Page 3 of Marked For A Bite
Now.
The moonlight painted silver streaks across Zoe's hardwood floors as she slipped from beneath her rumpled sheets. Her cotton pajamas whispered against her skin, the fabric feeling strangely abrasive against her hypersensitive nerve endings. Every step toward the dresser felt weighted with significance, as if the universe held its breath.
The envelope sat exactly where she'd left it—cream-colored paper bearing her mother's flowing script in midnight blue ink.Zoe, to be opened on your 25th birthday.The elegant handwriting seemed to pulse in the moonbeams filtering through her gauze curtains.
Her birthmark throbbed in rhythm with her hammering pulse. The crescent moon on her inner wrist felt hot to the touch, almost burning. She traced its raised edges while staring at the letter, her hands trembling.
"What if this makes everything worse? What if I really am losing my mind?" she muttered to herself.
But beneath the fear, something deeper stirred. A voice that whispered of destiny and belonging, and of answers that had eluded her for twenty-five years. Her fingers found the envelope's edge.
Open it now. Stop running.
The seal tore with a soft ripping sound that seemed deafening in the silence. Inside, a single sheet of paper contained one devastating line in her mother's careful penmanship:Zoe, your father was a wolf shifter—and now, you're about to manifest.
The letter fluttered to the floor as warmth flooded her veins like liquid fire. Her cells seemed to vibrate, responding to some primal calling she'd never understood. The rational part of her mind reeled while something wild and ancient awakened in her.
"No, no, no." She crumpled to her knees beside the dresser, her dark curls cascading around her face. "This isn't possible. Wolf shifters aren't real. I'm having a complete breakdown."
But even as she spoke the words, her bones began to ache with pressure. Her fingernails extended slightly, and her canines sharpened against her lower lip. The scent of jasmine from her neighbor's garden three houses down flooded her nostrils with overwhelming intensity.
This is your destiny. Stop fighting it.
"I need to call someone," she whispered to the empty room. "A doctor. A psychiatrist. Anyone."
Instead, she found herself moving through her house like a woman possessed, checking locks and latches with franticefficiency. The deadbolt on her front door clicked into place. Windows slammed shut. The security chain rattled as she engaged it.
"What am I protecting them from? What am I protecting myself from?" she whispered to the empty house.
The next thirty-six hours blurred together in a haze of terror and transformation. She called in sick to work with a voice that cracked like breaking glass, then powered off her phone when Naomi's worried texts became too frequent to ignore.
The partial shifts came without warning—violent flashes that left her gasping. Her hands would sprout claws while she attempted to make coffee. Thick fur erupted along her forearms as she tried to focus on television. Her teeth elongated during what should have been peaceful moments, forcing her to bite her own tongue until it bled.
"I'm losing my goddamn mind," she snarled at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, watching her hazel eyes flash gold. "Grief-stricken museum curator believes she's becoming a werewolf. Full news story at 10 PM."
Her senses spiraled beyond human comprehension. The refrigerator's hum became a grinding assault. Her neighbor's cologne down the street made her gag. The taste of copper filled her mouth whenever she tried to eat, as if her saliva had turned metallic.
She attempted restraining herself with fabric strips torn from old bed sheets, winding them around her wrists and ankles. But when the next wave of transformation hit, the bonds snapped like tissue paper. Her newfound strength terrified her more than the claws.
"Maybe I should commit myself," she whispered to the walls. "Before I hurt someone. Before I become a danger."
You were born for this. Embrace what you are.
"Shut up!" She pressed her palms against her ears, trying to block out the persistent inner voice. "I don't want this. I want to be normal. I want my mother back. I want answers that make sense."
But the voice continued its relentless whisper, calling her toward something she couldn't name and didn't dare want.
TWO
LOGAN
Logan Cross stood on the weathered porch of his cabin and rolled tension from his shoulders as the late morning light filtered through the towering Douglas firs. The restless energy that had plagued him since he woke up coiled tighter in his chest, his wolf pacing beneath the surface like a caged predator.
Three months of Kieran's leadership as the acting Alpha of the Silvercrest pack had brought subtle changes to their pack lands. Moderate reforms that whispered of change and of a world where brutal enforcement might become unnecessary some day. But right now, Logan's role as top enforcer remained perpetually consistent.
Urgent meeting. No details. Typical.
He secured his cabin with methodical precision, the beeps of his security system being engaged echoing through the forest silence. His combat boots found purchase on the damp earth as he started the trek toward Kieran's cabin on the territory's eastern edge. Each step carried the weight of countless missions and countless decisions that had carved pieces from his soul.
