1. Bad Wolf
SLOANE
Sloane Greymark had been a wolf for twenty-four years and, according to her cousin Taryn, showed very little evidence of it.
“Again.”
Sloane bent forward, hands braced against her knees, trying not to throw up.
Or die.
Both felt possible.
“I did it.”
“You fell.”
“I shifted.”
“You shifted and fell.”
“Those are two separate accomplishments.”
Taryn stared at her from across the clearing.
Sloane stared back.
There were moments in life where dignity required silence. This was probably one of them.
Unfortunately, Sloane had never been particularly good at dignity either.
She straightened slowly, the movement pulling at every muscle along her spine. Her skin still felt too tight after the shift, little shocks running down her arms as everything settled back into the correct shape.
Human shape. Mostly human shape.
Sloane looked down.
Claws.
Of course.
“Give me a second.”
Taryn folded her arms, and behind them, somebody snorted. She didn’t have to turn around to know who.
There were five other wolves in the clearing for Saturday control training. Four teenagers going through mandatory post-puberty lessons and Sloane.
Twenty-four years old. Paying taxes. Working full-time. Still attending remedial shift control with children who had acne.
Living the dream.
“Want help?” Owen called.
Sloane turned enough to glare at him.
Owen was seventeen, blond, irritatingly symmetrical, and had learned controlled partial shifting approximately three minutes after discovering puberty.
Sloane disliked him on principle.
“I want you to discover silence.”
His grin widened. “That’s not really a wolf skill.”
“Neither is being an asshole, but look how naturally that came to you.”
Two of the younger wolves laughed. Taryn did not.
“Focus.”
Right.
Claws.
There was a trick to it. Sloane knew the trick. She knew all the tricks, actually, which was part of what made the entire thing so deeply irritating.
Breathe.
Find the line between human and wolf. Don’t force it. Don’t resist it. Visualize what you want.
She had read the books. Sat through the lectures. Listened to trainers explain instinct like it was an actual object sitting somewhere behind her ribs waiting for her to pick it up.
Sloane got static.
Heat under her skin. Teeth aching. A sudden need to run with absolutely no useful information about where.
She closed her eyes.
Human hands. Normal fingers. Nails that couldn’t open a deer. Heat moved through her palms. The claws began pulling back.
Yes.
There.
Almost—
Her right ear shifted. Sloane’s eyes snapped open. Owen made a choking noise.
“No.”
Taryn pinched the bridge of her nose. Sloane lifted one hand toward her head. The pointed ear twitched beneath her fingers.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
The clearing erupted.
Even Taryn's mouth moved. Barely. Traitor.
Half-wolves weren’t uncommon. Not anymore. One human parent, one wolf parent, and usually biology picked a lane.
Some shifted. Some didn’t. Some inherited heightened senses without the transformation.
Sloane’s body had apparently gone through the options and chosen yes.
Full shift? Technically.
Partial shift? Unfortunately.
Enhanced hearing? Whenever least convenient.
Scenting? Apparently optional.
Her mother called it getting the best of both worlds. Her father usually changed the subject. Sloane knew which response was more honest.
“Reset,” Taryn said.
“My ear—”
“I can see your ear.”
“Good. Just checking whether eyesight goes before empathy.”
“Sloane.”
Fine.
She closed her eyes again. This time, eventually, her claws retracted. Then the ear. Sloane opened her eyes.
Taryn nodded once. “Good. Again.”
Sloane’s soul left her body. Her phone buzzed from the bench near the trees. She turned immediately.
“I should get that.”
“No.”
“It could be important.”
“It’s Saturday.”
“Emergencies exist.”
“You work at a bookstore.”
Right. Briefly forgot.
The phone buzzed again. And again.
Taryn sighed. “Check it.”
Sloane didn’t wait for her to reconsider. Three messages from her mother.
MOM: Please tell me you remembered the cake.
MOM: Sloane.
MOM: Your grandmother is already here.
Oh.
Oh no.
The cake.
Her grandmother’s seventy-fifth birthday cake.
The cake Sloane had volunteered to collect because she wanted one family event where nobody could say she forgot something, broke something, arrived late or accidentally growled at an uncle.
She checked the time.
12:17.
Pickup had been noon.
“Shit.”
Taryn walked closer. “What?”
“I forgot Grandma’s cake.”
Her expression changed immediately.
That was the thing about family. Nothing united people quite like fear of Sloane’s grandmother.
“Go.”
“Really?”
“Go.”
Sloane grabbed her jacket.
Behind her, Owen called, “Nice ear, Greymark.”
She didn’t turn.
“Nice face, Owen.”
Weak.
She could’ve done better.
No time.
Her ancient silver hatchback sat beyond the trees, making a faint ticking noise she had chosen to ignore for several months because mechanics cost money and radios could be turned up.
She climbed inside and immediately checked the mirror.
Human ears.
Normal eyes.
No claws.
Excellent.
Fit for public consumption.
Her phone rang before she’d even pulled away. Mom. Sloane connected the call through the car.
“I’m getting it.”
“You forgot.”
“I remembered.”
“At twelve seventeen?”
“I remembered late.”
“That is forgetting.”
“Semantics.”
Her mother sighed.
Sloane could picture her perfectly in the kitchen, blond hair twisted up, flour somewhere on her clothes because Caroline Greymark insisted on cooking for Pack gatherings as though thirty people were a reasonable dinner party.
“Your father said training ran late.”
“My father is a liar, and I appreciate him.”
“He also said you had a rough morning.”
There it was.
Tiny.
Harmless.
Still enough to make Sloane’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel.
“How did training go?”
Did you manage the shift?
Any accidents?
As if one Saturday, Sloane would finally walk through the door and announce that she’d fixed herself.
“Training was fine.”
“Sloane.”
“Mom.”
“I wasn’t criticizing.”
“I know.”
She did know.
That somehow made it worse.
“I’ll be there soon.”
“Drive carefully.”
“I always do.”
Her mother laughed before hanging up. Rude.
The bakery was fifteen minutes away if traffic cooperated.
Sloane made it in eleven.
The bell above the door gave an obnoxiously cheerful jingle as she rushed inside.
Warm air hit her first, followed by sugar, butter and cinnamon.
Her stomach growled.
No.
Grandma’s cake first.
Food later.
If one corner of the frosting mysteriously disappeared on the drive home, nobody would believe transportation damage.
“Greymark?”
Sloane lifted her hand.
“That’s me.”
The woman behind the counter smiled. “They’re just finishing the lettering. Five minutes.”
Sloane’s smile froze. Five minutes. Of course.
“Perfect.”
It was not perfect. But fine. She had the cake. Almost.
Future Sloane had the cake. Present Sloane was emotionally adjacent to it.
She pulled out her phone. Another message.
MOM: How far are you?
Sloane typed back.
SLOANE: Literally holding the cake.
Again, semantics. Then she heard the chanting. Not inside.
Outside.
Her thumb stopped above the screen. At first, she thought someone was yelling at traffic. Then several voices joined together.
“Human rights! Human laws!”
Sloane’s shoulders tightened.
Oh.
That.
She turned toward the windows. A crowd was moving toward the small public square at the end of the street.
Thirty people, maybe more. Signs rose above them.
ONE LAW FOR EVERYONE.
END PACK PRIVILEGE.
Another disappeared behind someone’s head before she could read it.
Sloane looked away. Nope. Not her circus. Not her angry humans.
Public demonstrations were legal. People could hate wolves if they wanted. The Concord protected their right to complain about the Concord, which seemed annoyingly fair.
She was getting cake. That was her political involvement for the day.
Cake.
Car.
Grandmother.
“Keep Packs out of our streets!”
The chant was louder now. Her hearing sharpened. Damn it.
Someone near the window muttered, “They’re right.”
Sloane caught that too. Her senses never worked properly when she needed them, but apparently bigotry came through in surround sound.
She breathed slowly. The bakery smelled overwhelmingly sweet.
Vanilla.
Bread.
Coffee.
Underneath it, sweat from the people outside.
Adrenaline. Her body knew that scent. Danger.
No.
Not danger.
People chanting.
People were allowed to chant. Nobody was attacking her.
“You’re a Greymark?”
Sloane turned. An older man near the pastry case was watching her.
“I heard the name.”
She hesitated. “Okay?”
“Pack Greymark?”
Her pulse kicked once. “Just Greymark.”
His gaze flicked over her. Checking. She knew the look. People always thought they’d be able to tell.
Wolf.
Human.
Half.
Like there should be a label somewhere on her forehead. The woman behind the counter finally returned carrying a large white box.
Bless her.
“Vanilla, raspberry?”
“Yes.” Sloane practically lunged for it. “Perfect.”
She paid quickly. Outside, the rally had moved closer. The sidewalk in front of the bakery was filling with people.
“You may want to wait a few minutes,” the woman said.
Sloane glanced through the glass. A man lifted a sign.
CONCORD PROTECTS MONSTERS.
Her stomach clenched. “I’ll be fine.”
Because she would.
She was not hiding in a bakery because some humans had signs. Sloane slid both hands under the cake box and headed for the door.
Outside, the noise hit hard.
Too loud.
Too many voices.
A megaphone screeched.
Someone shouted about Pack immunity.
Someone else yelled something about muzzles.
Sloane kept her eyes forward.
Her car was less than a block away.
Walk.
Don’t listen.
Don’t react.
The box shifted slightly. She adjusted her grip.
“Wolf.”
Her step slowed. No. Could’ve meant anyone.
“Hey. Blondie.”
Damn it. She kept walking.
“She came out of there.”
“Is she one?”
Her skin prickled. Heat started beneath her ribs.
No. Not now.
She breathed through her mouth.
Her car.
Twenty seconds.
That’s all.
“Hey!”
Footsteps came closer. She heard the scrape of shoes against pavement. Hearts beating faster.
One.
Two.
Three people behind her. Sloane’s own heartbeat punched against her ribs. Her fingertips tingled.
No claws.
Please.
Not here.
“Come on,” someone called. “Show us.”
A laugh.
“Show us what you people really are.”
Her teeth hurt.
Fuck.
They wanted it.
That realization hit harder than the words.
Phones were out.
Cameras.
They wanted her angry.
Wanted her shifting.
Wanted a wolf losing control in the middle of their rally so tomorrow they could replay the video and say see?
Sloane stopped. Not because she wanted to. Because her right hand cramped beneath the cake box. A claw pierced the cardboard.
Her breath caught.
No.
No, no.
She spun toward the bakery. Not the front entrance. The narrow alley beside it.
There had been a rear delivery door. She’d seen it when the woman went into the back.
Maybe—
Another shout came from behind her.
Sloane moved.
Fast.
Not running.
Running looked guilty.
She was absolutely running.
She ducked down the alley, cake still clutched against her chest, rounded the building and found the rear door propped open with a plastic crate.
Thank fucking God.
She pushed through. The bakery worker startled.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine.”
Not fine. Sloane put the cake down on the nearest counter.
“Can I leave that here?”
“What?”
“I’ll come back.”
She didn’t wait for permission.
The back lot led toward a narrow service road and, beyond that, the strip of woods bordering the edge of town.
Quiet.
Privacy.
No cameras.
She walked quickly.
Then faster.
By the time she reached the first trees, her nails had become claws. Her breath came in shallow bursts. The woods swallowed some of the sound behind her.
Good.
Sloane pressed one palm against a tree trunk.
Breathe.
Human.
Hands.
Teeth.
Skin.
She shut her eyes. The rally became distant noise. Her heartbeat began slowing.
There.
She could do this.
See?
Responsible fucking wolf. She had removed herself. Nobody got hurt. Nobody got their viral monster video. Grandma’s cake was safe.
Everything was—
Sloane inhaled. Her eyes opened.
Blood.
The scent cut through everything else.
Fresh.
Metallic.
Human.
Close.
Her wolf went still.
Every instinct she’d spent the entire morning begging to work suddenly snapped into place.
And somewhere deeper in the woods, a man screamed.
