The Pretender

Caz

(Five months later)

Sleep doesn’t come easy at night. It never does when my dreams are already waiting for me... lined up like soldiers with their boots planted at the edge of my subconscious. I stare at the ceiling, counting the faint cracks in the plaster, tracking them the way I used to track constellations as a kid. Familiar shapes and comforting lies we tell ourselves so the dark doesn’t feel so empty.

The house settles around me in its own rhythm. Somewhere down the hall, Tristan laughs softly in his sleep. He always does when he’s dreaming of Trinity. I can feel it through the bond, warm and golden, like sunlight filtered through leaves. I can also feel his desire and lust. We transmit more to each other when our defenses are down, which has me feeling like a fly on the wall in a room I don't want to be in. A third wheel to moments that I'd rather let be private. It stirs things in me... leaves me pining for a life that I fear I may never experience.

Lucky bastard.

I don’t resent him. Not really. But there’s a bitter edge to the thought that it isn't just him and I anymore...that I may never have what he has, and I wish the universe didn’t feel the need to balance his joy by loading the weight of everything else onto my shoulders.

Perhaps I am being dramatic, but I feel different. I feel like I am expected to do something important. But what? Tristan is the favored one... yet... I can't escape this overwhelming dread that life as we know it is about to change... and better or for worse... it is me that will play the biggest part in changing it. When I finally drift off to sleep...

Fire!

Ash drifts through the air like snow, clinging to my skin, my hair, and my lungs. Every breath tastes like smoke. The ground beneath my feet is blackened stone, cracked and glowing faintly at the seams, like the land is struggling to hold itself together. A circle has been carved into the earth. Salt and blood mixed so thoroughly they’ve become indistinguishable, smeared into symbols that crawl when I try to focus on them too long.

A woman stands at its center. Her hair is wild, unbound, and whipping around her face as if caught in a wind I can’t feel. Her eyes glow... not with madness... not with cruelty... but with a rage so old, it feels borrowed.... Ancient and purposeful. I knew her before I learned her name.

Kyra.

I’ve seen her before. Always at a distance. Always turned away. Always speaking to someone else or screaming into the void... or bleeding for reasons my mind refused to translate. This time, she turns. She looks straight at me. The force of her gaze hits like a physical blow, pinning me in place. I can’t move. I can’t look away. The air thickens, heavy and electric, humming with restrained power.

“You’re late,” she says.

Her voice echoes wrong, warped, and layered like it’s coming from underwater and underground at the same time. Like the land itself is speaking through her mouth.

“I don’t know how to stop it,” I say, though I don’t remember deciding to speak. The words tear out of me raw and unguarded. “I don’t even know the rules.”

She studies me the way one predator studies another, not sizing me up, but measuring whether I understand the cost of standing where I stand. Her expression softens.

“You’ve always known the rules, Cassius,” she says. “You just pretend you don’t.”

The circle flares white. Pain splits my skull, and I bolt upright in bed with a gasp that makes my throat raw. Morning light spills through the window in pale stripes, too gentle for how violently my heart is hammering. Sweat slicks my skin, already cooling, leaving me shivering despite the warmth of the room. I press a hand to my chest and force myself to breathe.

In. Out. Slow.

"Great," I groan. "Now, the witch is talking to me directly. That’s new. Love that for me."

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and freeze. There’s a mark on my wrist. Not a wound. Not exactly. Thin silver lines curl into one another, precise and deliberate, forming a symbol I don’t recognize. It’s warm beneath my fingers, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat that doesn’t belong to me. It pulses once. Just once. Then it fades, sinking into my skin like it was never there at all. It stings like an active current of electricity is coursing through my wrist, a lingering remnant of its existence.

“Okay,” I mutter to the empty room. “This is suspicious.”

Sinister snorts. "I'd say we are officially past the pretending stage. Shit is about to hit the fan."

I dress on autopilot, muscle memory taking over while my mind spirals. Cold water on my face does nothing to shake the feeling that something fundamental has shifted, that a door has been opened and politely left ajar for me to walk through... whether I want to or not.

I head to the kitchen for some much needed sustenance. Coffee. Trinity is glowing. There’s no other word for it. She's not shining, not radiant in some dramatic, mystical way... just steady and grounded. Like joy has settled into her bones and decided to stay awhile. She laughs softly at something Tristan says, her hands resting unconsciously over her stomach, and the room seems warmer for it.

My moms are already planning nurseries and naming ceremonies like the baby is arriving tomorrow instead of a few months from now. Momma C is arguing passionately about colors while Momma T pretends she doesn’t care and then immediately offers five opinions. The sound of their voices, safe and familiar wraps around me in a comforting embrace.

Tristan catches my eye across the table and grins, pride and wonder written all over his face as he pours Trinity juice like it’s a sacred duty. I am genuinely happy for him. I just wish the weight in my chest would ease enough to let me enjoy it properly.

“You look like hell,” Tristan says through the link, still smiling at his mate.

“Good morning to you too,” I shoot back. “Some of us don't have pretty mates to dream about."

“Wow,” he replies. “Someone woke up grumpy.”

I don’t answer. Instead, my gaze drifts to Momma C. She’s laughing, relaxed, and completely unaware of how close danger feels... how it seems to inch nearer every time I close my eyes. The idea of anything touching her, of history repeating itself through her pain, makes something savage coil in my chest. I won’t let it take her. Or any of them.

After breakfast, I find Jon in his office. He looks up when I knock, one eyebrow lifting like he already knows this isn’t a social visit. The door closes softly behind me, cutting off the sounds of the pack house.

“I need everything you know about Kyra,” I say. “Not rumors. Not pack gossip. Real information.”

"Why?" He asks.

At first, his expectant look bothers me. I contemplate not telling him, but then he could refuse me what I want... what I need. Then, I'd have to resort to stealing the information, which could lead to worse consequences than just being honest with him. I have no reason not to trust him. He has always been a good alpha to the pack, and like a father to me and Tristan. I have confided in him so many times before, but this time feels different. Like a burden I shouldn't share. But... Jon and Jezebel are wolves you want on your side. So, I tell him about the latest dreams and what Kyra said about the curse. I leave out the part about the mark.

Jon studies me for a long moment, his gaze sharp and weighing. Then he nods. He pulls a worn folder from his desk and slides it across to me. Inside are old reports and testimonies with symbols scrawled in the margins... some in ink, some carved deep enough to score the paper. One of them makes my stomach drop. It’s the same symbol I saw on my wrist.

“What is this symbol?" I ask, trying to sound only faintly curious.

"I'm not sure. The language written beside the symbols isn't one anyone seems to know... except witches, and getting one to translate it... well, good luck. But past alphas observed that it may be some kind of portal sigil."

"A portal?" I ask, skeptically.

"Yes. Something to do with magic transfers. But it's only a guess. For all we know, they could have been way off base with their calculations."

I let that sit for a minute before I meet his gaze. “And prophecy wolves? I sense the curse involves us.”

He exhales slowly. “I'd guess that means prophecy is either the key… or the cost.”

That familiar itch under my skin sharpens into something else. Certainty. I think of my twin, of Momma C, Grandma Shirley, and... my unborn neice.

"I will do anything I can to protect them. If Kyra needs a prophecy wolf for her curse... well, she found me,” I say quietly.

Jon doesn’t argue. He just places a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Then you’d better stop pretending you’re normal, son.”

That night, I stand at the edge of Wolvesbane territory, the forest whispering secrets I’m only beginning to understand. The air hums with quiet tension, like the world is holding its breath. My wolf stirs beneath my skin, restless and alert, pacing in tight circles that make my muscles twitch.

"How ready are you?" Sinister asks, his voice low and sharp.

"I'll be ready... I just don’t know what it wants from me yet," I reply.

He snorts, a sound full of teeth and impatience. "Liar. Our suspicions are likely correct. You just don't like the answer, so you choose denial instead."

I exhale slowly, fingers curling at my sides. “Knowing and accepting aren’t the same thing.”

"They never are," Sinister sneers. "We were not made to hide, Cassius. Hiding is for pussies. Are you a pussy, Caz?"

He loves to provoke me.

“Fuck you, Sin. You know I'm not a pussy. But I can't deny that this shit scares me. I don’t want to lose them,” I admit. “Any of them.”

There’s a pause. A rare one. "Neither do I," he says at last. "That is why we will be smart and careful. More importantly, that is why we will be ruthless," he growls. Sinister’s presence coils tighter, steady and sure. "Run if you want," he says. "It will follow."

I straighten, gaze fixed on the dark stretch of forest ahead. “I don't run.”

I don’t know how to break a curse born of blood and vengeance. I don’t know what it will cost. And I don’t know the full truth about my bloodline... about Theodore. About my moms... about myself. But I know this...

The witch saw me.

The magic marked me.

And whether I like it or not…

This story doesn’t end without me.