Swallowed by the Night

We drive to Tara's house, which is less "house" and more "mansion." Her dad made money in finance before returning to pack life. Omegas aren't servants anymore—just ordinary pack wolves—so Tara lives like royalty.

Her parents are away. Hawaii.

Which, in Tara's mind, means rules no longer exist.

We order pizza, spread makeup across the bathroom counter, and start the ritual of getting ready.

I'm last to shower. I'm halfway through washing my hair when Tara knocks and pushes the door open without waiting for an answer, because privacy is apparently optional in her world.

She holds up a razor like she's presenting a sacred offering.

I blink water out of my eyes. "What."

"You need to shave," she says, dead serious.

My spine stiffens. "I'm shaving my armpits. That's it."

Tara gasps like I've confessed to murder. "Catherine Evans, you cannot go out without shaving downstairs."

"Talk to my hand," I say, and close the door in her face.

June laughs so hard I nearly choke on shampoo.

I shave my armpits and my bikini line and refuse to go any further, because I'm not fifteen and Tara is not the boss of my body.

When I finally emerge, wrapped in a towel, Tara eyes me like she's taking inventory. "Is your bush gone?"

"No," I say.

She sighs dramatically. "You are impossible."

"Thank you," I reply sweetly.

Tara:

"Okay, real talk. Are we going full free spirit tonight, or are we pretending you're socially domesticated?"

I don't even look at her.

"Neither."

Tara blinks. "Neither?"

"I'm not grooming myself for anyone's expectations," I say coolly. "Real or imaginary."

Tara stares at me, then lets out a long sigh.

"I give up. Completely. Total surrender."

She turns away, muttering,

"I try to civilize one feral woman and this is the thanks I get."

June sounds deeply satisfied.

Feral is a compliment.

Makeup is next. Tara does Lizzie's hair first, curling it into soft waves that make her look older, bolder. Lizzie stares at herself in the mirror like she's meeting a new version of herself.

"Okay," Tara says, wiggling her eyebrows. "So. Tonight. Is it happening?"

Lizzie's cheeks flush. She hesitates, then nods, small but determined. "That's the plan."

My stomach tightens. "Lizzie, you don't have to do anything."

"I want to," she says, giggling. "Invisible isn't my thing anymore. And hello—I'm a wolf. I have needs."

"Oh my God, not you too. Am I seriously surrounded by sex-starved wolves?" I sigh.

Tara beams. "Yes!"

June murmurs, Careful. This is where trouble begins.

Then Tara turns to me.

My hair is dried into loose waves, a few small braids tucked back Viking-style. She adds subtle makeup—nothing heavy, just enough to make my eyes look sharper, my mouth softer.

I stare at my reflection when she steps back.

It's still me.

Just... dangerous.

Tara grins. "Seductress."

"I hate you," I mutter.

"No you don't," she replies, and points a finger at me. "Remember: no comfort zone tonight."

June's voice slides in, low and warning. Something feels off.

I pause, fingers tightening on the zipper of my bag. What do you mean?

I don't know, she says, unsettled. Just... don't let anyone control you.

A chill crawls up my spine.

Because that's always been what I despise, hasn't it?

Control.

Fate.

Bonds.

And the way one bad decision can turn into a chain.

Tara squeals from the window. "The limo is here!"

I inhale, shove my phone into my bag, and force my feet to move.

One night, I tell myself.

One stupid night.

The limousine waits outside like something unreal.

Long. Glossy. Excessive.

Tara lets out a delighted squeal the second she sees it. "Oh my God. This is actually happening."

Lizzie laughs nervously, smoothing her dress for the tenth time. "I feel like we're doing something illegal."

"Relax," Tara says, already moving toward the door. "We're just making memories."

I hesitate for half a second before stepping inside.

Leather seats. Dim lighting. A small bar stocked better than anything we could ever afford back home. The door closes behind us with a soft thud, sealing us in, and the engine hums to life.

As the limousine pulls onto the road, something shifts.

The town fades behind us.

Rules loosen.

Expectations blur.

Tara pours drinks like this is her natural habitat. Lizzie giggles, cheeks flushed, excitement radiating off her. I lean back against the seat, watching the city lights grow closer through the tinted windows.

June stirs beneath my skin, alert and curious.

We're crossing a line, she says.

I know, I answer.

But I don't stop it.

When the limousine finally rolls to a stop, bass thumps faintly through the pavement outside. People turn to look as the driver opens the door, music and light spilling out into the night.

Tara steps out first—confident, radiant, unapologetic.

Lizzie follows, shoulders back, eyes bright.

I step out last, heels hitting the ground—with irritation.

I lift my chin, straighten my spine, and walk toward the entrance like I belong there.

I curse Tara silently for dragging me out here, when I could have been home, barefoot and comfortable, enjoying a perfectly good evening on my own terms.

The doors open.

And the night swallows us whole.