The First Pull
ELARA’S POV
The city always smells like sweat, sex, and smoke around 3 a.m.
I pull my hoodie over my curls, slinging my bag higher on my shoulder as I slip out the back door of Vibe Lounge. The neon lights from the club flicker behind me, bleeding reds and pinks across the wet pavement. The air is sticky and thick, a mix of spilled drinks, exhaust fumes, and something else I can’t quite place. It’s the kind of night where even shadows seem to watch.
My boots hit the ground too loud in the alley, too sharp. Everything feels too something lately.
Too loud.
Too bright.
Too dangerous.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I’ve been feeling like this for days—like my skin is wired to some other world, some other time. Like my senses are tuning into frequencies I thought I’d buried deep.
I bite my lip and try to shake it off.
Just nerves. Just exhaustion.
But it’s more than that.
It’s my wolf stirring, clawing at the inside of my ribs. She’s restless and angry, a beast that wants out. I keep her locked away—the way I’ve done since I was fifteen. Since the fire. Since everything changed.
No matter how much I try, I can’t ignore the pull anymore.
I tighten my grip on the strap of my bag and speed up my steps. The shortcut to my apartment is only two blocks, but tonight it feels miles away. The streetlights flicker above, casting halos of yellow light and deep shadows where something could be waiting.
I shouldn’t be out here.
But there’s nowhere else to go.
Every step pulls me deeper into the silence of the night. The usual city noises—sirens, distant laughter, the occasional bark—fade, replaced by something raw and hungry. My wolf growls low in my chest, a warning I can’t pretend not to hear.
A trash can rattles behind me, metal scraping against brick.
I freeze.
Probably just a raccoon.
But my heart hammers in my chest, and my hands clench into fists. The cold steel of the blade in my coat pocket suddenly feels heavier.
Then I smell it.
Leather. Smoke. Earth. Musk.
It hits my lungs like a fist. My breath catches. My wolf whines softly—urgent and desperate.
Mate.
The word crashes through my mind like a storm, shaking everything inside me.
No.
No.
No.
I don’t want this.
I don’t want him.
I don’t want to be his.
I spin and break into a run.
My boots slap hard against cracked pavement. The cold night air stings my face. My pulse roars, but I don’t dare look back.
But the footsteps behind me keep pace—soft. Controlled. Patient. Like a hunter who knows the prey can’t escape forever.
I burst onto 6th Street, where the streetlamps hum overhead and the occasional car slices through the darkness. Light. People. Safety.
But the scent still lingers—clinging to me like a shadow. The heat in my chest flares, wild and unrelenting.
I want to scream. To disappear. To run until my legs give out.
Then his voice cuts through the night like a razor.
“You run well, little wolf. I wonder how well you’ll beg.”
I whirl around, heart pounding, breath caught in my throat.
But no one is there.
Only the empty street, the flickering streetlamp, and the whispering wind carrying secrets I don’t want to hear.
I back away slowly, breath sharp and ragged. Inside me, the wolf claws at my ribs, desperate. She’s not scared—she’s hungry. Eager. Wanting to turn back. Wanting to surrender.
No. Hell no.
I force myself to turn away and hurry up the three stairs to my building. My hands tremble as I jam the key into the lock.
Once inside, I slam the door behind me and lock every bolt. I press my back to the door, fighting to steady my breath.
Safe.
But I’m not.
Because whoever he is… he saw me.
Smelled me.
Marked me.
And worst of all?
Some part of me wants to be caught.
