One Week
Before the Full Moon
Age 22
The city
hit me like a slap—sharp, cold, and relentless. New York City didn't care about
my torn dress or the dirt still caked under my nails from the forest. It didn't
care about the pendant hanging heavy around my neck, its runes dim but warm,
like a heartbeat I couldn't ignore. The streets buzzed with noise—horns
blaring, voices shouting, the grind of a subway beneath my feet as I stepped
off the bus. I'd spent every cent I had on that ticket, leaving Silverfang
Manor and its ghosts behind. At least, I hoped I had.
I tugged
my coat tighter around me, the chill of late fall biting at my skin. My breath
fogged in the air as I walked, my boots scuffing against the cracked sidewalk.
I didn't have a plan. Not really. Just a crumpled piece of paper with an
address Mira had given me months ago—"If you ever need to disappear," she'd
said with that half-smirk of hers. I hadn't thought I'd need it. I hadn't
thought a lot of things.
The
address led me to a narrow street in Brooklyn, lined with brick buildings that
looked like they'd seen better days. The bookstore was tucked between a
laundromat and a bodega, its sign faded but legible: Pages & Tomes.
A bell jangled as I pushed the door open, the scent of old paper and dust
washing over me like a balm. It was quiet inside, the kind of quiet that felt
like a held breath. Shelves stretched to the ceiling, stuffed with books that
looked older than me, their spines cracked and yellowed. A single lamp glowed
at the counter, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor.
The
woman behind the counter looked up, her glasses slipping down her nose. She was
older, maybe fifty, with graying hair pulled into a messy bun and a cardigan
that hung off her like it was two sizes too big. "You look like hell," she
said, her voice dry as the pages around us.
I tried
to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. "I've had a rough couple of days," I
said, my voice hoarse from crying, from running, from screaming at that thing
in the forest. I didn't even know where to start explaining.
She
raised an eyebrow, taking in my dirt-streaked face and the rips in my coat.
"I'm guessing you're not here to buy a book."
"I need
a job," I blurted, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "I can work
hard. I can clean, shelve books, whatever you need. I just… I need a place to
start over."
She
studied me for a long moment, her eyes sharp despite the softness of her face.
Then she sighed, pushing her glasses up. "Name's Marjorie," she said, standing
to shuffle around the counter. "I don't usually hire strays, but you've got the
look of someone who's got nowhere else to go. And I'm short-staffed." She
gestured to a stack of boxes in the corner. "Start by unpacking those. We'll
see if you're worth keeping around."
Relief
hit me so hard I nearly sagged against the counter. "Thank you," I whispered,
blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over again. I'd cried enough
for a lifetime in the past two days.
Marjorie
waved a hand, already turning back to her ledger. "Don't thank me yet. Pay's
barely enough to scrape by, and I don't do coddling. You mess up, you're out."
I
nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. I didn't care about the pay or the
threat. I just needed to be somewhere that wasn't Silverfang Manor, somewhere
Darius Blackthorne couldn't find me, somewhere that creature in the forest
couldn't track me. My wolf growled softly in my chest, a low rumble that hadn't
stopped since the rejection. I clenched my fists, willing her to be quiet. I
couldn't afford to lose control—not here, not now.
The next
few days blurred together in a haze of routine. I unpacked boxes, dusted
shelves, rang up the occasional customer who wandered in looking for some
obscure poetry collection or a first-edition mystery novel. Marjorie wasn't
much for conversation, but she didn't ask questions either, which suited me
just fine. I rented a tiny room above a deli a few blocks away, a shoebox with
a leaky faucet and a mattress that smelled like mothballs. It wasn't much, but
it was mine. For the first time in years, I felt like I could breathe—even if
every breath came with a pang of guilt, of shame, of fear.
My wolf
didn't make it easy. She paced inside me, restless, her growls a constant hum
beneath my skin. She wanted out, wanted to run, to fight, to howl at the moon
that hung low over the city skyline. I wouldn't let her. I'd spent years
keeping her locked away, ever since my father's betrayal had turned the pack
against us. Omegas weren't supposed to have strong wolves. We weren't supposed
to have wolves at all, not really. But mine had always been there, waiting, and
now she was awake and hungry.
The
pendant didn't help either. It sat against my chest, its warmth a constant
reminder of the forest, of my mother's voice, of that creature's glowing eyes.
I didn't dare take it off—not after what had happened—but I didn't know what it
meant, what it wanted from me. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those claws,
heard that voice: Your power calls to me. What power? I was
nothing. A failure. A reject. An omega who couldn't even keep an alpha's
interest long enough to seal a marriage pact.
By the
seventh day, I'd started to feel… not safe, exactly, but steady. The bookstore
had become a kind of sanctuary, its quiet walls a shield against the chaos I'd
left behind. I was closing up that night, the clock ticking past nine as I
swept the floor, the last of the day's dust swirling in the dim light. Marjorie
had left an hour ago, muttering something about a doctor's appointment, so it
was just me and the creak of the old building settling around me.
I locked
the cash register, double-checking the totals like Marjorie had taught me. My
hands were steady now, the tremble I'd carried since the forest finally gone. I
grabbed my coat from the hook by the door, the pendant shifting against my skin
as I moved. I paused, glancing at my reflection in the darkened window. My
green eyes looked hollow, my auburn hair a tangled mess pulled into a loose
braid. I barely recognized myself.
The bell
jangled behind me, and I froze. We were closed. I'd locked the door—I was sure
of it. My wolf snarled, hackles rising, and I turned slowly, my heart slamming
against my ribs.
A sleek
black car idled outside, its tinted windows reflecting the streetlights like
mirrors. The door to the bookstore was open, a cold breeze slipping inside, and
there, filling the doorway, was a figure I'd hoped I'd never see again.
Darius
Blackthorne.
He stood
there like he owned the place, all sharp lines and unyielding power. His dark
hair was swept back, his scarred jaw set in a hard line. Those unreadable
eyes—gray like a storm cloud—locked onto mine, pinning me in place. He was
dressed in a tailored black coat, the kind that probably cost more than I'd
make in a year, and his presence filled the room, heavy and suffocating.
My wolf
went silent, curling in on herself, but my body reacted on instinct—my breath
hitched, my hands clenched, my knees locked to keep from trembling. I wanted to
run. I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw something at him, to make him feel
even a fraction of the humiliation he'd carved into me.
"Liora,"
he said, his voice low, smooth, like velvet over steel. He took a step forward,
the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click.
I backed
up, my hip hitting the counter. "Get out," I snapped, my voice shaking but
sharp. "You don't get to show up here. You don't get to—"
"I'm not
here to fight," he said, raising a hand as if to calm me. It didn't. "We need
to talk."
"There's
nothing to talk about." I grabbed the broom, holding it like a weapon, though I
knew it was useless against him. He was an alpha, the alpha, and I was… me.
"You made your choice. You humiliated me in front of the entire pack. You don't
get to waltz in here and act like it didn't happen."
His jaw
tightened, something flickering in his eyes—regret, maybe, or anger. I couldn't
tell. I didn't care. "I didn't have a choice," he said, his voice quieter now,
but no less commanding. "You don't understand what's at stake."
"Then
enlighten me," I spat, my grip on the broom tightening. "Tell me why you
dragged me to that altar just to throw me away. Tell me why I had to run for my
life through the forest, why I'm hiding in a city that doesn't give a damn
about me. Tell me, Darius, because I'm dying to know."
He took
another step closer, and I flinched, hating myself for it. He stopped, his
hands clenching at his sides. "You're in danger, Liora," he said, his voice
steady but laced with something I couldn't place. "More danger than you can
imagine. And I'm the only one who can keep you safe."
I
laughed, the sound bitter and jagged. "Safe?" I echoed, my voice rising. "You
think I felt safe when you rejected me? When that… that thing in the forest
came after me? You think I feel safe now, with you standing here like you have
any right to be in my life?"
His eyes
darkened, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "What thing in the forest?" he asked,
his tone sharp now, all alpha, all predator.
I froze,
my mouth going dry. I hadn't meant to say that. I didn't want to tell him about
the creature, about the pendant, about my mother's voice. But the way he was
looking at me—like he could see right through me—made my skin crawl.
"Get
out," I said again, my voice barely above a whisper. "I don't need you. I don't
want you."
He
didn't move, his gaze holding mine, heavy and unyielding. "You don't have a
choice," he said, and there was something in his voice now—something that made
my blood run cold. "They're coming for you, Liora. And I'm not leaving until
you listen."
The
pendant pulsed against my chest, a warning, a promise. My wolf growled, low and
dangerous, and for the first time since I'd arrived in the city, I felt like I
was standing on the edge of a cliff, with nowhere to run.