# Chapter One
The pills were still on the nightstand when I woke up.
Both of them. Untouched. Which ant I’d fallen asleep before taking them, which ant the double dose I’d been counting on since Tuesday wasn’t in my system, which ant the fire crawling up my spine at six in the morning on my twenty-first birthday was no one’s fault but mine.
Happy birthday to .
I lay there for exactly thirty seconds staring at the ceiling. Seven cracks. Three water stains. That one dark patch in the corner I’d decided months ago was mold because the alternative kept up at night. I’d morized all of it during the first week in this cabin the way you morize exits — automatically, just in case.
Thirty seconds. Then I turned my head and slled the air and sat up so fast the room tilted.
I knew that scent.
I’d spent three years making sure nobody else ever would.
It was coming off my own skin.
Here’s the thing about suppressant pills — they work right up until the mont your body decides it’s been patient long enough. No warning. No gradual fade. Just three years of careful, quiet nothing and then one missed dose on the wrong night and your biology introduces itself to the world whether you’re ready or not.
I was not ready.
I pulled clothes on with hands that wouldn’t quite cooperate, shoved my feet into boots, and went straight for the loose floorboard under the bed. The go-bag was where it always was — cash, fake ID, three burner phones still in packaging, a month of pills in a zip-lock that were absolutely useless to now but ca anyway because I’d packed that bag so many tis my hands did it without asking my brain.
I didn’t look around the cabin before I left. Nothing in it was mine in any way that mattered.
The door creaked on the way out. Of course it did.
Cold hit first. March morning, frost still on the ground, breath coming out in small clouds that dissolved before they got anywhere. The Ironwood settlent was just waking up — boots on gravel, the clang of the outdoor kitchen, Marta’s particular shuffle-drag-shuffle crossing the yard sowhere to my left.
Normal sounds. Sounds I’d spent eight months learning to find comfort in.
Sothing moved through them when I stepped outside.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just — Marta’s shuffle stopped for half a beat. The crack of the wood-splitter across the yard went quiet for one swing and then resud. Two won talking near the kitchen dropped their voices a full register without finishing their sentence.
Wolves, catching sothing on the air.
I didn’t look at any of them. Eyes forward, pace even, the particular walk of soone who is absolutely not running but has done the math on how fast running would actually be. The tree line was forty feet away. Then thirty. Then twenty.
Then Garrett’s voice hit from behind like a hand on the shoulder.
"Selene."
Twenty feet. Fifteen.
"Selene." Closer now, and sothing in the way he said my na had shifted — dropped into that lower register that ant his wolf had caught sothing and was paying attention. "What are you—"
"Morning, Garrett." I kept moving. "Early start today."
"Stop walking."
Ten feet to the tree line.
I stopped.
Not because I wanted to. Because he was an alpha and I was a rogue using his land and stopping was the difference between a conversation and a situation, and I needed this to be a conversation.
I turned around.
He was closer than his voice had suggested. Twenty feet back, standing where the gravel t the dirt, morning light coming over his shoulder and his eyes already doing the thing — that faint ring of amber bleeding into the iris, his wolf surfacing without him calling it up.
Eight months I’d lived in this settlent. Eight months of weekly tributes and keeping my head down and being exactly as unremarkable as possible.
He had never looked at like that.
Like I was sothing he wanted to put a hand on before he’d finished deciding what I was.
"You sll different," he said slowly. Working it out as he went.
"New soap."
"That’s not soap." One step toward . Then another. His nostrils pulled a long, deliberate breath. "What are you, Selene? Because right now you don’t sll like any rogue I’ve ever—"
The howl split the morning open from the eastern border.
High. Urgent. The specific pitch that every wolf in the settlent understood without being taught — strangers in the territory, everyone pay attention right now. Garrett’s head snapped east before the sentence finished leaving his mouth. Alpha first, questions second. He couldn’t help it.
Two seconds. Maybe three.
I used every one of them.
I turned and I ran and I didn’t look back and the settlent erupted behind — Garrett’s voice barking orders, boots on gravel, the controlled chaos of a pack mobilizing for a border breach.
It took longer than it should have to understand that the breach at the border and the fire in my blood and the timing of all of it weren’t separate problems.
They were the sa problem.
Sothing had co for .
And it had co on the one morning I’d given it the easiest possible opening.
I ran faster and the trees swallowed whole and the cold air against my overheated skin did absolutely nothing useful, and sowhere behind the settlent I’d spent eight months becoming invisible in was already forgetting I’d ever been there.
That part, at least, I’d planned for.
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