Naria's Wolves

Chapter One-Episode Two

Inara turned toward the bartender. Even here, her reputation preceded her; everyone in Naria was keen to cater to the wealthiest siblings in the city. The man had a thick, unfamiliar accent and skin the color of deep ebony. His eyes were slitted and emerald green, and a pair of rounded panther ears sat nestled on either side of a sharply styled mohawk.

“Yes, please,” she said, sliding her glass across the polished wood. As she waited, Inara scanned the crowd. She wasn't here to hunt, but she needed to feel less like a caged bird and more like a woman who belonged to the night. In here, the weight of her name felt just a little bit lighter.

“Your drink,” the panther purred, sliding a fresh glass toward her. It glowed with the same sunrise fire she’d downed minutes before.

“Thank you.” Inara plucked out the tiny paper umbrella and knocked the drink back in a few rhythmic gulps.

“Hard day?” the bartender asked, his brows arching in surprise as he caught the empty glass.

Inara laughed, the alcohol already starting to hum in her veins. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, normally,” he grinned, raising the glass as if to inspect it, “a drink like this is meant to be sipped, not shot back like cheap whiskey.”

Inara laughed again, twirling a silver curl around her finger. “I can’t stand the burn of whiskey. The smell alone reminds me too much of my father. I prefer tequila or vodka.”

The panther scrunched his nose in mock disgust. “Tequila burns worse than whiskey!” He stuck his tongue out as if he’d just swallowed a lemon. “But I suppose I can forgive the vodka.”

Inara watched with growing interest as he began to line up various bottles, mixers, and chilled glasses. It looked less like bartending and more like a cocktail science experiment unfolding right on the counter.

It wasn’t long before he had crafted a vivid spread of drinks, each one a different infusion of vodka layered with sodas and bright, sugary mixers. With a final flourish, he swept the bottles aside and presented a row of shot glasses like a technicolor lineup. Inara clapped, her attention completely stolen from the dancing crowd by the entertainment unfolding on the bar.

She pointed to a glass filled with a bright, pulpy orange liquid.

“This one is perfect for that morning-after breakfast,” he said with a wink.

“I don't drink that early in the morning,” Inara giggled, though she reached for the glass without hesitation.

“You may want to, just for the flavor,” he purred, his emerald eyes sparkling in the strobe lights. “Go on. Taste it.”

Inara knocked it back. The tangy zest of orange juice hit her first, followed by a sweet, familiar warmth that slid down her throat. Her golden eyes widened in genuine shock, and a huge smile broke across her face.

“It tastes exactly like pancakes!”

The bartender laughed, leaning against the counter. “It’s a favorite for those who stay until the sun comes up—even if the sun is just a holographic light show. Unfortunately, we don’t serve the actual food to go with it.”

“This place would make a killing if it served breakfast to the survivors,” Inara mused, already eyeing the next glass. This one was a shocking, neon green that almost seemed to glow under the blacklights.

“That one is a delight,” he said, nudging it toward her. “What flavor do you think it is?”

“My first guess would be apple,” she said, snatching up the glass. Before he could warn her, she downed it. Immediately, her face scrunched up, her eyes squinting as she let out a surprised, muffled squeak.

He doubled over, laughing at her reaction as he cleared the empty glass.

“Okay... so sour apple would be more accurate,” she wheezed, laughing through the pucker. “It’s like a lime decided to start a fight.”

They played for a few more rounds: a blue raspberry that stained her tongue, a sweet lemon that tasted like sunshine, and a peanut butter whip that became her instant favorite alongside the citrus.

“You are an incredibly talented bartender,” Inara said lazily. The world was beginning to blur at the edges, her vision softening into a kaleidoscope of neon, and her body hummed with a pleasant, weighted warmth.

“Thank you,” he purred. He grabbed a fresh, tall glass, filled it with ice, and poured a clear liquid over the top with a chuckle. “I recommend you tackle this one next.”

Inara reached for it, expecting another wild flavor experiment, and took several greedy gulps. It was icy and refreshing, cutting through the sugar on her palate. It took her a heartbeat to realize it was just a simple glass of water. She raised the glass to him in a silent toast.

“I definitely needed that,” she laughed breathlessly. “Thank you.”

He dipped his head in a polite, cat-like bow, but before they could continue their game, he was called away to handle a massive order further down the bar.

Inara decided she finally had enough liquid courage singing through her veins to brave the crowd. While Scarlett favored gravity-defying heels and micro-dresses, Inara had opted for tiny shorts and a silky tank top with shimmering diamond straps. Her shoes were flat against the floor, grounding her even as the savage, thrumming beat began to take over her bones.

It didn't take long to be swallowed by the throng. She found herself swept up by a group of girls she didn't recognize, but it didn't matter. She was Inara Ashwood—the daughter of Naria’s elite—and everyone wanted to be in her orbit. Here, in the blur of strobe lights and the tactile caress of fur and skin, she could pretend to be free. For a few hours, she didn't have to wonder if people genuinely cared for her or if they were just chasing the high of her status. After all, who didn’t want to be a part of the Ashwood empire?

She lost track of time. Faces passed by like ghosts in the neon haze; scents of perfume, expensive cologne, and salt-heavy sweat merged into a dreamy blur. She was content to drift, feeling vibrantly alive in the center of the noise.

“You are very sexy,” a husky voice murmured from behind her.

Before she could react, rough, strong hands gripped her hips and spun her around. Inara let out a small, surprised squeak, a sly smile crossing her face as she came chest-to-chest with a man sporting dark hair and deep brown eyes. In her current state, she didn't care what breed of animal he was crossed with; in the dark, they were all just human.

“Why, thank you,” she responded, her voice dropping to a low, rhythmic hum.

His face was inches from hers, his wide smile revealing sharp canines. He smelled of rich earth and hard labor—a raw, honest scent that felt like a relief compared to the stifling, expensive fragrances of the men her father usually paraded in front of her.

High society demanded she stick to her own kind, but Inara had never shared their narrow views. To her, they were all products of the same disaster, and at their core, they were all human. The animal traits were just details—no different than the color of a person’s eyes or the texture of their hair. Breeding shouldn't hold the weight her father claimed it did.

Lost in the magnetic pull of those brown eyes and the security of his hands, Inara found herself enjoying the night more than she’d thought possible. He guided her through the songs, staying close, and for the first time in a long time, Inara felt like she was being seen—not as a trophy or an Ashwood, but as a girl. He asked for nothing but her company, and it felt wonderful.

For a moment, the rest of the club seemed to vanish. In a fit of playful daring, she felt him nip her shoulder. Inara let out a bright, ringing laugh and spun to face him, feeling lighter than the air in her lungs.

But reality has a cruel way of crashing back, no matter how much you want to stay in the dream.

“Get your paws off my sister.”

The snarl was low and commanding, cutting through the rhythmic thud of the music like a blade. Inara turned to see Silas, her dark-haired, hot-headed brother, staring at them with murderous intent. His steel eyes shot daggers at her dance partner, his dark grey tail standing on end in a bristling ridge of fury. His wolfish ears were pinned flat against his skull—a clear, lethal warning.

“Silas, it’s fine,” Inara muttered. The alcohol-induced haze was already beginning to evaporate, replaced by a sharp sting of aggravation. Her own lighter grey ears flattened against her silver hair to mirror his frustration.

“I saw him bite you,” Silas growled, taking a heavy, threatening step forward. “No one puts their teeth on an Ashwood.”

“And like I said, it’s fine!” she snapped. “If it had been a problem, I would have handled it.”

“Maybe I should go,” the man said from behind her. The strain in his voice was obvious; his canine ears had fallen flat against his dark hair, and the ease he’d shown moments ago was gone.

“No, stay,” Inara practically begged, turning toward him. “Silas is just an overbearing hot-head.” She threw the words over her shoulder at her brother, her golden eyes flashing with a glare of her own. They were drawing a crowd now—dozens of curious eyes watching the spectacle—and the unwanted attention made her skin crawl.

“He should go,” Silas snarled, closing the gap until Inara was the only thing standing between the two males. “A low-life mutt like him doesn’t belong in a place like this.”

Inara flinched at the slur. She hadn’t bothered to look for the tell-tale signs that he was a "mutt"—a mix of breeds looked down upon by the elites—because she simply hadn't cared. But Silas cared. Silas lived for the hierarchy.

“I have as much right to be here as anyone else,” the man growled back, though Inara could hear the sting of humiliation beneath the bravado. She stood firm, her heart racing; she knew she was the only thing keeping her street-fighting brother from launching his fists into the man’s face.

“If you have such a right, then why did you have to sneak in through the service door?” Silas’s jaw was clenched so tightly it looked like it might shatter. He turned his steel gaze to Inara. “You have no idea what you’re doing, Inara. People are going to talk if they see you mingling with the commoners.”

“Excuse me?” Inara snarled, her blood running cold.

The weight of her name suddenly felt like a physical anchor, dragging her down. She looked at the man she’d been dancing with, hoping to find a spark of the connection they’d just shared, but both men misread her tone. Silas took it as a win; the stranger took it as a betrayal.

“It was nice to meet you... Inara Ashwood,” the man said.