Jealous Of Wolves (Part 2, Wolves, By T.S. Cobbe) by T.S. Cobbe at Inkitt

Prologue

Edited May 2026.

The crisp autumn air carried the scent of pine and damp earth as eight-year-old Oriana sat on the porch steps, her small hands wrapped around a steaming cup of cocoa. The wind tugged at her wavy black hair, but she barely noticed, her mahogany-brown eyes fixed on the forest’s edge.

He was gone… again.

A hollow ache settled in her chest, familiar as the autumn cold.

She didn’t need to see Theron to know he had shifted again. She felt it in the way the air changed, in the way the pack moved just a little differently. He was only six, but already a wolf. Already a part of something she could only watch from the outside.

“Mummy, he did it again.” Oriana’s voice was flat, but her fingers clenched tighter around the warm ceramic cup.

Anna sighed—more tired than angry. That was the thing about her mother. She never yelled. She just sounded disappointed, even when she wasn’t.

Theron did it again.

A brief pause. Then, through the pack bond, Ethan’s deep voice rumbled, edged with a growl. I’m on it.

Oriana barely reacted as heavy footsteps faded into paws. Moments later, her father’s black wolf, Zion, tore into the forest, vanishing into the shadows. He wouldn’t be gone long. He never was.

She exhaled softly, watching the steam curl from her cup into the cold air. She should have felt pride in her brother, admiration even. He was special—more than she was.

Theron had been born with his wolf. His presence had revealed itself in a second sonogram, his instincts impossible to suppress. He had already run wild, already felt the world through heightened senses in a way she could only dream of. He had Varg, his wolf, his other half.

She had… nothing.

Just a faint, empty buzz in the back of her mind, waiting. Always waiting. Like all the others.

They always told her she’d shift someday. That she’d understand then. That everything would make sense. She would become their Alpha. Everyone who knew her secret told her she was special—that she had saved her mother’s life at birth that her healing abilities were a miracle.

But what did it matter if she couldn’t feel anything at all?

A rustle in the trees made her lift her gaze just in time to see Zion emerge, his massive black form carrying a much smaller pup by the scruff. The little black Varg dangled in the air, his tiny legs kicking in useless protest. The moment Zion released him, he bolted for the house, yipping—a mix of defiance and submission.

“Inside. Now.” Anna’s voice left no room for argument.

The small black wolf hesitated for only a second before scampering through the doorway. “Riana, come inside?”

Oriana nodded but didn’t move right away. Instead, she took a slow sip of her cocoa, letting the warmth chase away the chill in her throat. She should have been laughing. Maybe rolling her eyes at her reckless little brother.

But all she felt was that same hollow ache.

She was older. She was supposed to look out for him.

Another sip.

Then—

A shiver ghosted down her spine—not from the cold, but from something older. Something she couldn’t name. Like the forest itself had exhaled, and she was the only one who heard it.

She sucked in a breath, her grip tightening on her cup as the feeling passed through her, an echo of something unseen. A tug. For a fraction of a second, she smelled something—warm, rich, like chocolate and something deeper. Something she had no name for. It was like someone had whispered her name in a language she’d never heard—but somehow understood.

Her breath hitched.

Her gaze snapped back to the forest as if something—or someone—was watching. But there was nothing. Only the rustling of leaves and the quiet hum of the world continuing as it always had.

“Riana, come,” her mother called from the doorway.

She hesitated, staring into the trees a moment longer, that strange feeling lingering in her chest like a half-formed memory.

Then, with a slow exhale, she stood and stepped inside.

Far beyond the forest’s reach—beyond pack lands and bloodlines—something else stirred.

Somewhere far from Oriana and her family, ten-year-old Draven sat at the kitchen table, chewing on an apple that tasted like ash. His stomach felt tight, not hungry at all.

His homework lay untouched in front of him, numbers and words blurring together. There was no sign of his mother being home for at least another hour—until she decided she wanted to be left alone to make dinner.

That was normal.

People probably thought he was used to it by now.

He wasn’t.

Then it came.

A scent—sharp and cloying, like burned herbs and wet stone, tinged with something sweet and wrong. It hit the back of his throat and made his eyes sting.

He turned his head toward the basement door.

It was coming from below.

He stood, apple forgotten, and padded over on bare feet. The door was cracked open. Smoke slithered up like fingers reaching for him.

“Mama?” he called.

No answer.

He descended the stairs one careful step at a time. His heart thudded louder with each creak of the wood. The deeper he went, the stronger the scent grew—like rotting magic and old blood.

In the basement, his grandmother stood before a cauldron, smoke curling around her like a crown of serpents. Her presence was jagged and cold—a blade disguised in velvet.

“Ah, you’re right on time,” his grandmother—Freya—said without turning.

“Magnus’s son finally grew a backbone,” the man beside her muttered.

“Yeah, yeah,” she waved him off like an insect. “Don’t get excited.”

His mother, Ivy, sat slumped in the corner. Arms folded. Eyes empty. She didn’t even glance at him.

“Come here, Draven,” his grandmother said, dropping a heavy leather-bound book on the table with a thud. “It’s time you learned what you’re worth.”

He hesitated. “What is that?”

“A book of bloodlines,” she said. “Of Alpha wolves born with power beyond instinct. The Lycans. The true rulers of the werewolf race.”

“I’m an Alpha,” he said carefully. “Do I have powers like that too?”

Her laugh was brittle. Cruel. “No. You’re not pure enough. Your father was Alpha. Your mother was a Beta. You’re something… in between.”

He looked at his mother. Begging silently—for comfort, for defence. Anything.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

“But,” Freya continued, “if you’re mated with an Alpha girl—then your offspring could be something extraordinary.”

“I’m ten,” he muttered. “I’m not supposed to know until I’m eighteen.”

“Humans wait. We don’t,” she snapped. “Drink this, and we’ll know sooner.”

She dipped a ladle into the cauldron, and held it out.

He wrinkled his nose. “No. It smells nasty.”

“Drink it, you little brat,” she hissed.

He turned to run—but the man grabbed him.

Draven kicked. Bit. Fought.

The man didn’t flinch.

Freya caught his face and pinched his nose shut until he gasped. And then—she poured it in.

The potion scorched down his throat like liquid fire, cold and burning all at once. But it didn’t stop there. It spread. Crawled. Forced its way deeper, like something alive finding its place inside him.

He gagged, choking—trying to spit it out, to breathe, to push it back.

He couldn’t.

Then he convulsed.

His limbs snapped outward—arms flinging, legs kicking violently. His spine arched off the ground as if something invisible had hooked itself beneath his ribs and was dragging him up like a puppet. A strangled sound tore from his throat. Blood roared in his ears. His vision split—fractured—not his any more.

The room tilted.

No—

He tilted.

His body slammed against the floor, thrashing, uncontrolled, bones cracking hard against the concrete. But it felt distant. Like it belonged to someone else.

“Draven!” his mother cried—sharp and frantic.

It didn’t matter.

He couldn’t answer her.

Something else had him.

His mouth foamed. His fingers curled into claws—but even that wasn’t his doing. His body jerked under something that pulled from the inside, stretching him open, searching, taking.

Then everything went still.

Not empty—waiting.

And then… not the basement.

He was somewhere else.

The scent came first, lemon and something warm, like cedar. Too sharp. Too clear. It scraped through him, forcing his senses open wider than they were meant to be.

Something inside him strained against it—too young, buried, not ready.

It hurt.

A pull took him to a house.

A girl sat on its staircase. Black wavy hair. Freckles. Dark eyes like secrets.

She held a steaming mug in her hands and looked directly at him.

Not through him.

At him.

His chest tightened—no, split.

Because this wasn’t just seeing.

Something in him reached.

Forced.

Uncontrolled.