The Shadows Claim

AMANDA POV

The music was a throbbing, physical thing, vibrating through the thin soles of Amanda’s borrowed heels and up into her eighteen-year-old bloodstream. It smelled like cheap cologne, stale beer, and the electric buzz of reckless youth. It smelled like freedom.

She pulled a black, fitted dress over her head—a major splurge that was totally unnecessary for a local dive bar but felt essential for her debut into adulthood. College was a month away, a plane ticket to London and a whole new life waiting on the other side of the Atlantic. Tonight, though, she was just Amanda Smith, twenty-one-year-old, ready to break a few rules.

She checked her reflection for the tenth time. The makeup was heavier than she usually wore, emphasizing her hazel eyes, and her straight brown hair hung loose. The dress hugged her curves, a look that still felt like wearing a disguise.

“Ready, Mandy?” Chloe, her roommate, yelled from the living room.

“Almost!” Amanda tucked the fake ID—a surprisingly good replica with a surprisingly convincing photo—deep into her tiny clutch. That little plastic card was the key to this whole charade.

She joined Chloe, whose excitement was infectious. “You look amazing. Serious date-night material.”

“Not looking for a date, Chloe,” Amanda said, but the denial felt weak even to her. She was looking for an experience. A story to tell that had nothing to do with her straight-A average or her overly protective parents, Jane and Henry.

The Uber ride was loud and filled with Chloe’s anticipation. The bar, named The Den, was exactly what she had pictured: dark, packed, and gloriously anonymous. They squeezed through the crowds to the bar.

Amanda handed the bartender the fake ID. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but the man didn’t even blink, handing it back with a curt nod. Triumph tasted like the sugary, cheap vodka cranberry he placed in front of her. She was in.

She settled onto a barstool next to Chloe, who was already chatting up a group of guys. Amanda felt a sense of giddy recklessness settle over her. She was here, she was adult, and no one knew her name or her secrets.

She looked across the crowded room, watching the lights flash over the packed dance floor. It was all noise and sensation, and for the first time in months, she felt truly unburdened.

She took a long sip of her drink, the alcohol hitting her quickly on an empty stomach. She was laughing at something Chloe said when the air around her suddenly shifted.

It wasn’t a change in the music or the lighting. It was a presence.

A massive, shadowy figure moved through the crowd, parting people like water. Every head seemed to turn without consciously meaning to. He was a creature of darkness and power, impossibly tall, with shoulders that strained the fabric of his black button-down shirt. His hair was dark, almost black, and his movements were slow, deliberate, and entirely captivating.

As he reached the bar and turned slightly, his eyes—a fierce, unsettling gold—swept over the room. They weren’t looking for someone; they were claiming territory.

And then, those eyes landed on her.

A flicker of something intense—a kind of shock and raw need—crossed his face before it smoothed into an unreadable mask of cold purpose. He started walking toward her.

Amanda didn’t move. She couldn’t. She didn’t feel any supernatural premonition, no sudden scent or jolt of the mate bond. Her senses were purely human, and they were telling her one thing: danger.

As he stopped directly behind her stool, the sheer size of him blocking out the bar lights, a low, heady scent of cedar and rain and something undeniably, dangerously male overwhelmed her.

Then, his hand landed on the small of her back. It was warm, heavy, and searing, even through the thin fabric of her dress.

“Mine,” a voice deep enough to shake the foundations of the bar rumbled in her ear.

Amanda spun around, drink forgotten.