Chapter 1: The Ordinary Life of Penelope Jones

(Penny’s POV)

I’ve always thought life should come with a soundtrack. Something dramatic, maybe a low cello hum when the critical moments happen, or a swelling violin when the hero finally notices the girl. But my life? It’s more like the generic hold music you get when you call customer service, pleasant enough, but you’re just waiting for it to end.

My name is Penelope Jones. Everyone calls me Penny, probably because “Penelope” sounds like someone who owns a yacht and knows which fork to use for salad. I do not own a boat. I own approximately seven pairs of scrubs, a coffee maker that’s on its last legs, and a laptop that’s seen more werewolf smut than any piece of technology should have to endure.

I’m twenty-four. I work twelve-hour shifts on the med-surg floor at St. Mary’s General. I like the predictability of it. Take vitals, hang an IV, and chart everything twice because God forbid someone sues because you forgot to document that the patient passed gas at 14:32. I’m good at it. Patients tell me I have “kind eyes,” which is nurse-speak for “you don’t look like you’re judging me while I’m in a hospital gown with my ass hanging out.” Doctors call me reliable. My charge nurse once said I was “the human equivalent of a well-organized supply closet.” I took it as a compliment. Mostly.

The truth is, I’m invisible in the best and worst way. People see me, they just don’t see me. Guys at the coffee shop smile politely when I order my oat milk latte, then immediately turn back to their phones. The cute resident who flirted with me for three weeks last spring ghosted the second he realized I wasn’t going to sleep with him in the call room during a slow night. I didn’t even get mad. I just felt… tired. Like I’d been holding my breath for something that was never going to happen.

So I stopped holding my breath.

Instead, I started writing.

Every night after my shift, I come home, peel off the layers of hospital smell, antiseptic, sweat, the faint metallic tang of blood, and sit in my armchair with my laptop. The screen is my portal. My escape hatch. I write werewolf romances because they’re everything real life isn’t. In my books, the girl isn’t overlooked. She’s hunted. Claimed. Worshipped. The alpha doesn’t send a “wyd” text at 2 a.m. He kicks down doors, pins her to walls, and growls things like “You’re mine” in a voice that makes her knees buckle.

I know it’s cheesy. I lean into the cheese. I want the fangs and the full moons and the possessive snarls. I want the moment when the brooding hero finally snaps and kisses her like the world is ending. I want to feel wanted, even if it’s only pretend.

My current manuscript is called Moonbound Claim. The heroine is named Elara, because naming her Penelope felt too on-the-nose, like admitting I was writing self-insert fanfiction about my own lonely heart. Elara is a human who stumbles into werewolf territory and gets rescued (kidnapped, really) by Alpha Genesis. He's six-foot-four of dark hair, scarred cheek, and gray- eyes that glow when he’s angry or turned on. Which is often.

Last night I left them in a moonlit clearing. Genesis had Elara pressed against an oak tree, one massive hand braced beside her head, the other gripping her hip like she might vanish if he let go.

“You’re mine,” he snarled, breath hot against her throat. “You’ve always been mine.”

I stared at the blinking cursor for ten solid minutes, heart thumping too hard. I could almost feel the rough bark digging into my shoulder blades, the heat radiating off his body, the scrape of his canines against my pulse. I saved the document, slammed the laptop shut, and threw myself onto my bed with a groan that probably woke the tap-dancing guy upstairs.

“Why can’t real life have werewolves?” I whispered to the ceiling fan. “Just one. One decent alpha who doesn’t ghost after he finds out you like pineapple on pizza.”

My phone buzzed. Mia.

Mia: Trivia tomorrow? u in?

Me: working late. maybe next time

Mia: ur always working late or “writing ur spicy wolf books” live a little!!

Me: My wolves are living enough for both of us.

She sent back three eye-rolls and a string of hearts. Mia’s the only one who knows I write. She calls it my “sexy fursona hobby.” I call it cheaper than therapy.

—

Today was volunteer day at Jefferson Elementary. I signed up because it gets me out of the hospital for a few hours and because kids are easier to talk to than most adults. They don’t hide how they feel. They just blurt it out.

I spent the morning checking heights, weights, vision, and hearing. I gave out cartoon heart stickers and superhero Band-Aids. One little girl with pigtails told me I looked like a princess who’d gotten lost in the hospital. I told her I was more like the dragon keeping the princess safe. She giggled and hugged my leg before running off.

By the time we packed up the van, my feet were screaming and my ponytail had surrendered to gravity. I leaned against the brick wall outside the school, breathing in the sharp October air. The sun was low and golden, turning everything soft around the edges. For a second, just a second, I felt something like peace.

I drove home with the windows down, radio playing some quiet indie song about longing and highways. Back in my apartment, I kicked off my sneakers, microwaved leftover stir-fry that was probably older than it should be, and opened my laptop again.

Moonbound Claim waited for me. Elara was still against that tree. Genesis was still growling.

I chewed my lip, then typed:

But before he could seal the claim with a bite, the forest exploded with enemy howls. A war she never asked for had found her anyway.

I grinned. Plot twists are my favorite. They make the happy ending feel earned.

Around midnight the exhaustion hit like a brick. I saved the file, set the laptop on the nightstand next to my water glass, and the backpack I’d dragged to the school today. Inside: leftover supplies, alcohol swabs, a few extra Band-Aids, my compact med kit. I never leave home without it. Nurse habit.

I crawled under the covers still in my scrubs. The sheets were cool. My eyelids were heavy.

Just one more chapter tomorrow, I thought, already drifting.

Just one more escape.