The rain had finally succumbed to exhaustion, leaving behind only the rhythmic drip, drip, drip of water running off the eaves of the old Southside Mansion. Inside, the darkness of Violet's bedroom felt almost oppressive, yet her body was anything but heavy. She lay sprawled on her overstuffed beanbag chair, the orange juice and chips scattered around her forgotten, her mind racing at a speed that felt inhuman.
Girls are supposed to feel a little bit painful, a little down on the energy, body pains all over, a lingering ache that reminds them of the night's work after the first time. But Violet felt none of it. She felt spectacular. She was a coiled spring, humming with a clean, raw energy that made her fingertips tingle and her vision sharper, clearer, than it had ever been. She felt so full of kinetic force she could probably run a marathon—a triathlon marathon, even—and barely break a sweat. This wasn't fatigue; it was power, and it was terrifying.
She scrolled through the cryptic, often contradictory articles on the internet, her initial denial about the wolf now shattered. She had killed a man—her stepmother's boyfriend, Stan—a month ago in a blind rage, a memory that still stained the edge of her consciousness with flashes of red rage and blood. She had been reborn in blood and fire. And last night, she had almost drained the life out of a stranger, a beautiful, golden-skinned man whose powerful musk still clung to the fibers of her hastily discarded clothes.
The man. The Adonis. The eleven-star lover.
She typed "Deadwood High Student Council" into the search bar, her hands trembling not from fear, but from the vibrating energy contained within her skin. She found the school website's main page. There, under the banner for the upcoming Winter Ball, was a large, glossy photo of the student body president: William Wolf. Golden eyes, a smile that looked like it was designed to stop hearts, and a casual authority that radiated from the screen even in a still photo. It was him. The man from the solarium. The wolf in her bed.
A gasp caught in her throat, a sharp intake of air that felt like ice. The attraction was a gravitational pull, a fact of nature she could no longer deny. But the reality was a ticking clock. She was a monster waiting to happen; a time bomb of raw, volatile power. He was an innocent student (or so she thought then), and she had nearly killed him with a kiss.
I need a shield, she thought, panic coiling tight in her gut. I need to be invisible. If he connects the feral, half-naked creature who attacked him with the new girl, he'll either run in terror or, worse, try to claim her. And I don't want to accidentally drain the entire Alpha heir of his life force.
Her power was an untamed predator. If she couldn't control the wolf, she would hide it.
Violet spent the rest of the day in a frenzy of calculated self-sabotage. She went through her wardrobe—the slinky dresses, the tight jeans, the carefully coordinated, subtly flattering outfits—and tossed them all aside. She found a pair of ancient, shapeless brown corduroys her mother had bought years ago, a baggy, once-pink hoodie that had faded to an indeterminate shade of dull gray, and a pair of thick, round-rimmed glasses she'd only ever worn when studying. This wasn't just hiding; it was the construction of an entirely new personality—a deliberate act of camouflage.
The wolf inside of her, the newly awakened succubus blood demanding recognition, howled in protest. Reject beauty. Reject attention. Become plain.
She practiced the walk in the hallway mirror: head slightly down, shoulders hunched, ponytail pulled tight so her face seemed perpetually drawn, and a studied expression of nervous distraction on her face. She would be the quiet, unnoticeable girl—the dowdy new chick from the city who would never, ever be mistaken for a moonlit fairy, an enchanted temptress, or a primal, beautiful predator.
The next morning, stepping out of the car, the air of Deadwood High hit her like a physical force. It wasn't the smell of pine or snow; it was the cacophony of teenage energies. The scent of fear, competition, pheromones, and raw, unfiltered youth. It was overwhelming, a tidal wave of hormones and social anxiety that she, for the first time in her life, could sense almost as clearly as she could smell the cafeteria's mystery meat.
Violet tightened her grip on her book bag, pulling the sleeves of the gray hoodie further down her hands. She was an extraneous shape, a gray blob of apathy maneuvering through a vibrant, color-coded social landscape. The local kids, mostly descendants of ranching or oil families, were loud, confident, and unapologetically stylish in their denim and leather. She was a glitch in their system. Perfect.
She navigated the crowded hallway towards her first class, Science 3-A, trying desperately to recall the layout from the principal's confusing map. She kept her head down, feeling the subtle, assessing stares of the local girls—the kind of stares that dismissed her instantly, relieved that the competition was this low. She felt a momentary, sharp sting of shame, but swallowed it down. It's a costume, Violet. It's protection.
Then, she saw him.
William Wolf wasn't just standing in the hallway; he was dominating it. He was leaned against a bank of lockers, flanked by two equally handsome, tall boys, one of whom was his cousin, Neil Owen. William wore dark, perfectly tailored jeans and a simple white henley that somehow made him look like a statue carved from golden marble.
The moment her gaze—however fleeting—landed on him, Violet's carefully constructed indifference disintegrated.
Her breath hitched, and the strange, vibrant energy she felt earlier surged. It wasn't just lust; it was a physical, almost magnetic, recognition. Her spine straightened, her hands balled into fists, and beneath the baggy gray cotton, she could feel the faint, golden flicker behind her irises demanding to be released. Mate. Power. Claim. Every instinct in her body screamed for her to drop the disguise, stride over there, and let the entire high school witness the primal reunion.
She slammed the mental brakes. No. Control. She forced her shoulders to slump, her gaze to drop, willing herself to become just another piece of the institutional background, a forgettable fixture. She felt a bead of sweat trickle down her temple despite the cool air. The effort to suppress the wolf was monumental, like trying to hold back a tsunami with a single sheet of glass.
William was speaking to Neil, a low, confident baritone that seemed to cut through the hallway noise like a laser. He casually scanned the crowd, a habit of a predator surveying his territory. His golden eyes, the same ones that had looked into hers last night, flashed over the sea of faces, dismissing them all instantly, until his gaze—briefly, carelessly—flickered past Violet.
He paused for a fraction of a second—not recognizing her, but maybe noticing the unusual surge of energy she was desperately trying to dampen. He turned his head slightly towards his companion, a casual frown etching his perfect brow.
"William! Did you see something?" Neil's cousin, Chris, asked him.
William subtly tilted his head, his gaze still fixed on the disappearing back of the hunch-shouldered figure in gray. His eyes didn't hold the fire of recognition, only the cool assessment of someone noticing an oddity.
He looked over at the nearest boy, a spectacles-wearing student named Ronald who was hovering nearby, clearly hoping for acknowledgement.
"Hello, Ronald! Who's that dowdy gray blob in the three-A?" William asked conversationally, the very ease of his tone emphasizing how little the 'blob' mattered.
Violet, already halfway into the classroom, heard the words as clearly as if he'd shouted them. The phrase, delivered with the polite indifference of someone commenting on an unflattering piece of school furniture, struck her like a physical blow.
Dowdy gray blob.
Relief, sharp and overwhelming, immediately replaced the panic. He hadn't recognized the wolf. Her disguise was working. He saw only what she wanted him to see: an unattractive, forgettable new girl.
But beneath the relief, a new emotion, cold and exhilarating, began to bubble: anger.
Violet Darkwood, the girl whose beauty and confidence had been her primary weapons since childhood, had just been dismissed as a shapeless, dowdy gray blob. The insult was a catalyst. It wasn't enough to just hide anymore; she had to prove him wrong.
She wasn't going to let the fear of her uncontrollable power dictate her life. She was Violet Darkwood, and she would not drown just because there was a Tsunami. She wouldn't just survive; she would win.
The wolf—the dangerous, powerful, gorgeous side of her—would stay locked away, a secret weapon. But the blob? The blob would be the Trojan horse. The blob would be the unexpected challenger.
The game was on. What was high school for if she couldn't even play the double identity game? She would win the Adonis, capture the heart of William Wolf, and she would do it while wearing a shapeless gray hoodie and looking like a bookish distraction. When she finally revealed the truth, the shock would be all the more satisfying.
She smiled, a tiny, fierce curve of the lips hidden beneath the shadow of her hood, a smile that promised retribution, romance, and a whole lot of calculated trouble. She took her seat, ready to start the long, delicious campaign to prove that even a dowdy gray blob could be the one to bring a golden-eyed wolf to his knees.