C2

“You knew the truth the whole time, didn't you, Joxie?” Grandmother Pearl Whitlock’s voice shivers, her trembling fingers tightening around my wrists as the pale sunlight filters through the yard of the Gilbert Pack Estate.

I don't look down. My heavy, human curves anchor me to the cold earth of Whitlock Hollow, my wide hips pressed against the arm of the wicker chair while the scent of bitter pine and bruised herbal leaves clings to my skin. I am a baseline human born into a bloodline of purebred wolves, an outcast built soft and thick in a world that praises lean muscle and sharp claws.

“I heard enough to know I don't belong in the Whitlock Moon Suite anymore,” I say, my voice steady, stripped clean of any fear. “And I know Maureen Gilbert didn't come here to offer you a home in Silverpine City out of the goodness of her heart.”

Maureen spat on the dirt, her heels grinding into the dark soil where she had tossed my homebrewed tonic. Her eyes gleam with that signature amber flash of an Alpha-line female, her violet scarf fluttering over her black lace dress like a vulture’s neck-feathers.

“You hear that, Mom?” Maureen sneers, smoothing her manicured hands over her hips. “The human stray finally accepts reality. She knows she’s nothing but a mistake swapped at birth! My real daughter, Tuesday Gilbert, is back where she belongs, preparing to take her place at the Mooncrest Academy Wolf Halls. Meanwhile, this fat, scentless useless thing has been draining our pack resources for seventeen years!”

“Maureen, hold your tongue!” Pearl gasps, her chest heaving as the remaining medicine settles into her veins, forcibly slowing her erratic wolf heart. “Joxie is my blood in every way that matters! She earned first place at the Mooncrest Iron Gate trials today!”

“First place in what?” Maureen cackling, a harsh, grating bark that sets the wild crows scattering from the red clay roof of the cottage. “A human paper-writing contest? A baseline cycle race? Do not embarrass the Gilbert Pack Household, Mother! She isn't even fit to sweep the floors of the Wolf Biology Wing! If it weren't for our pack paying her tuition, she’d be scrubbing grease off the counters at Mercer’s Corner Market!”

I slowly rise from my knees, my full weight shifting onto my feet. I am taller than Maureen, built solid and heavy, and when I step into her personal space, the sheer physical mass of my human body makes her step back.

“Throw another insult at my grandmother’s heart, Maureen,” I murmur, my brown eyes locking onto her yellowing gaze, “and I won't just brew medicine next time. I’ll brew something that shuts your snout permanently.”

Maureen’s breath hitches. For a split second, her wolf instincts recoil from the cold, ruthless calm in my human eyes. But then her pride snaps back into place, her nostrils flaring as she catches my scent—plain, unshifted, baseline flesh.

“You dare threaten a pack elder’s mate?” Maureen growls, her voice dropping into a guttural command frequency meant to force low-ranking wolves to their knees. “You are a Davis by blood! Your real father is a washed-up rogue living in Hawkridge Row, and your four brothers are nothing but unshifted brawlers failing out of the local pack lands! Tomorrow, the Davis Alpha Residence sends their enforcers to haul your heavy rear end out of our territory!”

“Let them come,” I reply, my pulse remaining a flat, lazy seventy beats per minute. “I’ll be waiting on the porch.”

“Joxie, no...” Pearl whimpers, reaching out with a hand that shakes violently. “You can't go to Hawkridge Row. The Davis pack is ruthless. Their Alpha line is cruel, and without a wolf to protect you...”

“She has no choice!” Maureen snarls, snatching her phone off the wicker table. “The pack council voted. The moment the sun hits the horizon, Joxie Whitlock is stripped of her rank, her home, and her name. She leaves this estate, or the enforcers break her ankles and dump her body across the Silverpine City border!”

I don't wait to hear the rest of her screeching. I turn my back on her, walking toward the weathered wooden steps of the Whitlock Cottage. Behind me, the roar of a high-tier pack engine echoes down the Mooncrest Pack Roads as Maureen’s black luxury sedan pulls away, leaving a cloud of red dust choking the damp evening air.

I step inside the cottage. The air is thick with the smell of dried lavender, old parchment, and the lingering copper tang of my own human sweat. I pull my heavy leather travel bag from under the narrow iron bed in the Whitlock Moon Suite, unzipping it with a harsh snap.

I don't need much. Three changes of simple, thick cotton clothes that fit my wide frame, my leather-bound ledger of human medical formulas, and the small velvet case of silver-tipped needles my grandfather left me before he passed into the ancestors' mist.

A shadow falls across the threshold of my room.

I don't look up from packing. I know the scent before he even crosses the doorway—heavy iron, crushed pine needles, and the suffocating, dense pressure of a high-ranking Alpha predator.

“You pack light for someone who used to live like a pack princess,” a deep, gravelly voice rumbles from the doorway.

I finish zipping the bag and slowly turn around.

Standing in the small doorframe, his massive shoulders nearly blocking out the hallway light, is Celt Hawkridge. He is clad in the dark, heavy leather coat of the Hawkridge enforcement line, his silver-gray eyes sharp as razors as they trace the curve of my waist, the swell of my hips, and the unbothered set of my jaw.

Celt Hawkridge. The feared Enforcer Alpha of Hawkridge Row. A man whose wolf is notorious for tearing apart rogues with his bare jaws.

“I was never a princess, Hawkridge,” I say, slinging the strap of the heavy bag over my shoulder. “And you’re standing in my way.”

Celt doesn't move. He steps further into the small room, his massive frame closing the distance between us until the heat radiating off his body presses against my skin. His wolf presence rolls over me in waves, thick and oppressive, trying to force my spine to bend.

I stand my ground, my chest rising and falling in a steady, slow rhythm, my eyes meeting his without a single flinch.

“Most human females tremble when I walk into a room,” Celt murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous purr that vibrates right through the floorboards beneath my boots. “They shrink back. They try to make themselves look smaller, lighter, weaker.”

“I’m not small,” I say, my voice dropping an octave, heavy with subtext. “And I don't shrink for wild dogs.”

A dark, slow smirk spreads across Celt’s scarred lip. His eyes darken, shifting from silver to a deep, molten amber as his wolf takes interest. He reaches out, his thick, calloused fingers wrapping around the strap of my bag, tugging me one inch closer until the tips of my boots brush his heavy leather enforcer boots.

“Your father, Sterling Whitlock, signed a paper an hour ago at the Davis Alpha Residence,” Celt whispers, his thumb brushing against the exposed skin of my collarbone, leaving a trail of searing heat behind. “He was deep in debt to the Hawkridge pack council. He needed resources to keep his territory from being swallowed by the Gilbert Pack Lands.”

My heart finally skips a single, sharp beat. “What did he sign, Celt?”

Celt pulls a thick, black-waxed document from his coat pocket, slipping it into the front pocket of my travel bag right over my chest. His fingers linger there, heavy and possessive, his thumb pressing lightly into the soft flesh above my heart.

“He didn't just give up your custody, human,” Celt rumbles, his dark gaze dropping to my lips before locking back onto my eyes with lethal intensity. “He traded your baseline human bloodline to clear his ledger. As of five minutes ago, you aren't just an outcast from the Gilbert pack.”

He leans in until his hot breath brushes against the shell of my ear, his lips grazing my skin.

“You are my bonded servant, Joxie. And you're coming with me to Hawkridge Row tonight.”