The Howl Behind the Glass

Charlie didn't sleep.

Every time she closed her eyes, her wolf twitched beneath her skin — restless, pacing, hackles raised. Her instincts kept replaying Matthew's words like an annoying song she couldn't turn off.

There's another shapeshifter in the city. One who kills.

And I think it's hunting you.

Her heartbeat wouldn't settle. Even the shadows in her apartment felt intrusive, edging too close, leaning in like they meant to listen.

By sunrise, she gave up and brewed the strongest coffee her cheap machine could withstand before exploding. She took her mug to the window and stared out at the waking city — buses hissing, neon signs flickering off, a stray cat leaping from one dumpster to another like the world's least graceful ninja.

Nothing unusual.

Which, for Charlie, was suspicious.

She ran a hand over her hair and breathed in deep.

Metal. Rain. Asphalt.

And—

She froze.

Forest.

Not literal forest — not pine needles or moss — but that subtle, unmistakable scent only wolves carried. Earth-rich. Moon-warm. Fur-soft.

But this wasn't her scent.

Or Matthew's.

This was darker, heavier, threaded with cold iron and blood.

Charlie's wolf let out a tremor of warning.

She set her coffee down and grabbed her jacket.

If something was watching her, she'd rather meet it head-on than wait for it to break into her apartment like some creep with a silver fetish.

The city felt too sharp that morning — edges too loud, corners too bright. Charlie walked quickly, keeping to the smaller streets until the buildings thinned and the roads grew older, cracked, and moss-lined. Beyond them, the forest loomed in a rolling wall of dark green.

Wolves ruled this place.

All wolves.

Even if Charlie herself didn't belong to any pack.

She lifted her chin and stepped beneath the first tree.

Her senses expanded in every direction. Leaves whispered. Soil shifted. A fox darted through underbrush. A bird took flight somewhere overhead.

And then—

A howl rolled across the forest, low and resonant.

Not a threat.

A summons.

Charlie's wolf shivered with instinctive response, and she grit her teeth.

"No," she muttered at herself. "We're not doing the dramatic moon-calling thing today."

Another howl answered. Closer.

And then — footsteps. Light, deliberate, approaching from her right.

Charlie turned, ready to fight, shift, or bolt depending on who emerged.

When he stepped into view, her brain short-circuited for a full two seconds.

He was tall. Ridiculously so — like someone had taken the concept of "alpha male" and stretched it until it was six-foot-four with shoulders built to intimidate and cheekbones sharp enough to violate at least three municipal codes. His hair was dark, slightly too long, half-tamed in a way that said he could look civilized if he tried but absolutely chose not to.

His eyes, though—

Gold.

Not the soft golden-brown of normal humans, not Matthew's uncanny silver, but actual molten gold that caught morning light and held it like a secret.

A wolf.

A powerful one.

He stepped closer. "Charlotte Renard."

Charlie's stomach dropped. No one called her that. Not unless they wanted their throat ripped out.

"Charlie," she corrected, narrowing her eyes. "Who the hell are you?"

He didn't smile. But something in his gaze sharpened with interest, like she'd just passed the first test.

"I am Lysander Voss."

The forest seemed to lower its voice around them.

Charlie blinked slowly. "The Lysander Voss? Alpha of the Hollow Grove pack?"

"So they say."

"And you're... here. Why?"

"I heard you enter my forest," he said simply. "I came to greet you."

Charlie snorted. "What, like a welcome wagon? You got cookies too?"

A flicker — not a smile, not quite — tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Cookies are rarely used in my negotiations."

"Negotiations?" Charlie echoed.

"Yes." Lysander stopped only a few feet away, close enough that his scent curled around her — forest, frost, old magic. "You and I have matters to discuss."

"Hard pass."

"Decline if you wish," he said, calm as moonlight. "But it will not change what you are."

Charlie stiffened. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

Lysander's eyes swept over her in a way that felt less like appraisal and more like reading a language only wolves knew.

"The prophecy," he said. "It speaks of you."

Charlie rolled her eyes so hard she saw her frontal lobe. "Oh fantastic. I always wanted to be the chosen one. Said no one ever."

He stepped closer, voice dipping low and dangerous.

"You should take this seriously."

"Hard to, when you're being cryptic as hell."

He studied her with that steady golden gaze. "Your form — imperfect, unstable, unbound. A wolf born of broken shape. You think it weakness."

"It's not exactly convenient," she muttered.

"It is power."

The words pressed against her like a physical weight.

"Our rites do not bind you. Our magic does not hold you. You are outside all traditions — and therefore capable of breaking them."

Charlie felt something cold travel down her spine.

Lysander continued, voice rougher now, more honest.

"You are being hunted, Charlie. By a creature my pack cannot track. Something corrupted. Something called forth."

Her breath tightened.

"What does it want with me?"

Lysander held her gaze in an unblinking, wolf-still way that made the forest seem to lean in.

"It wants to fulfill the prophecy," he said.

"One way or another."

Charlie swallowed. "Meaning?"

"Meaning," he answered, "it intends either to raise you to power..."

His eyes narrowed slightly.

"...or kill you before you can claim it."

Silence fell like frost.

Charlie's wolf pressed hard against her ribs, tense, wanting to move, wanting to run or fight or bite something.

She exhaled shakily. "Well. That's... dramatic."

Lysander's expression flickered again, the barest hint of amusement. "Destiny often is."

Suddenly a new voice echoed through the trees:

"Step away from her."

Charlie turned.

Matthew stood at the forest edge, gun holstered but hand hovering near it, eyes cold and silver-bright under the canopy.

Lysander didn't turn — but something in his stance shifted, a coiled tension like two storms meeting above the same city.

Matthew's voice sharpened. "I said step away."

Lysander's tone was soft. "This does not concern you, hunter."

"Everything in this forest concerns me."

Charlie groaned under her breath. "Oh fantastic. Testosterone at dawn. This is exactly what I wanted."

Both men ignored her.

Matthew moved closer, boots sinking quietly into moss. "Charlie, step back from him."

Lysander finally looked away from her — and straight at Matthew.

The air between the two charged like a storm gathering its first bolt.

"She is under my protection," Lysander said.

Matthew's jaw locked. "Not anymore."

Charlie raised both hands. "Okay, nope. Absolutely not. I am not a magical football for you two to punt across territorial lines."

Neither man moved.

"Great," she muttered. "This is my life now. I'm the bone in a werewolf tug-of-war."

Lysander's gold eyes flicked back to her, softer.

Matthew's silver eyes stayed hard but worried.

And Charlie suddenly realized —

Whatever hunted her...

whatever the prophecy meant...

whatever this forest planned for her...

She wasn't getting out of it.

Not without choosing a side.

Or making her own.