Chapter 1
The night was thick with the scent of pine and the lingering chill of the evening air. The moon hung low, swollen and heavy, casting pale silver light across the dense forest. Among those shadows, a figure staggered forward—clutching her side, blood staining the torn remnants of her clothes. Her breaths came in short, sharp gasps as she fought to remain conscious. The beast inside her howled in fury, but she kept it at bay, forcing herself to stay human, to keep moving.
A light.
Barely visible through the trees, a flicker of warmth calling. She growled low in her throat, her vision blurring as she stumbled closer, every step more agonising than the last.
At the edge of a clearing stood a small house, glowing softly in the night. Laughter echoed from within. She forced herself to focus, the sound of women laughing, glasses clinking—it was so…normal. So painfully human. It made her bones ache, a reminder of what she was and could never fully have.
With a shaking hand, she reached for the door, knuckles scraping against the wood in a feeble attempt at knocking before her body gave out. She collapsed, the world going dark as the last thing she heard was the creak of the door opening.
Inside, Delilah stood in the doorway, one hand on her hip, the other holding a wine glass. Her black lace lingerie clung to her curves, the soft light of the room casting shadows across her figure. Her perfectly arched eyebrow lifted as she glanced down at the unconscious woman on her doorstep.
“Seriously?” she muttered, her voice tinged with frustration.
She took a slow sip of wine, glancing back inside to where her friends were scattered on the couch, laughing and completely unaware of the sudden turn in their evening. Delilah sighed, setting the glass down. This was supposed to be a relaxing night. Now, she had a bleeding stranger at her feet, and based on the claw marks and wild look of the woman’s torn clothing, this wasn’t just any stranger.
“Well, ladies,” she called back into the house, “looks like we’ve got company.”
Delilah crouched down, inspecting the unconscious woman for a moment. Her eyes traveled over the bruises and bloodstains, taking in the wild tangle of hair and the faint twitching of muscles under torn clothing.
“Great. She’s a mess,” she muttered, waving her hand toward the living room. “Hey, come give me a hand, will you?”
The other women, dressed in varying shades of silk and lace, exchanged amused glances before one of them, Vanya, strutted over in heels far too high for a practical rescue.
“Seriously? You always attract the strays,” Vanya teased, helping Delilah lift the limp body off the ground.
“I’m not keeping this one,” she shot back. “She’s not exactly pet material.”
Together, they half-dragged, half-carried the woman inside. The others followed, still holding their drinks, giggling at the absurdity of the situation.
Inside, they laid her out on a low table. The light from the fire illuminated her features—a sharp jawline, skin covered by dirt and dried blood.
Delilah grabbed a towel and tossed it toward Evie, another woman in their group. “Might as well clean her up. Don’t want her bleeding all over the furniture.”
Evie groaned but took the towel, dabbing away the worst of the grime. “What do you think happened to her?” she asked.
Delilah shrugged, taking another sip of her wine. “Don’t know, don’t care.”
Once they’d wiped away the blood and bandaged her wounds as best they could, they stared down at the woman, debating what to do next. Delilah crossed her arms, eyeing the closed door to the basement.
“She can sleep it off down there,” she decided. “At least we won’t have to deal with her waking up in the middle of things.”
“Good call.” Vanya grinned, clearly more interested in getting back to their night than playing nurse.
They dragged the woman’s body down the narrow stairs and dumped her unceremoniously on the cold basement floor. Delilah tied her wrist to one of the thick wooden support beams, just in case. She stood back, admiring her handiwork for a moment.
“Alright, ladies. That’s enough of that,” she said, heading back upstairs. “Let’s get back to the fun.”
As the basement door clicked shut behind them, the sound of laughter and music once again filled the air. The group dissolved into their previous chatter, forgetting the battered stranger below as easily as they had found her.
The woman lay unconscious in the dark, her breathing steady but shallow.
Her body, still aching from the battle in the forest, twitched under the soft beam, and slowly—very slowly—the torn skin began to knit itself back together. Bruises faded, wounds closed, and her breathing grew stronger.
Upstairs, the music thumped, the heavy bass vibrating through the wooden beams, accompanied by the occasional bursts of laughter. The voices seemed to dance along with the beat—indifferent, carefree.
Her eyes snapped open.
The world came back to her in sharp clarity, the pain still pulsing through her muscles, but the worst of it had passed. She lay on the cold basement floor for a moment, inhaling deeply, the scent of old wood and dust filling her lungs. With a sigh of relief, she realised that she was no longer in immediate danger—not from her wounds, at least. But it would be short-lived if her brother found her. He was hunting her even now, and she couldn’t afford to be held captive here.
Her wolf ears twitched under her tangled hair as she focussed in on the sounds above—the voices were distinct, layered under the beat of music. One voice in particular stood out. It was the voice of the woman who had answered the door, the one who had scoffed as she lay unconscious on the floor.
A strange feeling settled in her chest. She felt indebted to her—after all; the woman had saved her life, however ungraciously. Yet, as she glanced down at her wrist, bound tightly to the pole, her gratitude quickly turned into a frown. She tugged on the restraint, testing it. The ropes were sturdy, far too much trouble to break without drawing attention to herself.
She sat up slightly, eyes scanning the basement for anything useful. Her wolfish instincts hummed under her skin, but she forced them down. She needed to think, not act rashly. Her body was mostly healed, but she wasn’t strong enough to fight her way out if things went sideways.
Her gaze flickered back to the ceiling, following the sound of laughter. They had forgotten about her already.
“Typical,” she muttered to herself, her voice a low growl. “Out of sight, out of mind.”
Her eyes narrowed as her thoughts turned. She needed to escape, but first, she needed answers. Who were these women?
Why did they help her only to abandon her down here like a discarded pet?
And why did that one voice—a scoff and a sigh—linger in her mind like a stubborn thorn?
*
Her jaw clenched as she felt her canines elongate, breaking through her gums with a sharp, aching sensation. She bit down on the rope binding her wrist, feeling it snap beneath the pressure of her powerful bite. The tension eased, and she rubbed her wrist, feeling the faint bruises where the rope had dug into her skin. She stood slowly, testing her legs. Still weak, but stronger now. Quietly, like a shadow, she made her way up the basement steps.
The door creaked slightly as she opened it, but the music upstairs masked any sound. She slipped through the narrow crack and into the dim hallway, her senses sharpened, her ears twitching at every sound. The women upstairs had no idea she was moving among them. Their laughter continued carefree, echoing through the house.
Her eyes scanned the room from the shadows, noting the scene before her. The coffee table was cluttered with the remnants of their indulgences—powdery lines of drugs, empty bottles of wine and spirits, a haze of smoke hanging lazily in the air. The women, draped in lace and silk lingerie, were sprawled across the couches and chairs, their flushed faces glowing with the reckless abandon of their wild night.
And there, in the middle of it all, was Delilah.
The werewolf’s golden eyes gleamed in the low light as they fixed on her. Delilah was laughing, her glassy eyes sparkling as she made some joke to the others. She was everything the werewolf had noticed before—beautiful, voluptuous, and utterly intoxicating. Her body was a feast of temptation, with plump breasts straining against the delicate lace of her lingerie, thick thighs that begged to be wrapped around someone’s waist, and that soft curve of her belly.
The werewolf’s gaze traced the line of Delilah’s neck, that smooth, tantalising curve that led to her delicate collarbone. Her lips curled into a smirk as her thoughts grew darker. She imagined sinking her teeth into that tender flesh, leaving her mark there, claiming Delilah as hers. She could almost feel the sensation of pulling Delilah’s long, dark hair while hearing her scream her name—a mix of pleasure and pain. The mere thought of it sent a shiver down her spine.
She felt her heartbeat quicken, her body tense with hunger that had nothing to do with the need to heal. Her instincts screamed to take what she wanted, to dominate, to possess. Delilah had saved her, yes, but the werewolf was no docile creature to be tied up and forgotten.
And yet, she hesitated.
Her brother’s threat was looming, a constant shadow on her mind. She had been running for too long, fighting for too long. But here, in this haze of drugs, alcohol, and sensuality, there was something else—a different kind of hunger that made her want to stay, to taste what these women offered.
Her smirk widened as she took one last lingering look at Delilah’s body, admiring every curve, every soft fold of flesh.
She turned, slipping back down the stairs and into the basement, her steps silent as the night. Her body was still mending, and she needed to heal completely before she could make her move.
