The dreams began that night—vivid, disorienting visions that left me gasping awake in the darkness, my heart pounding and my skin slick with sweat.

I was running through dense forest, branches whipping past, the ground soft beneath my feet. But I wasn't afraid; I was exhilarated, powerful, free. The moon hung full and bright above, illuminating my path as I raced between ancient trees, my body moving with a grace and speed I'd never possessed in waking life.


And I wasn't alone. A presence ran beside me—larger, darker, radiating strength and protection. I couldn't see it clearly, but I knew it was there, keeping pace, watching over me.

Then the dream would shift. The forest would darken, the friendly presence would vanish, and I'd be running in terror, pursued by shadows with glowing eyes and snapping jaws. I'd try to scream, but no sound would come. Just as the shadows closed in, I'd wake, trembling and confused.

The dreams continued for a week, growing more intense each night. During the day, I found myself experiencing strange sensations—smells becoming sharper, sounds clearer, as if my senses were gradually amplifying. Foods I'd always enjoyed suddenly tasted wrong, while rare meat became inexplicably appealing.


"You look terrible," Harper informed me bluntly as we met for lunch in the university cafeteria. "Are you sick? Or is lover boy keeping you up all night?" She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

"Just not sleeping well," I mumbled, pushing my salad around my plate. The lettuce smelled bitter, unappetizing. My gaze kept drifting to the grill station, where hamburgers were being prepared.


"Hmm." Harper studied me with concern. "You seem... different lately. And not just the normal 'my boyfriend is ridiculously hot' different. Are you sure everything's okay?"

I forced a smile. "Just stressed about midterms." It wasn't entirely a lie—exams were approaching, though they were the least of my worries.

"If you say so." She didn't look convinced. "Speaking of your mysterious man, how's that going? Still in the honeymoon phase?"

The question was more complicated than she knew. In the week since our coffee shop outing, Caleb and I had settled into a strange rhythm—professional during our "preparation" sessions at the Blackwood estate, but increasingly personal in our public appearances. The line between acting and reality was blurring, especially in moments when no one was watching but we maintained the pretense anyway.

"It's... progressing," I said carefully. "We're still getting to know each other."

Harper snorted. "That's the most non-answer answer I've ever heard. Come on, give me something real. Do you actually like him? Beyond the obvious physical appeal and mysterious rich guy allure?"

I considered the question seriously. Did I like Caleb Blackwood? The man was complicated—controlled yet passionate, arrogant yet vulnerable in unexpected moments. He frustrated me, challenged me, made me feel more alive than I had in years.

"Yes," I admitted quietly. "I do. More than I should."

Harper's expression softened. "Oh, honey. You're falling for him for real, aren't you?"

"It's complicated," I hedged, unwilling to confess the full truth—that our relationship was built on a contract, that any feelings developing were inconvenient complications to a business arrangement.

"Love usually is," she said sagely. "But for what it's worth, I think he's falling for you too. The way he looks at you when he thinks no one's watching... that's not the look of a casual boyfriend."

Her words sent a flutter of hope through me that I immediately tried to suppress. Caleb was playing a part, just as I was. Any perceived depth of feeling was just evidence of his skill at manipulation.

Wasn't it?

Before I could respond, my phone buzzed with a text from the man himself: *Need to see you. Important. Can you come to the estate tonight?*

A mixture of anticipation and anxiety twisted in my stomach. *What time?* I replied.

*As soon as possible. I'll send Lucas to pick you up after your last class.*

The urgency in his message was unusual. Typically, Caleb planned our meetings with military precision, each encounter scheduled and prepared for. This spontaneous request suggested something had changed.

"Duty calls?" Harper asked, noticing my expression.

"Something like that." I gathered my things, my appetite completely gone. "I need to go. Rain check on that movie tonight?"

"Sure." She gave me a knowing look. "Just remember to come up for air occasionally, okay?"

I blushed, letting her assume what she would about my evening plans. The truth—that I was increasingly anxious about the secrets surrounding Caleb and his family—would only worry her.

True to his word, Lucas was waiting outside my Victorian Literature class when it ended at four. His usual easy smile was absent, his expression tense.

"What's going on?" I asked as we walked to his car.

"Not my place to explain," he said, opening the passenger door for me. "Caleb will tell you everything."

The drive to the Blackwood estate was silent, Lucas focused on the road while I stared out the window, watching the landscape change from suburban streets to dense forest. The trees seemed to close in around us as we drove deeper into Blackwood territory, their shadows lengthening in the late afternoon light.

When we arrived, Lucas led me not to Caleb's study but to a part of the mansion I'd never visited before—a lower level accessed through heavy wooden doors that looked ancient compared to the rest of the house.

"Where are we going?" I asked, unease growing as we descended stone steps into what appeared to be a much older section of the building.

"The old meeting chambers," Lucas explained. "It's where the council gathers."

"Council?"

He didn't elaborate, simply guiding me through a dimly lit corridor to a set of iron-bound doors. He knocked once, then pushed them open, gesturing for me to enter.

The room beyond was large and circular, with a high domed ceiling and walls of rough-hewn stone. Torches—actual flaming torches, not electric lights—cast flickering shadows across the space. In the center stood a massive round table of dark wood, around which sat several people I recognized from the Silverton dinner, along with Marcus Blackwood and a few strangers.

Caleb stood as I entered, his expression grave. "Eve. Thank you for coming."

"What is this?" I asked, my voice echoing slightly in the cavernous room. "What's going on?"

"Please, sit." He indicated an empty chair beside his own. "We have much to discuss."

The formality of his tone, the strange setting, the serious faces watching me—everything screamed danger. Yet I found myself moving forward, taking the offered seat, drawn by the need to finally understand what I'd gotten myself into.

"Miss Mitchell," Marcus began, his cold eyes assessing me. "I understand you've been experiencing... changes recently. Dreams. Enhanced senses. Unusual cravings."

I stiffened, alarmed that he knew about my private experiences. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"There's no need for pretense here," an elderly woman said—Margaret Thornton, Lucas's grandmother whom I'd met at the Silverton dinner. "We are all aware of what's happening to you."

"And what exactly is that?" I demanded, fear giving way to anger. "Because I certainly don't know."

Caleb placed his hand over mine on the table, his touch warm and steadying. "Eve," he said quietly, "what do you know about your mother's family? The Grays?"

The question caught me off guard. "Not much. They were from Minnesota. Mom didn't talk about them often. After she died, we lost contact completely."

"And your father never told you anything about them? About why your mother might have distanced herself from her family?"

I shook my head, confusion mounting. "What does this have to do with anything?"

Caleb exchanged glances with the others around the table before turning back to me. "The Gray family is one of the oldest werewolf bloodlines in North America."

For a moment, I thought I'd misheard him. "Excuse me?"

"Werewolves," he repeated, his amber eyes holding mine steadily. "Shapeshifters who can transform from human to wolf form. Your mother was born into the Gray pack but left when she married your father. She chose to live as human, to raise you without knowledge of your heritage."

A startled laugh escaped me. "This is insane. Werewolves aren't real."

"Aren't they?" Marcus challenged. "How else would you explain your recent experiences? The dreams of running through forests? The heightened senses? The cravings for rare meat?"

My blood ran cold. How could he know these things?

"Your dormant werewolf genes are awakening," Margaret Thornton explained, her voice gentler than Marcus's. "It happens sometimes with half-bloods raised as human. Proximity to other werewolves can trigger the change, especially as you approach your twenty-first birthday."

"Proximity to..." My gaze snapped to Caleb, understanding dawning with horrifying clarity. "You're saying you're a werewolf. That all of you are."

Caleb nodded, his expression solemn. "Yes. The Blackwood pack has protected this territory for centuries. As has the Silverton pack to the east, the Thornton pack to the south."

"This is crazy," I whispered, pulling my hand from his. "You're all crazy."

"Show her," Marcus commanded, addressing Caleb. "End this denial."

Caleb hesitated, his eyes never leaving mine. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

No, I wasn't ready. I wanted to run from this room, from these people with their impossible claims. But a deeper part of me—the part that had been experiencing the strange changes, the part that had always felt there was something missing in my understanding of myself—needed to see.

I nodded once, unable to speak.

Caleb stood and moved to the center of the room. Without ceremony, he began to change. His body shifted, bones rearranging, form altering in a process that should have been horrifying but instead held a strange, primal beauty. Where Caleb had stood moments before, a massive black wolf now watched me with familiar amber eyes.