I couldn’t move. My mind screamed run, but my body locked.
Oh my God. This is it.
I’m going to be murdered by a werewolf. All because I agreed to fake-date my ex-boyfriend.
This is how I die? Seriously?
Not skydiving. Not falling off a rooftop bar after too many espresso martinis. Not even choking on a novelty doughnut. No. I was about to become werewolf kibble in a town that didn’t even have decent Wi-Fi.
I was supposed to be living the New York City dream. Power blazer. Midtown office. Overpriced sushi and a therapist who said things like “let’s unpack that.”
Instead, I was going to die in the woods behind a diner. Fantastic.
Jason stepped in front of me.
“Don’t you dare touch her,” he said.
His voice dropped into something low and raw.
“She’s my mate.”
His body shifted in a blur. Fur. Claws. Heat. He stood taller, broader, snapping into form with a growl that shook the leaves around us. He placed himself between me and Ophelia and bared his teeth.
Ophelia’s lips pulled back in what might have been a grin. She raised one paw and bopped him on the nose. Then she shifted back—just like that—back to a linen blazer, sensible shoes, and a calm smile.
“Well,” she said, smoothing her collar. “You passed.”
Jason blinked. “What the hell was that?”
“A test,” she said. “Werewolves always shift to protect their mate. I had to be sure this wasn’t some fake-dating nonsense. Looks like it’s real.”
I dropped to the grass and let out a long breath. Jason stayed in wolf form a moment longer before shifting back, confused and still breathing hard.
Aunt Ophelia looked between us. “I’m hungry,” she said. “Let’s get some food.”
She turned and headed back toward the diner like none of it had happened. Jason looked at me. I looked at him.
We followed. Neither of us said a word.
EMILY
The next day, steam clung to my skin as I stepped out of the bathroom, towel knotted around my hair. I padded down the hallway in socked feet, the floor cool against my soles. The scent of lavender shampoo followed me.
I pushed open my bedroom door and grabbed the hoodie off the back of the chair. My hair dripped onto the collar as I pulled it on, the damp fabric clinging to my arms.
Then my laptop chimed.
I glanced at the screen out of habit. One subject line stood out like it had been written in neon:
In-House Marketing Manager Opportunity – Starts Next Week.
Marla. I hadn’t heard from her in almost a year. We’d worked together in Manhattan, back when my life had a direction. Or at least, a schedule. She was now with one of the biggest cosmetics brands in the industry. Glossy campaigns. Six-figure budgets. Award submissions with gold foil seals.
And now she wanted me.
The job was clear. In-house marketing manager. Full-time. A real desk. A real team. A salary that didn’t make me cringe. Stability. Recognition.
This was the kind of opportunity I used to dream about when I couldn’t sleep. The kind of thing I worked for, networked for, and poured hours into just to be considered.
