Chapter 1"Aria !" Cleo grabs my wrist, yanking me out of the bathroom. "Tristan and Brandon asked us to play beer pong."
Tristan.
My heart does a little flip in my chest.
Truth be told, he's half the reason I haven't called an Uber yet.
Actually, who am I kidding? He's the whole reason I'm still here.
I only met him a few hours ago, but that was enough.
He's tall, wearing a black leather jacket that fits him a little too well. Dark hair falls over his forehead—messy, but the good kind of messy.
He's undeniably the best-looking guy here, but in an effortless, maddening sort of way.
As for Brandon—the other beer pong contestant—I can't remember who he is.
What I do know: I'm terrible at sports. And I'm about to embarrass myself in front of the one person I actually want to impress.
"Are you sure you want me?" I ask, digging my heels in.
Cleo grins, dragging me toward the back door. "They asked for the birthday girl."
"Are there other birthday girls available? Maybe check the guest list?" I mutter, stumbling after her.
She ignores my protest and shoves the door open.
Instantly, the freezing upstate New York air hits me like a slap.
It's January. There's snow on the ground.
But the twenty or so people scattered around the backyard don't seem to notice.
They're all wearing leather. Jackets, vests, pants. Some of the girls are in skirts with bare legs, standing in snowdrifts as if it's mid-July.
No one is shivering. No one is huddled for warmth.
"How are they not freezing?" I whisper, rubbing my arms to chase away the bite of the wind.
Cleo shrugs. "Locals. They're built different."
Right. Or they're all just committed to looking cool.
As we walk toward the table, everyone turns to stare—at Cleo.
Of course they do. She's blonde, gorgeous, runway-ready. The kind of girl who belongs on a magazine cover, not at a random house party in the mountains.
Not at me—the awkward sidekick with weird turquoise eyes who reads too much.
Except... something about the way everyone's staring feels wrong. Like we don't belong here.
We reach the table. Red Solo cups are arranged in perfect pyramids.
"There she is." Brandon—a guy with sandy hair and a smirk that sets my teeth on edge—drops a ping-pong ball into my hand.
"It's only fair for the birthday girl to shoot first," he says with a grin that I'm sure he thinks is charming.
It's not.
I take a step back. "Sure."
I hurry to the opposite side, grateful to put a solid table between us.
On the other side of the table, Tristan crosses his arms and glowers at me, as if he's annoyed I'm even here.
"Are you going to take your shot or not?" he snaps.
The bite in his tone startles me. What the hell is his problem?
"Just analyzing my competition," I lie, trying to sound cool.
Inside? My heart is hammering against my ribs so hard I'm surprised he can't hear it.
I center myself, trying to ignore the heavy, intense way Tristan is staring at me. It feels physical. Heavy.
Focus, Aria. Just land it on the table.
I take a deep breath. Flick my wrist.
The ball sails through the air in what I'm sure is a beautiful, perfect arc—
—and hits Tristan directly in the crotch.
Thwack.
Damn it.
The music cuts out. Someone's vape pen clatters to the deck. The entire yard goes dead silent.
My face burns hot enough to melt the snow around my boots.
Tristan doesn't double over. He doesn't groan. He just stares at me, his expression darkening from annoyed to lethal.
He takes a slow step forward. The crowd parts for him.
"Keeping your eyes on the prize?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous.
The air turns electric. Everyone freezes, watching, waiting for an explosion.
Even Cleo is quiet.
I have two options: Apologize and curl into a ball of shame, or own it.
"You call that a prize?" I tilt my head, forcing a smirk I absolutely don't feel.
Judging by the flash of fire in Tristan's eyes, I chose the wrong option.
Well. Fuck.
Chapter 2
The words hang in the freezing air.
Tristan stares at me like he wants to rip my head off. The guys around him crack their knuckles, shifting closer. They look ready to obey whatever command he gives.
Whatever it is.
His arm muscles tighten. Jaw clenches.
I wonder if I should run before they swarm me like a pack of wolves.
Then, his gaze snaps to Cleo.
"Continue," he whispers.
The tension breaks.Everyone backs off.
What the hell was that?
Cleo bites her lip, glancing at me with this weird look I can't read.
I nod for her to take her shot.I've probably lost any chance I had with Tristan—if I even had one—but maybe we can move past this.
She squares her shoulders and tosses the ball.
The ball goes completely wild—sails past the table and lands somewhere in a snowbank.
That's weird.Cleo is a sports goddess. She never misses.
"What was that?" I whisper.
"Might have taken a tequila shot or two while you were in the bathroom," she giggles.
I blink. Cleo? Tequila? She's usually nursing a single hard seltzer all night.
Before I can question it further, a few girls drift past, their attention laser-focused on Tristan. A pretty redhead doesn't even try to hide her staring.
Tristan smiles at her.
A spike of anger hits me. Hot and sudden.
What is wrong with me? I barely know the guy. I literally just nailed him in the balls. Get it together, Aria.
I shake it off and force myself to focus on the game. Both guys miss their next shots—almost like they're going easy on us. Or maybe the tension is messing with them too.
When it's my turn again, I grip the ball, trying to ignore the slight buzz of alcohol in my head.
I look up to center myself.
The moon glows bright overhead—full and massive, almost unnaturally so. But now it's half covered in shadow, like something is slowly devouring it.
Wait.
"Wasn't the moon full like two minutes ago?" I ask Cleo.
"There's a Cleor eclipse tonight," Cleo says, and as the shadow continues to creep across the moon, shivers prickle up my neck.
--
The rest of the game is a disaster.
The guys obliterate us in the next round. Soon, our side of the table is empty, and the beer is sloshing around in my empty stomach.
But it hits me weird.
I feel loose. Too loose. My skin feels hot, feverish, and Cleo's eyes look glassy and unfocused next to me.
Brandon throws his hands up. "That's game, ladies! Time for the victors to claim the prize."
He saunters around the table, his gaze dropping to my chest and staying there. "Join me in the hot tub?"
I take a step back. "No thanks."
He grabs my wrist before I can retreat, jerking my body toward him.
"What's the matter? No bathing suit?" He leans in, and the smell of stale beer hits me. "That's okay. We're not shy around here."
"I said no."I try to pull my arm back, but he holds on tight.
Panic flares in my chest.I glance around for Cleo.
She's gone.
Suddenly, the air pressure around us drops.
Tristan is just there.
I didn't see him walk over. One second he was ten feet away, and the next, his hand is wrapped around Brandon's bicep. He squeezes, and I hear a sickening crunch.
Brandon's grip on me goes slack instantly.
"Don't. Touch. Her," Tristan growls, staring down at Brandon.
"It's all good," Brandon stammers, shrinking back as he rubs his arm. "We're just having some fun."
"I don't think she's having fun."
"Whatever, man," Brandon mutters, glaring at me hard. "She isn't even one of us. You want her? Take her."
He turns and stalks off toward the hot tub, muttering curses.
One of us ?
What the hell does that mean ?
Chapter 3
My brain doesn't have time to process it because Tristan turns to me.
He is standing so close I can feel the heat coming off him. His dark eyes lock onto mine—intense, magnetic.
Only a foot between us. Our breath-fog almost touching in the frozen air.
I open my mouth to speak, but a hand suddenly lands on his shoulder.
The redhead from earlier.
"Hi," she purrs, pressing herself against his chest.She doesn't even look at me.Like I don't exist.
Every cell in my body screams: Get off him.
My hands twitch at my sides, fighting a sudden, violent urge to shove her into the snow.
Whoa. I've never felt anything like that before. Not even when Ashley Brennan stole my lab partner in tenth grade.And that girl made me want to key her car.
This is... worse. Way worse.
Tristan's gaze finally breaks from mine. He looks down at her, and his eyes—those intense, burning eyes—soften.
"That game got me all riled up," he murmurs, brushing his lips against hers like he's starving for her."Want to go inside?"
"Always." She shoots me a victorious smile over her shoulder as she leads him toward the house.
He doesn't look back, and my heart sinks with disappointment.
He has a girlfriend. Of course he has a girlfriend. What was I expecting?
Whatever. In a few days Cleo and I will be back at UF and this'll all be forgotten.
Speaking of Cleo—where is she?
I scan the crowd. No sign of her.
I dig my phone out of my jacket pocket, grateful for the gloves she loaned me that work with touchscreens.
It rings. And rings.
Voicemail.
I try to text her instead.
Where r u?
But before I can hit send, my vision blurs.The letters swim across the screen like they're underwater.
My head throbs.
It's not the beer. It can't be. We only had a few cups—
The pounding gets worse. My stomach churns. Everyone's voices blend into white noise that stabs at my brain.
Did Tristan and Brandon drug us?
Nausea hits hard. I stumble toward the woods because I am NOT throwing up in front of these people. I've embarrassed myself enough tonight.Along the way, my phone slips from my hand, falling into the snow.
Desperate for something to ground me, I look to the moon.
It's full again—shadow gone.
But it's red. Blood red .How is that possible?
Then, the pain hits.
It's not a cramp. It's an explosion.
Light sears through my brain, and I keel over into the snow, screaming silently as my bones snap.
I hear them breaking—crack, pop, crunch—rearranging themselves as my skin feels like it's being shredded from the inside out.
I try to scream for help, but only a choked, guttural sound tears from my throat.
Then, just as suddenly as it started, the pain vanishes.
My body moves without my permission.
I'm running.
But I'm not running on two legs. I'm low to the ground, moving with impossible speed.
The bare trees blur into grey streaks, and the wind roars in ears that can hear everything—a heartbeat a mile away, the scurry of a mouse under the snow.
I don't know where I'm going, only that I need to run. Deeper. Darker.
Let go, a voice whispers inside my head.
It's not my voice. It's older, wilder.
Hand it over to me.
No, I panic, fighting the pull. I'm losing my mind.
Relax, she coaxes. Not asking, but commanding. I can help you. But you have to let me in.
I can't explain why, but a sudden calm washes over me. I trust her.
I stop fighting and let the darkness take me.
I wake up on the frozen ground, my body feeling heavy and wrecked.
I stare up at the sky. The moon is back to normal—white, cold, distant.
Except... I swear I see the outline of a wolf carved into its surface.
I blink, trying to clear my vision.
A face shimmers into view above me.
"Cleo?" I croak, my throat raw.
No.
The hair is wrong. Too blonde—almost silver. And her eyes aren't warm brown. They're violet, glowing faintly in the moonlight.
She looks translucent, shimmering like a ghost or an angel.Her hair flows like liquid silver in the wind.
She kneels beside me and presses her thumbs against my temples."Everything's going to be okay," she whispers, her voice impossibly soothing.
"But listen to me, Aria. This is important."
She leans closer.
"No matter what happens... never tell them your eyes aren't brown."
"What are you—"
"They're coming. Remember what I said."
