Jayden

The dreams always started the same.

The sound of wolves. Snarling. Chasing. My feet pounding through the mud as branches whipped past my face. Breath ragged. Heart screaming.

And always—always—I looked back.

Wrong move.

Because that’s when I’d see them.

Eyes glowing like coals in a furnace. Men that didn’t move like men. Tall, fast, shadows with teeth. Cloaked in darkness, voices like gravel and thunder. Sometimes they'd call my name. Sometimes they didn’t need to. I knew they were coming for me.

I always woke up the same way too—choking on my breath, drenched in sweat, ribs tight like something inside me was about to split open.

Tonight was worse.

My skin burned.

Not from the dream, but something deeper. Hot. Crawling. Like I was on fire from the inside out. Like every nerve had turned traitor and decided to riot.

I kicked off the blanket tangled around my legs and I pulled off my hoodie, gasping like I was drowning on dry land.

My skin was flushed. Sensitive. The air itself felt wrong against it. Every inch of my body ached, but not the way pain normally felt. It was deeper than that. Like my muscles were starving for something I couldn’t name.

I dragged myself upright, fingers trembling. My entire body shook. My heart was racing like I’d just sprinted five blocks, and I couldn’t slow it down.

“Fuck,” I whispered.

It was happening again.

The heat.

The first time it hit was two months ago. I’d chalked it up to stress, maybe dehydration or the flu. It passed. Barely. But it came back. Worse each time. Stronger. Hotter.

And the nightmares? They were new. But they felt old. Like memories wearing someone else’s face.

Sometimes, I’d wake up with claw marks on my arms. Scratches I didn’t remember making. Sometimes I’d smell something in the wind—smoke, pine, ash—and feel like I needed to run or scream or shift. Whatever the hell that meant.

None of it made sense.

I walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. As the cold water hit me, my skin hissed in response, and it hurt.

“Fuck,” I rasped out.

After standing under the shower for a few minutes, I started feeling cold, the heat fading. I turned off the shower and dried my body with a towel. I grabbed a bathrope and climbed back into bed. I was exhausted. Everytime this happens, it drained me.

As soon as my head hit the pillows, I lost consciousness.

***

I woke up in silk sheets.

Which would’ve been nice if I hadn’t bolted upright with my pulse in my throat and my whole body on fire.

Still there. Still burning.

Worse.

I staggered out of bed, the sheets falling away like water. My skin was flushed. Breathing ragged. Every nerve wired with electricity. Like my bones were vibrating under my skin. Like something was trying to claw its way out.

I barely made it to the mirror in the corner of the bathroom.

The guy staring back looked like hell. Hair a mess, dark circles under my eyes, lips too red, pupils too wide. Sweat clung to every inch of me. My collarbone was flushed pink, like I’d run a marathon in a snowstorm.

This wasn’t a fever. This wasn’t the flu.

This was wrong.

My hand trembled as I gripped the edge of the sink. I couldn’t stop shaking. My body wasn’t just hot—it was hungry. Like every inch of me was begging for something I didn’t have a name for.

I dragged myself to the shower and stood under it, enduring the pains. I'll be fine. I just need to leave this town, and all this suffering will end.

After spending hours under the shower, the heat was finally replaced with cold. I knew my suffering had ended.

For now.

I stepped out of the bathroom and noticed it was already evening. I quickly dressed and headed to Lunaris.

The full moon hung low and smug in the sky like it knew something I didn’t.

Lunaris stood ahead of me like a goddamn temple—sleek glass, sharp edges, and that eerie, bluish glow that made it feel alive. A line of well-dressed people wrapped around the building like they were waiting for salvation. Or damnation. Same thing, really.

I pulled my hoodie tighter, palms sweaty in my jacket pockets. My reflection in the mirrored wall to my left didn’t scream “hire me.” It screamed “maybe homeless, definitely exhausted,” which was not the vibe for the hottest nightclub in Nocturne City. But I wasn’t here to blend in. I was here to survive.

And apparently, this was where fate wanted me.

The bouncer didn’t even blink. One look at my ID—a fake, but a good one—and he stepped aside like I was on the guest list.

Weird.

The doors opened, and Lunaris swallowed me whole.

Inside was like walking into another universe.

The air shimmered with something thick and unnameable—smoke, pheromones, magic? Who knew. The music hit first: bass-heavy, bone-deep. It vibrated through my chest like a second heartbeat. People danced like their bodies weren’t their own. High-end businessmen, influencer types, even a few faces I recognized from local news or tabloids. Suits tailored tighter than my entire life, eyes glowing faintly—some gold, some silver, some deep crimson.

Not all of them were human. I could feel it. And yet… none of them seemed to notice me. Like I was invisible. A shadow at the edge of a dream.

I had heard rumors that we were leaving with some spiritual beings but I refused to believe it but somehow my dreams keep hinting that it might be true afterall.

I moved through the crowd, dodging dancers and servers with trays of champagne flutes that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. My stomach growled again. I ignored it. I’d eaten once this week, which was yesterday. That was enough. I had no money too.

My eyes locked on the bar—long, black marble, glowing from underneath like it had a pulse. The bartender looked bored, wiping a glass that was already spotless. Slicked-back hair, piercings, tattoos curling up his neck.

I cleared my throat. “Hey. I’m here for the job. Saw the ad.”

He glanced up. Eyes sharp. Not bored anymore.

“You’re late,” he said. His voice was deep. Smooth, like jazz in an alley.

“I didn’t realize there was a time.”

He smirked. “There’s always a time.”

Then he nodded toward the VIP staircase in the back. “Ask for Lucien. He’s the manager. If he doesn’t like you, you’re out.”

Simple enough.

I nodded, already walking. Every step felt like a test. My boots echoed off the sleek floors as I made my way up, past velvet ropes and guarded doors. Security didn’t stop me. No one asked questions.

The second floor was quieter. Colder. VIP lounges glowed like forbidden fruit behind tinted glass. I caught glimpses—someone licking something red off a crystal rim, another laughing too wide with canines too long.

Definitely not human.

I swallowed hard.

At the end of the hall stood a man in all black. Tall. Graceful. Dressed like he stepped out of a vampire fashion spread. White-blond hair. Piercing silver eyes.

Lucien.

He looked me over, slow and deliberate. Like he was assessing whether I was prey or just trash.

“And you are?” he asked.

I blinked. “My name is Jayden Hart, and I'm here to apply for a job. I saw the ad.”

He turned. “Follow me.”

Cool. Cryptic.

We moved down another hall, this one darker. Soundproofed. The air got heavier, like it knew we were getting close to something important.

Lucien stopped in front of a tall, double door made of blackened wood. He knocked and stepped in.

“Come in,” he said.

So, I went in.

And everything changed.

Zane Ryker wasn’t what I expected.

He was worse.

He stood by the window, one hand in the pocket of a sleek black suit, the other holding a glass of something amber. His back was to me, city lights spilling around him like he owned them. No. Like he was the light, and the city just borrowed it.

Then he turned.

And my heart nearly stopped.

I’d seen his face a hundred times—billboards, screens, magazine covers. But nothing prepared me for the real thing. Up close, Zane Ryker was art carved into a man. Sharp cheekbones, a mouth that looked like it had never smiled without a body count, eyes that burned like honey laced with gasoline.

And the moment he looked at me, everything inside me froze.

His nostrils flared. Slight. Subtle. Like an animal catching a scent on the wind.

His pupils dilated.

His grip on the glass tightened, and for a second—just a second—I thought he might shatter it.

“You,” he said, voice low and… different. Almost confused. Almost angry.

I blinked. “Me?”

Lucien looked between us. He raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s new.”

Zane didn’t answer. He was staring at me like I’d just crawled out of a grave he’d buried a hundred years ago.

Then he stepped closer.

Something primal slithered through the air. It wrapped around me, warm and electric, like static before a storm.

And then—I felt it.

A ripple. A tug. Deep in my chest. Like a string being pulled tight.

My breath caught.

“What the hell,” I muttered.

Zane stopped just short of me, so close I could smell his cologne—dark wood, smoke, and something sharp underneath. His eyes scanned me, like he was seeing more than what I was. Like he could see through me.

“You’re an omega,” he said.

I blinked. “I’m a what?”