Aurora's POV
"Happy birthday, my dear Aurora."
My mother's voice pulled me from the haze of sleep. I blinked and found her seated on the edge of my bed. Her sea-blue eyes—mirrors of my own—were dancing with excitement.
"Fourteen today," she said softly. "The big one."
I sat up, rubbing my eyes. "Good morning, Mother," I murmured, my heart already fluttering in my chest.
"Are you excited?" she whispered, leaning in. "To see if your wolf wakes up today?"
I swallowed hard, my throat tightening. She caught the flicker of fear in my expression and squeezed my hand. "Don't be scared. If she doesn't come today, you have until eighteen. The Goddess has her own timing, Aurora. Whether it's your wolf today or your mate in four years, your life is only just beginning."
I nodded, anchored by her comforting gaze.
"Go on, now," she urged, kissing my forehead. "Get dressed and come down. We're all waiting."
After she left, I stood before the mirror and smoothed the skirt of the new dress she'd bought me. I looked like a Disney princess. I should have felt like one, but as I adjusted my collar, a sudden shiver raced down my spine, despite the warm morning sun streaming through the window.
The air in the room grew heavy and thin, as if the house itself were holding its breath. Something was wrong. A prickle of static danced across the back of my neck, the way it does right before a lightning strike. I couldn't pinpoint the source of the dread, so I forced a swallow down my throat and pushed the feeling down. I pinned my hair into a neat bun, took a deep breath to stop my hands from trembling, and headed for the stairs.
At the dining table, my father was already seated, and my elder brother, James, was grinning at me.
"Happy birthday, Aurora!" they chorused.
The air smelled of toasted bread and roasted chicken. I leaned over, pressing a kiss to my father's rough cheek, then Mother's, then James's.
"Ready to shift and kick my butt in a spar?" James teased, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
I laughed—but then I noticed my father's ears twitching toward the front door, his fork hovering just an inch above his plate as if he were listening to something far away. My pulse began to thud rhythmically in my ears, a drumbeat of warning that made me restless. "I'll grab the juice," I said, ducking into the kitchen just to escape the sudden, suffocating pressure in the dining room.
I was reaching for the fridge when a loud gunshot echoed through the house.
I froze, the carton slipping from my fingers.
Slowly, I crept toward the kitchen door and peered through a narrow opening. My heart stopped.
Three men stood in our dining room. They wore black clothes and masks. Silver guns filled their hands—guns made to kill people like us. My father was standing, his eyes glowing as he tried to shift into his wolf, but he didn't get the chance.
The guns fired.
The sound was so deafening it left a high-pitched ringing in my ears. I stood frozen in place as I watched my family get thrown back by the force of the shots. The warm smell of breakfast vanished, replaced instantly by the thick, metallic stench of blood.
"Check them," a voice commanded. It was cold, devoid of humanity.
My breath hitched, my throat burning as if filled with glass, as the men nudged my father's body with their boots.
"Dead. All of them," one confirmed.
"Good. We're done here." The leader pulled back his sleeve to check his watch. On the pale skin of his inner wrist, a black scorpion tattoo stood out like a permanent bruise.
They vanished as quickly as they had arrived, leaving behind a silence so heavy it felt like it was crushing my lungs.
I stumbled out of the kitchen, my legs turning to water. "Mother?" I whispered, shaking her shoulder. Her blue eyes were still open, staring at nothing—the light I had seen in them just minutes ago completely extinguished.
I turned to Father, then to James, my hands slick with blood as I begged them to wake up, to tell me this was just a cruel birthday prank. But no one moved.
"No!" I screamed, my body trembling violently as I shook them, begging them to wake up. Their skin was already losing its warmth, turning cold beneath my touch.
Suddenly, the room began to spin. The walls felt like they were closing in on me. I struggled to breathe, the air thick with the scent of blood and death. Darkness crept into the edges of my vision, threatening to swallow me whole.
With trembling hands, I reached out for something—anything—to hold onto, but my strength failed me.
As the world blurred into shadows and I collapsed, the last thing burned into my mind was the black scorpion tattoo on the masked man's wrist.