Chapter 1 - Caelan
I haven’t slept in days.
Not because of nightmares or worry or any of the things that used to keep Llewelyn women staring at their ceilings until dawn. I can’t sleep because I don’t want to miss a single second of being awake. Every moment feels precious now; every sensation is a gift I refuse to waste on something as boring as unconsciousness.
The guest room at Sera and Reeyan’s house is comfortable enough. There are soft sheets, a thick mattress, and a window that looks out over the Grayhide territory’s rugged landscape. Eight months ago, I would have appreciated it in that distant, detached way Llewelyn women appreciated everything, like a mental acknowledgment of quality without any real feeling behind it.
Now the sheets feel like silk against my bare legs. The mattress cradles my body, making me want to sink deeper and deeper until I disappear into the softness. And the view through that window makes my heart glow with something I’ve learned is called wonder.
I kick the covers off and sit up. My wolf is pacing inside me; she’s just as restless as I am, and we’ve been like this since the curse broke. Since my sister looked at a Grayhide historian, said some words in front of a Hysopp witch, and shattered three hundred years of magical suppression that turned our entire pack into emotional ghosts.
Sera saved us. Every single one of us.
I owe her everything. Which is why I feel a little guilty about what I’m planning to do tonight.
From somewhere down the hall, I hear the sound of a door closing. Sera and Reeyan are retiring to their bedroom for the night. I wait another twenty minutes, counting the seconds in my head, before I swing my legs over the side of the bed and reach for my clothes.
The dress I packed is nothing special by most standards, a simple black fabric that follows my curves and stops just above my knees. It has a low neckline and no sleeves. Back home in Llewelyn territory, I never would have worn something like this. My mother would call it too revealing. Too attention-seeking. My father wouldn’t say anything at all. He never did, even before the curse broke. Jordan Thornwick has always been a man of silences, more comfortable with distance than conversation.
I pull it over my head and brush it down over my hips. The fabric stretches across my belly and my thighs in a way that would have mortified me before the curse broke. I have my mother’s build; I’m soft and round in all the places Llewelyn women are supposed to be lean and angular. Growing up, I learned to hide my body under loose clothing and countless layers.
Now I look at my reflection in the dark window and feel almost giddy at what I see. This body is mine. These curves are mine. And tonight, I want someone to appreciate them.
I slip my feet into the heels I borrowed from Sera’s closet—she’ll never notice they’re missing—and ease open the guest room door. The hallway is dark and quiet. There are no sounds from my sister’s room at the end of the hall. I tiptoe past, holding my breath, and make it to the front door without incident.
The night wraps around me the moment I step outside, cool and quiet and full of possibility.
Grayhide territory looks nothing like home. Where Llewelyn has ice and snow and muted forests that stretch for miles, Grayhide has desert scrub and red rock formations and a sky so big it makes me feel tiny. I love it. I love how different it is. It’s like an alien world, all mine for exploring.
The tavern I overheard the locals talking about is a twenty-minute walk from Sera’s house. I could have borrowed a car, but then someone might notice it missing. Better to go on foot and leave no evidence of my little adventure, save my scent.
The Rusty Fang sits at the edge of the main township, far enough from the pack hall that the leadership rarely visits and close enough to the border that it attracts travelers from other territories. It’s the kind of place where people go to forget their problems. The kind of place where a Llewelyn woman can disappear for a few hours without anyone asking questions.
I make my way through the front door, and the noise hits me in the chest. Music is pounding from speakers in the corner, voices are raised in conversation and argument and laughter, and there’s the sound of clattering glasses and the scrape of chairs against wooden floors. It’s loud and crowded. It’s absolutely perfect.
The bar runs along the entire left wall, and it’s packed with people jostling for the bartender’s attention. Tables fill the rest of the space, and most of them are occupied by groups of two or three. A few couples sway together on a small dance floor near the back.
I dodge through the crowd and find an empty stool at the bar. The bartender—a tall woman with short gray hair and a scar across her chin—takes one look at me and raises an eyebrow.
“You lost, sweetheart?”
“I hope not.” I slide onto the stool and flash her my brightest smile. “Whiskey, please. Whatever’s your best.”
She eyes me for another moment, probably trying to figure out what a Llewelyn woman is doing in a Grayhide bar. My silver-blonde hair gives me away. So do my pale blue eyes. We’re distinctive, the Thornwick line, and I’ve never been able to pass for anything other than what I am.
Finally, she shrugs and reaches for a bottle on the top shelf. “Your money’s as good as anyone’s.”
The whiskey burns going down, but I welcome the heat, the way it spreads through my chest and settles in my stomach like a small fire. Two months ago, I’d never tasted alcohol. Llewelyn women don’t drink. Llewelyn women don’t do a lot of things, though most of them aren’t actually forbidden. We just never thought to try because the curse made us too numb to want anything.
I order a second drink. Then a third.
The more I drink, the warmer the room gets. Everything around me becomes softer around the edges. I watch the couples on the dance floor and feel a pang of envy creep in. I’ve never danced with anyone. Never been held close by someone who wanted me there, or felt a man’s hands on my waist or his breath against my neck.
I want that. I want to know what it feels like to be wanted.
That’s when I see him.
He’s sitting alone at the far end of the bar, hunched over a glass of whiskey like it holds all the answers to questions he doesn’t want to ask. His dark brown hair is cut short, and it’s slightly messy in a way that looks more careless than intentional. The guy has broad shoulders that strain against a plain black T-shirt, and his arms are thick with corded muscle. One of them is marked by a long scar that runs from his elbow to his wrist.
