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Marigold POV

Margaux and I?

We were twins.

Identical. Same bone structure, same face shape, same slightly-too-pointy nose that our mother pretends is “distinguished” but I know came straight from Dad’s side of the family.

But that’s where the similarities ended.

Margaux was confident. Elegant. The kind of girl who could walk into a room and have people rearranging their entire mood just to match hers. She had friends without even trying, smiled like she’d been trained by royalty, and somehow managed to make even chewing gum look like an art form.

Me? I’m Marigold. The “other twin.” The one people only remember after a mental pause. I was shy—not the adorable, soft kind of shy that boys in movies find endearing, but the awkward, stutter-over-my-own-name type. I wasn’t popular. I wasn’t charming. I was… well, I was smart, I guess, but apparently that’s less impressive when your sister is basically a walking PR campaign for herself.

And in case you think I’m exaggerating the favoritism? Oh no. Even our parents. They didn’t say it out loud, but you didn’t have to be a genius—though I am one—to notice it. Our older brothers, Alex and Hamlet, didn’t even pretend. They openly preferred Margaux, laughing louder at her jokes, letting her tag along with their friends while telling me they were “busy.”

And maybe the real kicker? I didn’t look like a Whiteland. Not really. The family was a walking shampoo commercial—blonde hair, pale skin, bright eyes, all glowing in that sunny “we’re practically Nordic royalty” way. Margaux fit the aesthetic perfectly. I was the outlier. My hair was dark—so dark it made chocolate jealous—and my eyes matched.

Was I adopted? No. Was it weird? Absolutely.

Because here’s the part people outside our world don’t get: we’re werewolves. And hair and eye color aren’t just genetics—they’re lineage. They’re power. They’re bloodline. My not-matching-the-family thing? Yeah, people noticed. They whispered.

But this isn’t some vampire romance where werewolves are hiding in the shadows. Nope. In today’s world, supernaturals live right alongside humans. We have treaties, laws, borders… all very official, all very fragile. And while we’re technically “equal,” let’s be honest—supernaturals are still at the top of the food chain. We always will be.

And my father? He’s not just a pack member. He’s the Beta of the Wolfgang Pack. Second-in-command to Alpha Thomas Wolfgang himself. Our territory is in western America—Montana, to be exact. Mountains, endless forest, and a whole lot of space for secrets.

The Wolfgang Pack has rules. The kind of rules that get branded into your life whether you like it or not. And in a pack like ours, being the Beta’s daughter comes with expectations. Expectations Margaux wears like a perfectly tailored dress. Expectations that hang on me like a borrowed coat two sizes too big.

So yeah… twins. Same face. Different worlds. And one of us was born to shine in the moonlight.

Spoiler: it wasn’t me.

Next week, Margaux and I will be turning eighteen.

Big deal, right? For humans, it means adulthood, voting, maybe legally buying wine coolers without fake IDs. For werewolves? It’s the milestone — the age when your wolf finally comes out in the open. You’re considered a full adult, ready for real Pack responsibility. And by “responsibility,” I mean you get shoved into whatever role the Pack hierarchy thinks you’re good for.

For females, that usually meant office work, pack house duties, or healer training. Anything but warriors — because apparently, goddess forbid a she-wolf uses her teeth for something other than smiling politely at the Alpha.

For males, the assignments varied. The lowest-ranked families’ sons usually ended up in Border Patrol or basic warrior duty. The ones with stronger bloodlines got better positions — Beta, Deltas, Sentinels, Scouts — basically the glamorous jobs where you got to boss everyone else around.

But still… when the Full Moon came — our birthday — I couldn’t help but hope. Hope that I’d be assigned something steady. Office work. Maybe a healer position. Even a normal corporate role in the Pack’s human-facing companies. Anything low-drama, stable, and out of the spotlight.

Margaux’s future? Oh, that was obvious to everyone. She’d be climbing the Pack ladder in record time, expected to become the next Luna. She was, after all, widely assumed to be the Fated Mate of Thunder Wolfgang — the Alpha’s golden-haired son.

Yes. His name was Thunder. Like he was a Marvel superhero. And yes, every unmated she-wolf between fifteen and twenty-five drooled over him like he was the last steak on earth.

Of course Margaux was the favorite to catch him. And why wouldn’t I be?

Me? I was just hoping for a job with a desk, a paycheck, and zero Thunder.

*****

One week later.

The Full Moon ceremony was held in the middle of the Pack’s man-made forest park — acres of towering oaks. In the center was the ceremony ground, a wide-open clearing rimmed with firelight and music.

A huge campfire blazed at the heart of it, flames licking at the night sky. Wooden benches circled it, but the Pack had gone all out this year — long banquet tables sat under canvas tents, heavy with steaming platters of barbecue, baskets of crusty bread, and pyramids of sugared sweets.

This was our birthday. December 28. The night the Moon Goddess decided whether you were ready to stand on your own four paws.

Pack law said all newly-turned eighteen-year-olds shifted together at midnight, but let’s be real — this wasn’t “Marigold and Margaux’s birthday.” This was Margaux’s coronation. She’d been groomed for it since birth, the assumed Fated Mate of Thunder Wolfgang, the Alpha’s golden-haired son, whose jawline looked like it had been carved by divine intervention and whose ego could probably knock over a tree.

The whole night was basically the Thunder and Margaux Show.

She was radiant in an icy blue gown, hair gleaming like she’d been dipped in sunlight, making the rounds like the perfect future Luna. Thunder, in all his smug glory, never strayed far from her side. Every time they looked at each other, people sighed like they were watching a live broadcast of a romance prophecy.

I stayed where I belonged — the background. People greeted me politely when I passed, but no one lingered.

Then, as the moon climbed high, the Alpha stood and called for silence. “It is time.”

We all moved to the center clearing. The music stopped. The air shifted — tense, electric. I could feel my pulse in my throat. This was it. The first shift.

I’d braced myself for pain, but when it hit — gods — it was fire and ice all at once. My bones cracked, muscles realigning, the sound sharp in my ears. Fur rippled across my skin. My breath came out as a growl.

Beside me, Margaux’s scream melted into something lighter — a triumphant howl. When I turned my head, she was already standing in her wolf form: pure white, sleek, beautiful. The crowd roared. Someone shouted her name. People were already saying “Luna” under their breath like it was decided.

I rolled my eyes so hard I swear I saw the back of my skull.

No one noticed me. Not yet.

And then, it happened.

My shift completed, and I stepped forward — or rather, my wolf did. My paws hit the ground with a weight that drew the eye. My fur wasn’t gold, or brown, or silver, or even white. It was jet black. Midnight black.

The music of Margaux’s moment faltered. People stared.

Jet black meant one thing in Pack law. Warrior. The fiercest rank. Reserved for males — for centuries.

The murmurs started immediately.

“A female?”

“That’s… impossible.”

“Not since that war…”