not allowed to speak out loud.

No one knows who I really am.

Not the Dawsons, the foster family who treat me like a stray mutt they regret picking up. Not the people who pass me on the street, eyes sliding past like I’m invisible.

No one knows there's a wolf that lives under my skin.

“Liora! Don’t make me come in there!” Mrs. Dawson’s shriek knifed through the hallway, sharp as broken glass. I jumped, nearly dropping the damp work shirt I was peeling from my skin, still soaked in fryer oil and exhaustion.

“I’m here,” I called, throat raw as I forced the words out. “I just walked in.”

“Then get your ass to the kitchen. The dishes aren’t gonna clean themselves,” she snapped.

My feet were still wet from the rain, shoes tracking mud on the cheap linoleum as I headed toward the kitchen.

Inside, the sink was overflowing with crusted dishes, flies circling near the trash bin like they owned the place. Danny sprawled on the couch, a lazy grin on his face and a bag of cheese puffs in his lap.

“Damn,” he said, licking his fingers loud enough to make it feel personal. “You hear one bark from her and you come running like a scared little puppy.”

He didn’t even bother to look at me at first, just kept smearing orange dust across the remote. Then his gaze flicked up, slow and smug. “That’s right. You should be scared.”

I didn’t answer. I just kept walking, moving around the couch like he wasn’t there. He wanted a reaction. I wouldn’t give it to him.

I reached for the dish soap, the bottle sticky in my hand, when Mrs. Dawson swept in like a storm. Her robe hung half open, a cigarette dangling from her lips even though she hadn’t stubbed out the last one.

She slammed the fridge shut with enough force to make a few magnets fall. “Where’s your tip money?” she barked, already reaching out with a palm that expected to be filled.

“I didn’t make much today,” I said, turning slightly so I wasn’t boxed in. “Barely enough to cover the bus fare.”

“Bullshit.” She stepped closer, eyes narrowing like she could burn the truth out of me. “You work, you hand it over. That’s the rule.”

“I already gave you most of it yesterday,” I reminded her, trying to keep my voice even, my hands steady.

“Oh, so now you think you can decide what’s yours and what’s ours?” she snapped, taking another drag off the cigarette and blowing the smoke straight at my face.

“I earned it,” I said, quiet but firm.

The moment the words left my mouth, I knew I’d crossed a line.

Her expression turned venomous. “You little bitch,” she spat, advancing fast. “Don’t talk back to me.”

“I’m not trying to be disrespectful, I’m just..” I tried to backpedal, hands half-raised in surrender.

Smack.

Her hand caught my face hard enough to spin my head sideways. The sting lit up my cheek, hot and sharp.

I braced against the counter, breathing through clenched teeth.

“Don’t act like you’re owed something,” she snarled, standing over me with that self-righteous fury she always wore when she was drunk or bored.

“You think you’re better than us because you bring home a couple of dollars with grease on your hands? You’re nothing, Liora. Just another mouth we feed.”she mocked.

“Off my money,” I muttered, too quiet but too angry to keep it in.

Her body stiffened. “What’d you just say?” she asked, stepping in until I could smell the stale wine on her breath.

“You heard me,” I said, straightening up and looking her in the eye for the first time.

“You bitch!” she shrieked, shoving me with both hands.

I stumbled back but didn’t fall. My hands shot out, instinct taking over. I pushed her just enough to get her off me.

She slipped on the mat by the sink and landed hard on her backside, the impact echoing through the floor.

Her face twisted in rage as she screamed, “What the heck you did!”

I stood frozen, breath caught in my throat. “No. No, I didn’t mean to hurt you, Mrs. Dawson,” I said, shaking my head, trying to undo what just happened.

The front door slammed open.

Heavy boots thudded against the tile. Rick. His presence filled the house like smoke. He smelled of whiskey and sweat, stumbling forward with eyes already wild.

“What the fuck is going on?” he demanded, voice slurring.

“She pushed me!” Mrs. Dawson wailed from the floor, clinging to her robe like she was a victim on some crime show.

“I didn’t even...” I tried to explain, but I never got to finish.

His fist slammed into my jaw.

Everything flashed white. Just blinding pain and the thunder of bone on bone.

I hit the fridge hard. My back screamed in protest.

But Rick didn’t stop. He grabbed my shirt collar and threw me against the wall like I weighed nothing.

“You lay a hand on my wife again and I’ll break you, woman. You hear me?” he barked, voice shaking with rage.

“She hit me,” I managed to choke out, gasping through the ache.

He struck again, this time to my ribs. Something shifted inside, maybe a bone, maybe just my will.

My knees buckled. I slid down the wall, barely holding on.

“You think you’re something special?” he growled, leaning down, spittle hitting my face. “No wonder your parents dumped you. You are nothing but a burden!”

I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. Even as the blood trickled from my mouth, even as my body screamed for air, I just stared up at him. My lip was split, my cheek throbbed, my jaw barely moved. But I didn’t look away.

He dragged me through the house like I was nothing but trash, ignoring Mrs. Dawson’s fake sobs behind him.

The door flung open.

Cold rain lashed at my skin like it had been waiting for me. The wind howled through the porch, soaking me in seconds.

He shoved me out the door without hesitation. I hit the steps hard, scraping my palms on the concrete.

“Get the hell out. Don’t come crawling back,” he snapped before the door slammed shut behind me.

So I walked.

No bag. No coat. No plan.

Just blood on my face, a hole in my ribs, and the echo of a man who once called me his daughter whispering promises he never kept.

The streetlights blurred through the downpour. I kept moving, step by step, until I couldn’t feel my legs anymore. Everything was spinning. My breath caught. The cold was bone-deep.

Then I heard them.

Engines in the distance. The deep, growling kind that made your skin prickle.

I turned slowly, vision doubled.

Six motorcycles tore through the rain. Big black motorcycle with riders dressed head to toe in black, faces hidden behind helmets.

The front bike cut through the street and skidded to a stop right in front of me, water splashing from its tires as it braked hard.

My knees hit the pavement before I could stop them. One hand clutched my ribs, the other trembling, fingers scraped and bloody.

The rider climbed off. His shoulders were broad, frame massive even under the leather. He walked toward me, slow and deliberate.

Then he pulled off the helmet.

Dark hair clung to his forehead. Ice-blue eyes burned through the rain.

“Finally,” he said, voice low. “I found you.”

I stared up at him, lips parted, heart frozen in my chest.

It was him. Draven.