MasukThe same name Lucian’s scouts had muttered. The same direction reported tracks had come from.The same place my dreams had painted with clawed trees and watching eyes.My mind jumped ahead, unhelpfully imagining what kind of Alpha would rule a pack grown out of a rogue den shaped by a witch like Elyra.Someone ruthless. Someone clever. Someone who knew exactly how power could be warped.Someone who might know where she was.Or who might be using her.I turned another page.More tales of destruction. Packs that had prospered briefly then burned, Alpha lines cut short, bloodlines cursed with madness or infertility.The sick, guilty part of me that still believed everything somehow came back to my own family wondered if Victor had ever come across this name in his endless scheming.Had he known what kind of thing he was aligning me with when he practically threw me at Lucian’s cursed feet?Probably.He would have seen an opportunity, not a warning.My lips twisted.I flipped through
*Aria*The dream clung to me like cobwebs.A woman in a broken cabin, eyes like coal. A border of clawed trees. A man at the edge of our land, dark‑haired and amused, as if he’d been waiting there for years.I woke with my heart already pounding, lungs dragging in air like I’d been running.For a moment, I didn’t know where I was.Not the old, cramped guest room my parents had shoved me into after the first time I died.Not the moonlit shrine, with its stone wolves and blood on the altar.Lucian’s room flashed across my mind instead—claw marks in the walls, broken furniture, his body half‑shifted and shaking under my hand.My ceiling met my gaze a heartbeat later: the faint crack like a crooked line, the pale light of morning seeping around the curtains.Blackmoon Manor.My room.Alive.My hand flew to my chest, palm flat against my nightgown, as if I needed to confirm it.I was breathing.I was here.And somewhere down the hall, the cursed Alpha of this pack was probably awake, t
Sleep and I were not on speaking terms.Every time I closed my eyes, the shrine flickered behind my lids.The rogue’s laugh. The flash of Victor’s cuff in the trees. Lucian’s eyes turning black around the edges, the curse crawling up his throat like shadowy veins.My own hands, glowing faintly as I grabbed his face and dragged him back from wherever the witch was trying to pull him.*You don’t want to hurt me. Not this time.*The words haunted me as much as the images did.I lay in the dark of my room, staring at the faint shape of the ceiling crack, listening to the quiet hiss and thump of the manor at night—the soft scurry of mice in the walls, a distant door closing, the low murmur of a guard changing post outside the main hall.I thought of Victor, pacing in whatever room they’d confined him to, plotting his next move.I thought of Lena, seething at being temporarily sidelined, probably already lining up some new angle.I thought of the contract clause hidden under my floorboa
By mid‑morning, the whole manor had a new favorite story.“The Luna calmed the Alpha.”“She put her hands on his face when the curse took him, and he stopped.”“They said she stood there with blood on her arm and still told Victor Hale off in front of everyone.”I heard it in fragments—servants gossiping too loud in side corridors, warriors at the pump murmuring between sips, even an elder’s apprentice whispering breathlessly to another: *“She’s not just some decorative human. Did you see the light?”*If I let it, the talk would have gone to my head.If I let it, the fear would have too.Some looked at me with awe.Some with suspicion, eyes narrowed as if they were counting how many witches they’d have to burn to get rid of me.A few looked at me with something vicious and sharp, whispering “ungrateful” under their breath like a curse.I ignored them all.Mostly.When I stepped into the main hall to fetch tea for myself rather than beckon a servant, conversation dipped for a moment, t
Morning smelled like healing salve and old smoke.I woke to a dull throb in my arm and the crack of light at the edge of my curtains. For a few disorienting seconds, I didn’t know which version of reality I’d landed in.Forest, blood moon, bones snapping—No.White ceiling. The soft weight of the mattress beneath me. A faint ache where the bandage pulled skin when I shifted.The wound from the shrine was a sharp, real, present pain.The other one—the hole my first death had punched through my soul—throbbed deeper.I rolled onto my good side and squinted at the clock.Late, by pack standards.Early, by mine.I could hear noise outside my room—feet passing, voices low and urgent. The manor was awake and restless.I pushed myself up carefully, cradling my bandaged arm against my chest.“My first proper battle scar,” I muttered. “So glamorous.”The healer had done their work well. The bandage was snug, the throbbing dulled by whatever paste they’d applied. I could still move my fingers, e
The world telescoped.The incense smoke. The terrified faces. The snarling rogues. The elder’s whispered prayers.All of it blurred around the edges.The only thing in sharp focus was Lucian.His chest heaved, and every muscle in his body drew taut as a bowstring. The light caught on the faint sheen of sweat on his throat; his shirt was torn at one shoulder where claws—rogue or his own, I couldn’t tell—had raked through fabric and skin.His eyes were wrong.The gold I’d come to recognize as his had been devoured by something darker—black flooding in from the edges, leaving a too‑bright ring in the center like a dying sun.Shadows crawled under his skin, tracing the thick line of the curse mark beneath his shirt. His lip curled, teeth lengthening, the edges of his canines glinting too sharp to be fully human.The air around him vibrated with a low growl that seemed to come from everywhere at once.My blood dripped onto the stones between us.I watched a droplet fall in slow motion—fat,







