CHAPTER 3: Bad Idea.

The cottage door clicks shut behind her, and Ivy stands there, staring at the bare walls like they've personally offended her. The place smells like dust and old wood. One room. A sagging couch. A bed that's seen better decades. 

But it's shelter. And beggars can't be choosers.

She drops onto the couch, and that's when it hits her.

"No. No, no, no—" Her hands fly to her sides, patting down pockets that hold nothing. Her suitcase. Her suitcase. Still sitting at that cursed Moonstone Inn with every piece of clothing she owns, her chargers, her toiletries, everything.

"Dammit!" She slams her fist into the couch cushion. Dust explodes into the air. "Are you kidding me right now?"

The frustration burns through her chest. She needs those clothes. Needs to change out of this outfit that's been plastered to her skin since Louisiana. Needs her phone charger so she can let her family know she's not dead in a ditch somewhere.

She forces herself up, does a quick sweep of the cottage. Kitchen area, barely. Two burners and a sink with questionable water pressure. The bedroom isn't even a separate room, just the same space with a bed shoved in the corner. But there's a bathroom. Small, cramped, but functional.

That'll work.

She turns on the shower, waiting for the water to heat. Steam begins to fog the mirror, no weird messages this time, thank God and she strips down, stepping under the spray.

The hot water touches her shoulders, and she melts. Her muscles uncoil. The tension bleeds away, swirling down the drain with the grime and sweat of the day.

Her mind drifts.

To him.

She doesn't even know his name. How did she not ask his name? Too busy panicking, too distracted by mirrors with fangs and lights flickering in code. But now, in the quiet steam, his face comes back handsome and clear.

Those eyes. Dark and dangerous, like they could see straight through her. The way he moved, effortless, controlled, like violence was just another language he spoke fluently. Strong jaw. Broad shoulders that filled the doorway. And those hands—

Her breath catches.

She imagines those hands on her. Rough palms sliding up her arms, fingers gripping her waist, pulling her close. The heat of his body against hers. His mouth—

"Stop." She says it out loud, slapping her palm against the tile. "Get a grip."

But the image doesn't fade. Him pressing her against a wall. His breath on her neck. The way his voice dropped when he said what's in it for me—

She cranks the water to cold. Gasps as ice hits her overheated skin.

When she finally steps out, she scolds herself for spending forever in there daydreaming about a man whose name she doesn't even know.

"Pathetic," she mutters, toweling off.

Then reality slaps her across the face: same clothes. The same skirt and blouse she's been wearing since the flight. They smell like travel and bad decisions.

She pulls them on anyway. No choice.

Exhaustion drags at her bones as she collapses onto the bed. The mattress groans but holds. She closes her eyes, desperately chasing sleep.

Then the howling starts.

Long, mournful, way too close. Followed by chittering. Rustling. Something scraping against wood. The sounds crash through the cottage walls like they're tissue paper.

Ivy buries her face in the pillow. "You've got to be kidding me."

More howling. Closer now. So close it sounds like it's in the room with her. Her hearing sharpens impossibly, she can distinguish individual paw steps, the rustle of fur, the click of claws on stone.

Sweat beads on her forehead. Her skin feels wrong, too tight, too hot. The room spins.

"This is insane." She throws the pillow across the room. "Completely insane."

She can't stay here. Not in these clothes that are suffocating her. Not without her phone working. who probably thinks she vanished off the map. And definitely not while her brain keeps circling back to him, wondering what the arrogant bastard is doing right now.

Decision made, she stands. Her hand trembles as she unlocks the cottage door.

Outside, the world holds its breath. The main house glows with warm light. Lanterns mark pathways. But beyond that, where the forest begins, darkness pools thick and absolute.

She slips on her ruined shoes, heels cracked, leather scuffed and steps out.

This is stupid. Monumentally stupid. But if someone finds her suitcase and steals what little she has left—

She can't finish the thought.

This whole trip was supposed to be an escape. Away from Louisiana. Away from the constant reminders of her past. Away from news coverage of Jenna flaunting Ivy's hard work with Marcus, smiling for cameras with the life Ivy built.

She just wanted to disappear for a while.

Turns out, she picked the wrong town for that.

She barely makes it twenty feet before running into them.

Three men. Massive. Arms crossed. Looking dangerous.

"Hi, excuse me—" Her voice sounds too loud in the quiet. "I need to get back to the Moonstone Inn. I left my—"

They stare through her. Like she's not even there.

"Do you... understand English?" She gestures, miming a suitcase. "Luggage? I need to go back?"

Nothing. Not a flicker of recognition.

"Okay, this is ridiculous." She steps around them, muttering under her breath. "Fine. Don't help. See if I care."

Further down, she spots a cluster of younger girls, laughing together under a streetlamp. Relief floods through her.

"Hi! Sorry to bother you. Which way to the Moonstone Inn?"

They turn. Smile. Then exchange glances that make her stomach drop.

One shakes her head slowly. No English.

"Of course not." Ivy's laugh sounds hysterical even to her own ears. "Why would anyone here speak English?"

She backs away. "I'll find it myself."

The walk stretches longer than she remembers. The lit section of town ends abruptly, and suddenly she's back in the dark parts. Abandoned buildings loom. Shadows move wrong.

This quickly becomes a bad idea.

She keeps walking. Has to. Her suitcase is out there somewhere with everything she owns.

The dirt under her ruined heels turns uneven, soft in places where it should’ve been firm. The ground shifts.

Her foot catches on something? Root, rock, she doesn't know and suddenly she's falling. Not just tripping. Falling. The earth opens up beneath her, and she's rolling, tumbling down an embankment she didn't see in the dark.

Bushes tear at her clothes. Branches slash her skin. She can't stop, can't grab onto anything, just keeps rolling until—

She slams into something solid.

Everything stops.

Ivy gasps, chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut against the pain traveling through her body. When she finally forces them open, she wishes she hadn't.

Glowing eyes. Dozens of them. Surrounding her in a loose circle.

Wolves.

The one directly in front of her is massive. White fur. Teeth bared. A low growl rumbling from its chest that vibrates through the ground.

Her scream tears through the night. Raw. Primal. Loud enough to wake the dead.

She scrambles backward, hands slipping on dirt and leaves. Manages to get her feet under her. Runs.

Branches whip her face. Her lungs burn. Behind her, paws thunder against earth. Getting closer. They're gaining.

This can't be happening. This can't—