“So?” Jonah took a massive bite of his burger and talked around it like a savage. “You're allowed to have human friends. It's not like the Alpha outlawed interaction with the locals.”
“That's different.”
“How?”
Because human friends were safe. Human friends were temporary. Human friends couldn't see the parts of me that had teeth and claws and a hunger for things that would send them screaming into the night.
But Nate was already looking at me like he could see those parts, like his camera had captured more than just my face in whatever shot he'd taken earlier. And that was dangerous in ways I couldn't begin to explain.
“Just different,” I said, and Jonah rolled his eyes so hard I was surprised they didn't fall out of his head.
“You're an idiot,” he informed me cheerfully. “A brooding, emotionally constipated idiot who's going to die alone surrounded by his sketches and his daddy issues.”
“I don't have daddy issues.”
“Right. And I don't have a supernatural ability to smell bullshit from three counties away.”
Before I could come up with a suitable response to that—or hit him with my lunch tray—the bell rang, scattering students toward their afternoon classes. I grabbed my backpack and stood up, avoiding Jonah's knowing smirk.
“This conversation isn't over,” he called after me as I walked away.
“Yes, it is,” I muttered, but kept moving before he could argue.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of carefully maintained normalcy. Biology, where I dissected a frog with the same steady hands that could tear a deer apart in wolf form. History, where I took notes on wars that seemed insignificant compared tothe tensions brewing between rival packs. English, where Mrs. Patterson droned on about symbolism in poetry while I counted the minutes until I could escape.
Through it all, I found myself scanning hallways and classrooms, half-expecting to see copper hair and curious eyes with a camera. But Nate seemed to have vanished after lunch, probably off exploring more of Hollow Pines with that relentless documentation instinct of his.
I told myself the relief I felt was rational. Smart, even. Because every interaction with him felt like walking a tightrope between my human facade and the wolf that wanted to either protect him or run from the complications he represented.
By the time the final bell rang, my shoulders had unknotted themselves for the first time all day. I gathered my things with deliberate calm, nodded goodbye to a few classmates, and made my way toward the side exit that led toward the forest.
I foundmy usual spot in a clearing where ancient trees formed a natural circle around a patch of moss-covered ground. Pack elders called it the Moon Clearing, said it was where our ancestors had made their first pacts with the forest spirits. According to the stories passed down through generations, it was here that the original Callahan had pledged his bloodline to protect the Evernight Forest in exchange for the gift of the wolf. On nights when the moon was full, you could still see the shadows of those first wolves if you knew how to look—spectral forms running endless circles around the sacred space, honoring promises made in blood and starlight.
All I knew was that it felt like sanctuary, like the one place in the world where I could let my guard down withoutworrying about consequences. The ancient stones that marked the perimeter hummed with old magic, and even the air felt different here—thicker, charged with the weight of centuries of ritual and reverence.
I settled cross-legged on the soft moss, my back against one of the massive oaks that had witnessed more pack history than any living wolf could remember. The filtered sunlight felt warm against my skin, and for the first time all day, the tension in my shoulders began to ease.
My sketchbook materialized in my hands like magic, though I couldn't remember retrieving it from my bag. The charcoal pencil felt familiar between my fingers as I flipped to a clean page and let my hand move without conscious direction.
Lines flowed across the paper, curves and shadows that slowly resolved into a face I had no business drawing. Messy hair that caught light like spun copper. Eyes that held laughter and sadness in equal measure. A mouth that looked like it was always on the verge of saying something worth hearing.
Nate. I was drawing Nate, and I couldn't make myself stop.
The rational part of my brain—the part that sounded disturbingly like my father—pointed out that this was exactly the kind of complication I should be avoiding. Humans were temporary. Humans were fragile. Humans didn't understand the weight of pack bonds or the hunger that lived in wolf hearts, and trying to explain it usually ended in tears or restraining orders.
But my hand kept moving, adding details that I shouldn't have noticed, shouldn't have remembered with such painful clarity. The way his left eyebrow was slightly higher than his right. The small scar on his chin that suggested childhood adventures and teenage carelessness. The way he held his camera like it was both shield and weapon, something to hide behind and something to capture truth with.
“Fuck,” I whispered to the empty clearing, and tore the page from my sketchbook.
I should have crumpled it up, should have let the wind carry it away like every other mistake I'd made over the years. Instead, I found myself folding it carefully, creating precise creases that would keep the charcoal from smearing, and sliding it into the back pocket of my jeans.
Because some mistakes were worth keeping, even when you knew they'd destroy you in the end.
A howl cut through the afternoon air, low and mocking and entirely too close to the clearing for comfort. My wolf perked up, hackles rising as I recognized the voice behind the sound.
Alaric Kane. Pack asshole and my least favorite person in Hollow Pines.
He appeared at the edge of the clearing like a bad omen made flesh, already in human form and wearing his usual expression of smug superiority. He was everything an Alpha should be—confident, charming, ruthless when necessary—and he never let me forget it.
