Ayla Rivers had never been afraid of the dark.
Not when she was a little girl moving from one foster home to another. Not when whispers crept through thin bedroom walls or when shadows danced under closed doors. Not during her first graveyard-shift assignments as a rookie journalist, hunting for stories no one else wanted to chase. And definitely not now, as she crouched behind a thick tree trunk in the dense woods behind Blackthorne Manor.
This was different. This was bigger.
She was here for the kind of story that could change everything. The kind of scoop that turned nobodies into front-page names. Her hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from adrenaline. Lucien Blackthorne, the reclusive billionaire tech mogul, had become her obsession over the last three weeks. The man was a walking mystery. No public appearances, no interviews, no social media. Rumors swirled around his name like smoke—strange lights in the woods, missing hikers, even the occasional whisper of howling. All absurd, of course. Ayla didn't believe in fairy tales.
But she did believe in silence. And this silence was wrong.
Too quiet. No birds. No wind. No animal sounds. Just the crunch of her boots on dry leaves and the soft hum of her recording equipment. She crouched lower and checked her camera: lens cap off, battery full, microphone live.
She crept forward, weaving between trees like a shadow. The full moon cast silver light through skeletal branches, illuminating the uneven forest floor. Then she heard them—voices. Low, urgent, male. She inched closer, pressing her back to a mossy boulder and peeking around its edge.
And there he was.
Lucien Blackthorne.
He stood tall beneath the moonlight, his black suit half-undone—jacket discarded on a nearby stump, sleeves rolled up. His presence was magnetic, dangerous even. His hair was raven-dark, streaked with silver at the temples. But it was his eyes that froze her in place—golden. Not hazel. Not brown. Golden. And they shimmered faintly.
Across from him stood two other men, rigid with tension. One, broad and red-haired, stepped forward and spoke in a low, gravelly tone.
"What you're doing will destroy the balance."
Lucien's voice cut through the stillness. "I don't answer to you, Ronan."
The red-haired man growled not in anger, but in an unmistakably animalistic way. It sent chills down Ayla's spine.
She lifted her camera slowly. Heart hammering. Hands steady.
This was insane. Unbelievable. And yet, something deep in her gut told her to keep filming. This was real.
And then Lucien stopped speaking. His head tilted. He sniffed the air once, like a predator catching a scent.
Ayla froze.
Their eyes locked. For a split second, the world held its breath.
Then Lucien dropped to his knees.
A sickening series of cracks filled the air bones shifting, skin stretching. His body convulsed. His fingers curled against the earth, nails thickening, lengthening into claws. His shirt tore as fur erupted from his skin. His jaw extended, face reshaping into something no longer human.
Ayla's blood ran cold.
He's shifting, her mind whispered. He's becoming something else.
And then it was done. Where Lucien once stood now loomed a beast a massive, jet-black wolf, taller than any she had ever seen, nearly the size of a horse. His fur was sleek and glossy under the moonlight. His golden eyes burned brighter than before.
Ayla stumbled backward, twigs snapping under her feet.
The wolf's head jerked in her direction.
He growled.
Then lunged.
She turned and ran, heart exploding in her chest. Branches clawed at her jacket, brambles snagged her jeans. She didn't stop to think. She just ran.
This isn't happening. This can't be real.
But the thundering sound of massive paws behind her said otherwise. He was close too close.
A root caught her boot. She fell hard, gasping as the air was knocked from her lungs. The ground spun. She tried to crawl backward, but it was too late.
The wolf was there.
He loomed over her, chest heaving, growl low and deep. His eyes locked onto hers intense, unblinking. He was close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath, see the twitch in his snout.
Ayla stared, frozen in place. This was it. She was going to die here, in the middle of nowhere, taken down by some mythical creature no one would believe existed.
But the attack never came.
The wolf's growl softened. He stepped back, head tilting slightly, as if curious.
And then, right before her eyes, his body began to shift again. Bones cracked. Fur receded. Limbs shortened and reformed. The creature's snout collapsed into a human mouth. When the change was complete, Lucien Blackthorne stood before her bare-chested, skin glistening with sweat, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath.
"You shouldn't have seen that," he said, his voice low and rough.
Ayla struggled to sit up. "What, what the hell are you?"
Lucien didn't blink. "I could ask you the same thing."