Chapter One: The Burden of Breakfast
The first lie we tell the humans is that we don't exist. The second, and more insidious lie, is the one we tell ourselves: that the Moon Goddess is fair.
She isn't. She's arbitrary, and her judgment is final.
In the world of the supernatural—the wolves, the witches, the vampires that flit in the shadows—the werewolf shift at age sixteen is the rite of passage. It is the agonizing, glorious breaking of bones and stretching of skin that turns a fragile teenager into a powerhouse of instinct and muscle. It's what defines you.
I know the biology by heart: the first shift is the worst. Bones shatter, rebuild. The skin tears to make way for the coat. The primal, animalistic craving for the moon's light takes over. After that, it's painless, an easy slip between forms.
Or so I'm told. Because two years ago, on my sixteenth birthday, when the rest of the Shadow Creek Pack gathered, breath held tight with anticipation for the Beta's daughter, the agony came, but the wolf didn't.
My body fought, my chest burned, and then, with a whimper, it stopped. The pain subsided, leaving me exactly as I was: Ember Thorne, 5'4" of disappointing, scentless, unshifted human flesh.
The shift in my status was faster and more complete than any wolf's transformation. In that single, silent night, the Beta-elect's daughter became an Omega—a slave, a punching bag, a walking embodiment of the pack's weakness.
I live in the Pack House's laundry room now. Not the basement with the rats, but the laundry room, which smells perpetually of stale sweat, bleach, and my own fear. It's an upgrade only because it has a drain.
I sneak out to the river only after the final patrol has passed. The cold water is my confessional. It washes away the grime, yes, but mostly it washes away the phantom touch of Alpha Gareth's fist or the sting of a wet cloth snapped by his pathetic warrior cronies. I imagine the current pulling me out of the forest, away from the territory, into a world where a non-shifter can simply be a person, not a stain. I never swim far. I know, logically, I have no idea how to survive on my own. Everything I know—everyone I love, or who might love me—is here.
The hidden bruises, mostly on my torso and back, are what keep me humble. They are Gareth's reminders. He prefers places the eye doesn't immediately catch, maintaining the illusion of a "disciplined" pack.
The only reprieve is my twin, Elias. He's a Warrior now, strong and built, with the same deep, worried brown eyes as me. When he goes out on patrols or supply runs, he brings back a secret shirt, a few packets of dehydrated food, or even a stolen tube of antiseptic cream. If not for Elias, I'd be dead from infection or starvation. He is my single remaining thread to sanity.
Right now, I am standing over the industrial-sized stainless-steel stove, preparing breakfast. Scrambled eggs, thick-cut bacon, blueberry pancakes, and a mountain of toast—the Alpha doesn't settle for less. My apron is tied so tightly around my waist it's almost painful, but it hides the worn-out tunic I've had for six months. I save the 'nice' clothes Elias gives me for nights.
The air in the kitchen, usually thick with the rich scent of cooking food and a background hum of wolf musk, suddenly thinned, turning metallic and sharp.
Alpha presence.
I instinctively bowed my head, stirring the eggs faster.
"Omega."
Alpha Gareth's voice was a low growl, like stones grinding. I didn't need to look up to see his tall, imposing shadow fall over the countertop.
"Yes, Alpha," I replied, my voice thin and colorless.
"The Blackwood Pack Alpha is arriving today, earlier than anticipated. They travel with haste," he sneered, clearly annoyed by the imposition. "His contingent will be here for breakfast. Everything must be flawless. And a fresh batch of sourdough rolls, not that stiff nonsense you made yesterday."
My heart sank. The Blackwood Pack. They were notoriously powerful, known for their strict hierarchy and—infamously—their brutal Alpha. Alpha Kael Blackwood. The thought of him sent an uncomfortable chill down my spine that had nothing to do with the kitchen's refrigeration unit.
"Yes, Alpha. I will prepare the rolls now." I turned to the pantry.
"And Ember," he added, his voice dropping to a dangerous softness. I knew that tone. "When you serve, keep your head down. Do not breathe on them. We cannot afford the insult of having a Silver Moon warrior smell the stain of our failure."
I flinched, but only internally. "Understood, Alpha."
I was kneading the sourdough starter, focusing on the rhythmic punch of my knuckles into the elastic dough, when the room erupted. The kitchen door burst open, and Elias rushed in, smelling of pine and adrenaline, his brow furrowed with concern.
"Ember! The Blackwood convoy is crossing the east boundary now. You have ten minutes. Get the uniform change I left for you—the one with the longer sleeves—and put this on." He shoved a heavy silver locket into my hand. It was beautiful but strange, engraved with swirling, unrecognizable runes.
"What is this? I can't wear jewelry, Elias. Gareth will notice." I whispered, trying to push it back.
"He won't, I swear. It's not ordinary silver. Just put it on, under your clothes, and don't take it off. It masks..." He paused, searching for the right word. "...It masks you. It makes you less noticeable to a powerful scent-hound like Blackwood."
He gripped my shoulders, his eyes desperate. "Kael Blackwood is not like Gareth, Em. He's lethal. If he senses your condition, he won't be petty; he'll be clinical. He'll eliminate you as a liability."
"But why are they here? I thought it was just a border Alpha."
"No," Elias's voice was strained. "It's a full alliance negotiation. Kael Blackwood is a monster, but he keeps his word. I need you to survive this breakfast. Ten minutes, go." He pushed me towards the utility closet.
I scrambled into the laundry room, shoved on a clean, grey servant dress that covered me from neck to ankle, and hastily clipped the rune locket around my neck, tucking it beneath the fabric. It was cold against my skin, oddly comforting.
By the time I returned, the dining hall was alive with a terrifying, formal energy.
Twenty wolves, massive and intimidating, sat at the long table, dressed in formal leathers and dark clothes. They radiated an aura of supreme power that made my knees lock. But my eyes went straight to the head of the table.
He wasn't sitting; he was standing, leaning against the back of his chair, arms crossed over a chest so broad it looked capable of snapping the spine of a smaller wolf.
Alpha Kael Blackwood.
He was every terrifying rumor brought to life. He was tall—easily 6'5"—with hair so dark it swallowed the light and features so sharp they looked sculpted from granite. The air around him shimmered with suppressed power, the kind that didn't need to be displayed to be understood.
As I approached the table with a tray of fresh bacon, keeping my gaze locked on the tablecloth, a sudden, almost physical force slammed into me. It wasn't Kael's power, but something deeper, a jolt that went straight to my core. The bacon grease sizzled, and I nearly dropped the heavy tray.
I flinched, my eyes snapping up just for a second, to locate the danger.
And I looked right into his eyes.
They were a piercing, crystalline silver—the color of the moon's light on fresh snow. Not the common golds or ambers of most wolves, but a rare, breathtaking, terrifying silver.
The moment my eyes met his, the noise in the dining hall vanished. The scent of food disappeared. There was only a roar of silence in my ears, and a frantic, impossible pull in my chest. It felt like being suddenly tethered to a supernova.
Kael Blackwood's expression didn't change—no surprise, no smile, no recognition. But his silver eyes narrowed. Not in rage, but in assessment. They trailed down my body—the dress, the apron, the trembling hand—and then back up to my face. The sheer intensity was suffocating.
Then, his head tilted ever so slightly, and the low, dangerous rumble of a primal growl—a sound that shook the glass on the table—escaped his chest, a sound meant only for me.
He knew. Despite the locket, despite my lack of scent, despite my very nature, he knew who I was to him.
He was looking at his mate.
And his mate was the pack's worthless human Omega.
I watched, paralyzed, as a flicker of something ancient and terrifying—a possessiveness that transcended reason or status—lit his silver eyes. He didn't look displeased, or disgusted, or even surprised. He looked like a wolf who had found a legendary, impossible treasure.
He took a single, slow step around the table, his eyes never leaving mine. The noise in the room was coming back, confused whispers growing louder.
He stopped right in front of me, leaning down until I could feel the heat radiating off his massive body.
"The bacon is burned, Omega," he said, his voice a low, throaty rasp, but the meaning in his eyes was crystal clear: You belong to me.
I finally managed to wrench my gaze away, bowing my head so deeply my chin touched my chest, my heart hammering against the silver locket beneath the fabric.
"My apologies, Alpha," I choked out, a cold terror washing over me. He couldn't be. Not him. Not the monster.
I waited for the rejection. For the scorn. For the public humiliation.
But all I heard was the scrape of his chair as he finally sat down, and the low command he addressed to his own Beta.
"Bring the pack Physician. We have an unexpected complication."