2

Zoey

By the time Sasha presses my spine back into place, the pain has already dulled into something distant and humming, like it belongs to another body entirely. Her fingers are warm and unyielding as they work along my ribs, precise in the way only someone who has broken and fixed the same bodies for decades can be.

“Drink,” she orders, shoving a chipped ceramic mug into my hands before I can argue.

The liquid inside is dark and steaming, the smell sharp enough to make my eyes water. I wrinkle my nose but obey, swallowing before my instincts can talk me out of it. The taste is bitter and earthy, like bark soaked in smoke, and it burns all the way down my throat.

“What is that?” I ask once the cup is empty, staring at the stained bottom like it might reveal its secrets if I glare hard enough.

Sasha chuckles as she takes it from me, already moving to rinse it out. “Pain duller. Muscle relaxer. Something to keep you from biting me if I have to reset anything again.” She casts me a sideways look. “You didn’t complain once, so it’s working.”

I roll my shoulders experimentally, surprised when nothing screams back at me. My ribs feel tight but solid, my breathing smooth instead of jagged. There’s a strange lightness in my limbs, like my body is floating half a step behind my thoughts.

“I feel incredible,” I admit, flexing my fingers. “Like I could nap for a week and wake up reborn.”

“That’s the herbs talking,” she replies dryly. “Don’t get any ideas.”

I snort and lean back against the table. “If I start requesting this tea recreationally, pretend you don’t know me.”

Her mouth twitches, but the humor fades quickly. She opens her mouth like she’s about to say something—something careful, probably meant to soften the edges of my morning—when the phone behind the counter rings.

The sound cuts through the room sharply.

Sasha answers with her professional voice, cheerful and smooth, but I see the shift immediately. Her shoulders tense. Her eyes flick to me, then away again, like she’s already bracing for the fallout.

“Yes,” she says after a pause. “She’s here. I’ll send her over right away.”

She hangs up slowly, not meeting my gaze.

“It’s him,” I say quietly, already pushing off the table. The tea has me moving before my thoughts catch up. “The alpha.”

Sasha nods once, concern etched deep into the lines of her face. “He wants to see you immediately.”

“I know.” I straighten my shirt and reach for my jacket. “He always does.”

She sighs. “You’ll be fully healed by nightfall,” she says, as if that’s meant to help. “Just… keep your head down.”

I lift a hand in thanks and step back outside, the sun already high enough to bake the dust into the street. The town stretches out around me, frozen somewhere between history and now, like it never quite decided which era it wanted to survive in.

Once, this place belonged to humans.

Factories, schools, shops, homes. People with schedules and coffee cups and plans for the future. Then something went wrong. Disease, sabotage, magic—no one ever tells the story the same way twice. What matters is that almost everyone died, and the rest fled. When the pack arrived, the town was already hollowed out, waiting.

We buried the bodies. We claimed the buildings. We filled the streets with wolves instead of people.

The alpha took the biggest house on the hill, a stone monstrosity with balconies and iron gates that overlook everything below. The beta took the second-largest. That’s where I grew up, until the year I turned eighteen and still couldn’t shift. After that, there were long meetings behind closed doors and quiet decisions made for my own good.

Now I live somewhere smaller. Quieter. Easier to ignore.

The guards at the gate barely glance at me as I approach, their expressions twisted with faint amusement. One of them snorts under his breath, but neither bothers to stop me. Why would they? I’m not a threat to anyone.

Inside, the mansion smells like old wood and authority. I’m shown into the alpha’s study without ceremony.

He’s already there, bent over a wide table covered in maps and marked boundaries, his dark hair streaked with gray that wasn’t there a decade ago. Power clings to him like a second skin, heavy enough that I feel it in my bones.

“Come in, Zoey,” he says without looking up. “Your parents will be here shortly.”

My stomach tightens.

“Is something wrong?” I ask, my voice steady despite the prickle crawling up my spine. “Did I do something?”

He finally looks up, waving a dismissive hand. “No. Sit. This isn’t about discipline.”

I remain standing anyway.

“I heard about training,” he continues, eyes sharp and assessing. “Reagan said you took another beating.”

“That’s one way to put it,” I reply.

His mouth thins. “And still nothing? No sign of your wolf?”

“No,” I say quietly. “Nothing.”

He exhales through his nose, irritation bleeding through the restraint. “With your healing affinity, you’d be a valuable asset in a fight. But only if you can keep up.”

“Alpha,” I say carefully, the tea making my thoughts feel slightly unmoored. “I thought my role was meant to be with the children. Healing. Teaching. Supporting.”

“That was before circumstances changed,” he replies coldly. “And it’s irrelevant if you can’t fully access your power.”

The door opens behind me.

My parents enter together, my mother’s face carefully neutral, my father’s expression carved from stone. For a brief second, my mother’s eyes soften when they land on me, but the moment passes before I can be sure it was real.

The alpha gestures for them to sit, then addresses the room as more elders file in, taking their seats around the table. The air thickens with dominance, with barely restrained violence, with the certainty that decisions made here will ripple outward whether I’m ready or not.

“I won’t waste your time,” the alpha begins. “The witches are moving.”

A low murmur sweeps through the council.

“They’re already clashing with the Silver Shadow Pack near the western border,” he continues. “Connor believes he can hold them for now, but their power has increased significantly.”

“They’re that close?” my father asks sharply.

“Yes,” the alpha replies. “And closer than they’ve been in years.”

Silence falls heavy and dangerous.

“If they start claiming land like they did before,” one of the elders growls, “they won’t stop.”

“Exactly,” the alpha says. “That’s why the surrounding packs are mobilizing. They’ll be joining us here within days.”

My mother’s eyes gleam, her lips curving into something almost eager. “War,” she murmurs.

The word hangs in the air, electric and intoxicating.

The room fills with dark excitement, voices overlapping as they talk of blood and borders, of tearing witches apart before they can regroup. I stand frozen near the wall, the tea in my veins making everything feel surreal and too loud.

They’re hungry for it.

For violence. For purpose.

And I can’t stop thinking about what happens to those who can’t fight when war comes knocking.

No one looks at me as the meeting intensifies, but I feel it anyway. The unspoken truth pressing down on my chest.

If the witches reach our borders, survival won’t care that I never found my wolf.

And neither will my pack.