The first thing I notice is the silence.
Not true silence—no, this place is never truly quiet. It hums. Breathes. The walls themselves seem to shift when I turn my back, the floorboards sighing under footsteps that aren't mine. I press my palm flat against the windowpane, the glass cool and slick with condensation. Outside, the forest stretches endlessly, a sea of black under the swollen moon.
I don't know how long I've been standing here. Time moves differently now, sluggish one moment, racing the next.
A knock at the door.
"Luna."
The title still makes my skin prickle. I don't turn. "Come in."
The door creaks open, and the scent hits me before the sound—something sharp, earthy. A wolf. Reid, I think, though I haven't learned all their names yet.
"Dinner is ready," he says, voice carefully neutral. "The Alpha requests your presence."
Requests. As if Arthur has ever requested anything in his life.
I finally turn, and Reid stands there, broad-shouldered, his blond hair catching the dim light. His eyes flick over me, assessing. Not in the way men usually do—not with hunger, not with interest. More like he's measuring my pulse, the steadiness of my hands.
"Tell him I'll be down," I say.
Reid hesitates. "You should know—the others will be there."
The others. The pack. The wolves who watch me with too-bright eyes, who scent the air when I pass like they're trying to unravel me.
I swallow. "Fine."
He nods and leaves, but the weight of his presence lingers, pressing against my ribs.
The dining hall is too large, the table stretching endlessly under the glow of candlelight. Arthur sits at the head, his fingers curled around a glass of wine so dark it looks like blood. He doesn't look up when I enter, but I feel the shift in the room—the way the air tightens, the way the wolves stiffen in their seats.
"Luna," Arthur says, finally lifting his gaze.
The word isn't a greeting. It's a test.
I force myself forward, my heels clicking against the marble. The chair beside him is empty, waiting. I sit, and the moment my weight settles, the whispers begin.
"—human—"
"—the Alpha's choice—"
"—weakness—"
I grip the edge of the table, my nails biting into the wood. Arthur's hand lands on my wrist, his thumb pressing into my pulse point.
"Enough," he says, not raising his voice.
The room falls silent.
Arthur leans back, swirling his wine. "Tonight, we discuss territory. The eastern border has been breached."
A murmur ripples through the pack. A woman with silver-streaked hair—Elara, I think—tilts her head. "By whom?"
"Rogues," Arthur says. "Or scouts. It doesn't matter. They won't cross again."
The certainty in his voice sends a chill down my spine.
Dinner is served, platters of meat and bread, rich sauces that smell like iron. I pick at my food, my stomach twisting. The wolves eat with an efficiency that borders on violence, tearing into their meals with sharp teeth.
And then—
A wave of nausea hits me, sudden and brutal. My vision blurs, my lungs squeezing. Fear, thick and cloying, floods my mouth.
But it's not mine.
I gasp, my fingers clutching the tablecloth. Across the room, a young girl—barely more than a child—drops a tray, her hands shaking. An Omega. Her fear is a living thing, a serpent coiling in my chest.
Arthur's fingers dig into my thigh beneath the table. "Lily."
I blink, and the sensation fades, leaving me hollow.
"You felt that," he says, low. Not a question.
I don't answer.
His thumb strokes my skin, almost absently. "Interesting."
Later, I escape to the forest's edge. The moon is high, casting long shadows over the grass. The air smells of pine and damp earth, of something wild and untamed.
I close my eyes and listen.
Leaves rustle. A twig snaps.
I'm not alone.
"Reid," I say, without turning.
He steps from the trees, his hands in his pockets. "You shouldn't be out here alone."
"I'm not alone," I say. "You're here."
He huffs, something almost like a laugh. "You're learning."
I glance at him. "What was that? At dinner?"
"Pack sense," he says. "You felt her fear. It's rare for humans to be so sensitive."
"But I'm not just human anymore," I murmur.
Reid studies me. "No. You're not."
A howl cuts through the night, distant and mournful. My skin prickles, my blood humming in response.
Reid's gaze sharpens. "You hear them."
I do. And worse—I want to.
I press a hand to my stomach, where the baby shifts restlessly.
What are you? I think.
And deeper, darker—
What am I becoming?