By the time the city comes into view, I have already memorized my rules again.
Rule one: never stay long enough to be remembered.
Rule two: never touch a werewolf.
Rule three: if the moon feels too close, leave.
I repeat them as the bus rattles over cracked asphalt, as neon signs flicker awake in the early evening, as the smell of oil, rain, and too many bodies bleeds through the open windows. This city is loud in a way packs never are—human noise layered over human lives, chaotic and careless. I chose it for that reason.
Here, no one listens for heartbeats that don't belong. No one smells blood the way we do. No one looks twice at a woman who keeps her head down and her answers short.
Perfect.
I step off the bus with my bag slung over one shoulder and my hood pulled low. The pavement is slick from a recent rain, reflecting streetlights in long, broken streaks. Somewhere nearby, music thumps through walls, bass-heavy and reckless. I move with the crowd, letting them swallow me whole.
Disappear. Blend. Survive.
The apartment is small, overpriced, and already furnished with someone else's mistakes. I don't mind. I never do. The less personal a place feels, the easier it is to leave it behind.
I check the locks. Windows. Corners. Habit more than fear.
When I finally sit on the edge of the bed, exhaustion crashes into me like a delayed blow. My body aches with the familiar aftermath—muscles sore, skin sensitive, heart heavy with something I refuse to name.
I shower quickly, scalding hot, as if I can wash last night off my skin. As if the water can take the memory with it. It never does.
When I step out, steam fogging the mirror, I barely recognize the woman staring back.
Tired eyes. Too-sharp cheekbones. A mouth that has forgotten how to smile without calculation.
I look away first.
Night falls fast in the city. Faster than it should. I feel the moon before I see it—an uncomfortable pull beneath my skin, a reminder that no matter how far I run, it always knows where I am.
I need food. Supplies. Cash.
I pull my hood back up and head out.
The convenience store is crowded, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Humans brush past me without hesitation, without fear. Their ignorance is a shield I hide behind gladly. I grab what I need quickly, keeping my head down.
That's when it happens.
The air changes.
It's subtle—just a flicker of wrongness, like a note played slightly off-key. My steps slow without my permission. My heartbeat stutters.
I smell him.
Not human.
My spine goes rigid.
I turn slowly, senses screaming, ready to bolt if I have to. My gaze lands on a man standing two aisles over, staring at a shelf of bottled water like it's personally offended him.
He looks human.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair falling into his eyes. Nothing about him screams pack or threat. No markings. No dominance pressing down on the room.
And yet.
The pull is immediate and violent.
My chest tightens as if something inside me has recognized him before my mind can catch up. The moon stirs, sharp and sudden, like it's drawn a breath.
No.
I step back, heart pounding. This is impossible. I don't react like this. I can't afford to.
He turns.
Our eyes meet.
The world lurches.
For a split second, everything else fades—the noise, the lights, the people. His gaze locks onto mine with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. Confusion flickers across his face, followed by something darker. Curious. Searching.
He feels it too.
That realization is a punch to the gut.
I break eye contact first, breath coming too fast, and move—fast—toward the counter. I don't look back. I can feel him behind me anyway, like gravity has shifted its allegiance.
Don't be stupid, I tell myself. He's human. He has to be.
But my instincts snarl, loud and certain.
When I step outside, the night air hits me hard. I suck in a breath—and freeze.
He's there.
Leaning against the brick wall like he's been waiting, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, eyes lifted toward the sky. Toward the moon.
He lowers his gaze when he senses me, surprise flashing across his face.
"Hey," he says, voice calm. Too calm. "Do I know you?"
The moon pulses.
Hard.
I take a step back, every warning screaming at once.
No one has ever made the moon react like this before.
And whatever he is…
He shouldn't be standing this close to me and still breathing.