Chapter 7

Prue

Sweat trickled down my forehead, slipping along the bridge of my nose and tickling it annoyingly. I wiped it off with the back of my hand, already breathless and hot from sparring with Dad for what felt like an hour, at least.

He still overpowered me. Every time.

I hated that even in the werewolf world – just like the human one – males always seemed to have the advantage in brute strength. Even when the girl was faster, smarter, and ten times more determined. But male muscles always grew bigger and stronger. So unfair.

I relied on my speed and sharp observation to keep up with him, watching every twitch in his muscles, every breath, every step. I wanted to learn to anticipate his moves, counter with precision. But the smug old man had learned to fake his intentions, throwing out decoy steps, false punches, and misleading feints. Besides, sometimes it was fake, sometimes it was real – and there was no logical pattern to it. Just pure randomness. So every move he made was a puzzle wrapped in a lie.

“Again,” he ordered, stepping back and curling his fingers in a ‘come at me’ gesture.

His voice was calm. Almost bored. That only fueled my resolve to slam him onto his back in a clean takedown.

We clashed again for another fifteen minutes – dodging, grappling, circling – until frustration started bubbling hot in my chest.

So I changed the rules.

I feinted left, aimed a punch toward his cheek – classic misdirection – and at the last second, I dropped low and drove my claws into his stomach. I didn’t even fully shift, just partially – just enough to puncture through muscle and knock the air out of him.

He gasped and fell to his knees, eyes wide with pain as his wolf fought to heal the injury. But I didn’t wait. I followed up with a clean elbow to his back, knocking him flat on the ground like I was a wrestler on a pay-per-view match.

He groaned into the dirt, coughing for breath. A few seconds passed before he slowly pushed himself up, one hand still clutching his stomach.

“You cheated,” he wheezed, shaking a finger at me.

“All’s fair in love and war,” I replied innocently, flashing him a too-sweet smile. “Famous saying. Look it up.”

Inside, I was grinning like a lunatic.

Part-shifting in mid-fight? That was my thing.

I’d been obsessed with it ever since I watched Wolverine as a kid. The way he could just pop his claws out at will? Iconic. I wanted that. Badly. But my hopes were crushed when Dad told me bluntly, “No, sweetheart. Only high-rank wolves can sometimes manage something like that. And even then – rarely.”

But that didn’t stop me. Oh, no. If anything, it added fuel to the fire.

When I finally got my wolf, I dove headfirst into training, pushing limits.

First came speed-shifting – snapping between human and wolf form faster than most people could blink. I practiced until I could change forms in a split second. Snap – wolf. Snap – human.

I still remember the look on Dad’s face when I showed him. A mix of pride and disbelief.

Then came the hard part: focused part-shifting.

I started with limiting things that came first – claws, teeth and ears. Bit by bit, I taught myself how to shift only one body part at a time. And not just that – I trained to control the shift. Trigger it precisely when and where I wanted.

It took months after months. Every spare minute. Every ounce of focus I had. But after all that?

I nailed it.

Now, I could elongate a single fingernail like a blade, grow fangs in an instant, or twist my hearing to wolf-level sharpness for a few seconds at a time.

Dad was floored when he realized what I’d achieved. He told me, “I’ve never seen even Alpha wolves pull this off. Maybe once, and never with this kind of control.”

I just shrugged.

I wasn’t born an Alpha. I wasn’t a Beta. I wasn’t even close to pack royalty.

But I had grit. I had focus. And I was stubborn as hell.

And maybe that was my power.

All this self-training… it didn’t just make me stronger – it made me closer to my wolf. Like soulmates who’d grown up in the same skin. I could feel her in every breath, every heartbeat, every movement. We were in sync in a way that most shifters only dreamed of.

She was my partner. My twin flame. My other half.

And together, we were going to break every rule this world had about who could be strong – and who couldn’t.

"Okay, let’s hit the showers. That’s enough for today," Dad said, snapping me out of my trip down memory lane.

I was half-considering calling it a day myself, but the adrenaline was still humming through my veins. I wasn’t done just yet.

"I think I’m gonna go for a run,"

I said, grabbing a towel and wiping the sweat from my face. I needed to look somewhat presentable, especially since I was planning to jog around the block instead of the usual forest trail. I hadn’t explored much of the neighborhood yet, and curiosity was buzzing in the back of my mind.

Up until now, I’d stuck to the woods behind our house – mostly to scout for any rogues, passing hikers, or wandering pack members. The place seemed quiet, safe even. Barely any foreign scents. Which meant I could shift and run in wolf form without raising suspicion.

See, that’s always been our signature move: find a house on the very edge of a neighborhood – where the street ends and the forest begins.

Blending in without isolating. Never completely off the grid, but never smack in the middle of human chaos either. That’s why places like Nevada? Not even on the list. All that dust and desert and no trees to hide and shift? No, thank you.

"Alright, be careful,"

Dad said, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts – again. Was I scatterbrained today or what?

"I’m just going around the block. Human route," I clarified.

"Oh!" He raised his brows in surprise, pausing mid-sip of his water.

"Well, enjoy your jog then," he added, already heading toward the house. He seriously needed that shower – he smelled like a locker room filled with wet wolves. Male hormones… ugh. Hopefully, my mate – whoever he is – smells decent even after three hour training. That would be a must.

Mate? I backtracked on my own thoughts. Since when was I thinking about mates?

Last I checked, I’d mentally stuffed that topic into a box labeled: “Open at fourty, during expected midlife crisis.” That would be the perfect time to start considering a mate, a home, and maybe pups – assuming my mate isn't human, of course. And even if he is… well, mixed kids might be part of the deal.

I only hope my mate wouldn’t turn out to be anything like that self-obsessed, peacocking Alpha I had the pleasure of exchanging words with the other day. Arrogant posture and ego so inflated it needed its own zip code. Honestly, even a rogue would be preferable to such a pampered, title-clutching brat. What would I even do with someone like that? Trying to make that work would be like hugging a cactus – pointless and painful. Yeah, like oil and water – we’d never truly mix. Ugh. No, thanks.

Anyway, enough with the weird spirals of my imagination about my future mate. Since we didn’t mingle with other packs, I could easily go decades without ever meeting him – exactly what I was counting on.

I shook my head and started jogging toward the gate, determined to run these thoughts out of my system – literally.

As I jogged past rows of perfectly painted houses and aggressively trimmed lawns – seriously, some of these grass blades looked like they had been individually measured – I casually dialed up my superhearing and supersmell. Might as well multitask, right?

The sun was out, which meant half the neighborhood had declared it Official Barbecue Day. The air was thick with the smell of sizzling meat, roasted vegetables, and at least three different brands of cheap cologne. My mouth started to water like I hadn’t eaten in days. Maybe skipping dinner for a jog was a dumb idea. I could be at home right now, sinking my teeth into a juicy steak instead of collecting imaginary FitBit points.

Oh – family gathering alert at the house to my right. Loud chatter, loud music, louder laughter. Must be a birthday or one of those weekly family reunions where half the people don’t like each other but show up for the food anyway. I heard a toddler scream "MOMMY!" like the apocalypse had arrived, followed by the unmistakable sound of juice being spilled on someone’s shirt. Classic.

A few houses down, kids were playing tag in a front yard while a couple of tired-looking parents pretended not to notice that someone’s child was definitely eating dirt. A golden retriever barked once, then immediately gave up and laid down like, "You know what? Not worth it."

Oh, and lovely – someone’s grandparents were sitting on their porch next door. Sweet. Except... oof. The scent hit me like a warm, stale hug from a damp towel that’s been left in a gym bag. I nearly choked. Old people smell is not just a stereotype – it’s a weapon. I sent a silent prayer to the universe: Please let me die young, or at least before I reach the age where my house smells like a mix of mothballs, soup, and regret.

I strained my ears as I jogged past another house. Wait – yep. Someone’s definitely cheating on their husband. The whispers were not subtle, and neither were the pheromones. Scandalous. And it wasn’t even Sunday yet.

To my left, an immigrant family was talking animatedly in a language I couldn’t place. It wasn’t Spanish or Mandarin – those I’d heard plenty of. This one had a musical rhythm and a lot of "ch" sounds. I mentally filed it under Mysterious and Possibly Delicious and moved on.

I kept zigzagging through parallel and cross streets like a nosy superhero on neighborhood patrol. An hour passed like a blur of hedge sculptures, gnome-infested gardens, and passive-aggressive "We Love Our HOA" signs. I didn’t speak to a single soul, but with my enhanced senses, I basically knew everyone’s business. I knew who was vegan, who was faking it, whose kid was flunking math, and who had a secret stash of chocolate hidden behind the broccoli in the freezer.

Sure, the neighborhood skewed older than what we were used to – like a retirement village that hadn’t fully committed – but all in all, it was your typical slice of suburban America: peaceful, nosey, mildly dysfunctional, and smelling like charcoal and secrets.

And honestly? It felt truly comforting.