Chapter 1
Beau
I wokeup on the floor, heart racing, sweat clinging to my skin like a second, colder layer. My cheek was pressed against cracked tile, my back ached, and the old scars there itched like fire ants.
Faint light crept in through the dirty window, slicing across the dust-heavy air. But what had really yanked me out of sleep, what always did, wasn’t the cold floor or the ache.
It was the sound, still ringing in my ears.
The snarls. The snap of bone. The wet, sickening sound of claws ripping flesh from muscle. And the certainty, deep in my chest, that it was going to be my turn to die.
I groaned, rolled onto my side, and forced my stiff body upright. My breath came in shallow gasps. Took me a minute to realize where I was.
The room looked like it had been forgotten by time. There was peeling wallpaper, cobwebs in every corner, busted furniture sagging with age.
For a heartbeat, I thought I was back there.
But then the window caught my eye.
Outside, Sugarpaw Springs slept peacefully beneath a navy-blue sky freckled with stars. A porch light glowed across the street. Somewhere, a dog barked once and fell silent.
This wasn’t my old clan’s territory. This wasn’t the blood-soaked compound or the screaming night drills or the way they used pain as punctuation.
This was my escape, and I’d made it. I sat there for a moment, soaking it in, brushing away the last echoes of the nightmare like cobwebs from my shoulders.
“Hey, Beau. You up?” came Rafael’s voice, faint through the floorboards.
I huffed out a quiet laugh and pushed to my feet. My best friend, if you could call someone who saw you bury bodies and still chose to follow you a friend.
We grew up together in that hellhole. Would’ve been my second-in-command if I’d taken the lead alpha title like everyone expected. But if I had… Levi would be dead.
And I liked my brother alive just fine. So did he, probably. There were footsteps up the stairs. A soft knock. The door creaked open.
Rafael stepped in, already dressed, hair pulled back, calm as ever despite the fact he looked like he could wrestle a mountain lion and win.
His gaze swept over me, bare-chested, scarred, only in boxers, and he arched one eyebrow. His face was a map of old wounds, but his eyes were sharp.
“Thought we were going to check the festival out?” he said.
“We are. Give me a few minutes,” I said, voice still gravel-thick from sleep and memory.
He nodded, stepping back. “I’ll wait downstairs.”
The shower groaned when I turned the knob, cold water sputtering from the rusty head. No hot water, of course. I grunted, head tilted back, letting it hit me. It felt like ice.
My back stung where the water hit old claw marks. Still, I didn’t move. I stood there, letting the worst of the morning sweat and nightmares rinse away.
After a few seconds, the pressure picked up. It just took time to warm up. So did I. Clean, dressed, and a little steadier, I headed downstairs.
The bakery greeted me like it always did. Half dead and half beautiful.
Sunlight slipped through grime-covered windows, catching on floating dust motes. The wood floors were warped in places, and the counter had a long split right through the middle. Shelves hung crooked.
The display case was cracked. The walls were stained with time. But under all that, I could see what it could be. What it would be. My dream.
Not the legacy of violence my father, grandfather, and great-grandfather shoved down my throat. Not the dynasty of domination they thought was destiny. No. This was different.
Simpler. Softer. Mine.
