We Are Not Prey

Laney woke to emptiness.

The bed was cold beside her. The dent where two bodies had pressed close was now nothing but a memory of heat. She lay still, blinking at the ceiling washed in golden sunlight, her mind foggy from too little sleep and too much sensation.

Every inch of her body thrummed.

Muscles sore—the kind of ache that came after being taken, again and again, until she'd forgotten her own name and remembered it only when they'd whispered it against her skin.

It was the good kind of soreness. Like after an intensely gratifying run. Intimate. Deep.

Her thighs shook when she shifted to stand, raw nerves sparking memories of hands, mouths, teeth. Her lips tingled, swollen. Between her legs, she felt slick, sensitive, marked in ways no one else had ever dared.

What we did…

She blushed at the memory, warmth blooming across her cheeks as it replayed in quiet, vivid detail.

She covered her mouth, trying to hide her smile, to suppress the soft giggle threatening to escape. All the stories her sisters had whispered about their mating nights—breathless, dramatic, full of heat and chaos—this was different.

This was better.

And it was hers.

She would never share it. Not the way River touched her. Not the way Cade looked at her. Not the quiet, consuming intimacy of it.

Some things weren't meant for stories.

Some things belonged only to her… and her mates.

She should be panicking.

She should feel shame.

Her father's voice echoed in her mind: You're not like them, Laney. You're better than this.

But she didn't feel shame.

She felt… right.

Full. Satisfied in a way she'd never known. As if something broken inside her had finally snapped back into place.

Claimed.

The word settled over her like a second skin.

Whole.

She rolled onto her side and buried her face in the pillow beside her, breathing deep.

The scent was everywhere—on the sheets, on her skin, in the air. Cedar and smoke. Leather and sweat. Something wild and masculine, sharp-edged and soft all at once.

Cade's scent struck first: ozone and metal, like lightning right before a summer storm. His hands had been sure, his mouth hungry, his growl in her ear a promise and a threat.

River's lingered underneath, slower, richer—earth after rain, grounding, deep. His teeth had sunk into her throat, gentle and not, leaving bruises that bloomed purple-black.

Both of them.

On her.

In her.

Mine, something whispered in the back of her head.

Ours came another voice—rougher, darker.

Laney's pulse stuttered. She remembered Cade's hands pinning hers above her head, River's breath warm on her neck. Words—mine, ours—blurred together, branded into her skin.

She sat up slowly, wincing at the ache, and blinked against the brilliance spilling through the windows.

The room looked wrecked.

Sheets tangled. One pillow on the floor, another pressed against the headboard as if someone had tried to muffle a sound. Sunlight painted everything gold, dust motes spinning in the air like tiny sparks.

She was alone.

The absence pressed in on her like a second ache. The twins—gone. No warm bodies, no rumble of laughter, no weight pinning her down.

But there was sound outside.

Voices.

Low, sharp-edged. Not quite angry, but dangerous. Instinct prickled at the base of her skull. The kind of conversation people had before bad things happened.

She strained to catch words, but they blurred together—too quiet, too far.

Shit.

She'd ignored every warning last night. Her father had left three voicemails and then sent texts: "Where are you?" "Come home."

She'd turned her phone off and let herself be consumed by River and Cade.

She'd chosen them.

There would be no going back.

Not Korr. Not duty, not safety, not the future she was supposed to want.

A spike of fear cut through the afterglow, cold and clean.

She'd crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed. There would be consequences. There always were.

Laney swung her legs off the bed and stood, wincing at the pull of sore muscles. Her reflection caught her eye—a flash of movement in the mirror across the room.

She froze.

Faint bruises marked her skin—across her breasts, her arms, her thighs—soft purples blooming like deliberate reminders. Not careless violence, but marks made with intention. Cade's mouth. River's teeth.

Her lips looked bitten, hair a wild snarl. Her skin glowed, flushed pink and gold, and her eyes glittered in the morning light.

She looked… different.

Like someone who belonged to herself for the first time.

Anyone who saw her would know.

"Good," she whispered, voice rough and strange.

Satisfaction burned in her chest—fierce, bright, defiant.

Let them see.

Let Korr see. Let her father see what she'd become.

She would have to go back.

No.

The word wasn't a thought. It came from deeper—low, sharp, edged with something that felt almost like a growl.

Her breath hitched.

What was that?

She went still, listening.

Nothing.

Just her pulse. Her breath.

You don't have a wolf, she reminded herself.

And yet…

Something inside her shifted.

She moved through the room, gathering her clothes from the chaos of the night before.

Jeans, crumpled on the rug. Tank top, half under the bed. Leather jacket, slung over the chair. She dressed quickly, hands shaking—not from fear, but anticipation.

Her boots waited by the door. She shoved her feet in, yanked the laces tight. Her phone blinked at her from the nightstand, screen dark, silent now.

She left it.

She was almost at the door when voices spiked outside—louder, sharper.

Then a third voice joined them, slicing through the air.

Cold. Smooth.

A voice she'd heard in nightmares and at every family dinner. The voice of power and ownership.

Korr.

"I smell her," he said, voice low. "She's near. Inside."

A beat.

"Find her."

His tone hardened.

"We're taking her back."

A pause, then quieter, more dangerous:

"And this time… we finish the ceremony."

Her stomach dropped.

Blood turned to ice in her veins. She pressed her back to the wall, heart hammering. She could hear every word now—Korr's tone controlled, almost gentle, but underneath was steel.

She was not supposed to be here. She was not supposed to be with them.

She was property. A bargaining chip. Promised.

Not anymore.

A rush of adrenaline surged through her—hot, wild, consuming.

The marks on her throat burned in her memory—proof of what she'd chosen.

River's hands.

Cade's mouth.

The way they'd looked at her after… like she was something rare. Something worth keeping.

Mates.

The word hit harder this time.

Louder.

Sharper.

MATES.

She sucked in a breath.

"What—?"

The voice wasn't a thought.

It was inside her.

Raw. Fierce.

Human, it snapped. You have to shift.

Her heart stuttered. "What? Who—?"

Get it together, the voice growled, impatient now. You shift, or we're screwed.

Her pulse roared in her ears.

"I don't— I can't—"

You can, it cuts in, absolutely.

Or you will lose them. We are not prey. We are claimed. We claim them too.

Cold fear slid down her spine.

We will never see our mates again.

Her breath hitched.

"Stop—who are you?"

A pause.

Then, quieter. Deadlier.

Certain.

Trust me.

I'm your wolf.

She would not run. Not this time.

Let them come. Let Korr come.

She was not afraid. Not anymore.

She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and opened the door.

Sunlight blinded her—

—and then the heat hit.

Violent. Consuming.

Her body locked.

Shift.

Her wolf's voice roared inside her—

—and her bones began to crack.