The Wolf, the Demon, and Their Omega

Chapter Four

MINA

The suppressants burn going down. Fourth dose today. My hands shake as I dry-swallow three more pills in Lysander's marble bathroom, watching my reflection fracture in the mirror. Twenty-three feet of muscle coils tighter under my skin, compressed into this ridiculous human shape.

Not yet.

The party throbs through imported marble—bass lines that match supernatural metabolisms, conversations layered in frequencies humans can't process. I map every sound, build a three-dimensional model of threats and exits. Sasha's giving orders in Russian somewhere below, voice cutting through noise like winter through wool. Kenji's laugh burns bright to the east, probably charming secrets from vampires who think demons are all heat and no strategy.

They're both hunting for me.

I grip the sink. My mother's voice echoes: Observation is survival, mija. See everything, reveal nothing.

Except I've already revealed too much. The chase through the east wing. Claiming sanctuary like I knew the old laws. Moving with Kenji through Blood Moon's halls like we'd trained together since birth. Not flinching when wolves shifted illegally, like watching bones break and reform was standard Tuesday entertainment.

Time to play dumber. Much dumber.

My phone glows. Two hours until moonrise. Until sanctuary expires and those wolves come collecting. The suppressants fight a losing battle in my bloodstream. Each dose just makes my anaconda nature angrier, like trying to hold back the sss with a cocktail napkin.

The door opens. No knock. Power play.

"Oh good. The charity case found the bathroom."

Charlotte Kingston enters with her court—five girls who move like synchronized predators. I've researched them all. The mean girls who rule through careful cruelty, each one a different flavor of gorgeous violence.

Natasha Volkov blocks the exit, platinum blonde and built for war. Evangelina Cruz floats beside her, fifteen and lethal, crow familiar perched on her shoulder like a Hermès accessory. Scarlett Chen smiles with lips that have tasted centuries. Ophelia Ashworth makes reality nervous just by existing.

They circle. I let them.

"Charlotte." I pitch my voice high, nervous. Let my hands tremble for the wrong reasons. "Nice party."

"It's not mine. I don't do charity."

Practiced laughter. Sharp as surgical instruments.

"Though Lysander does have... exotic tastes." Charlotte invades my space, and I catalog what she is—human but wrong. Pupils dilated from something that isn't pharmaceutical. Pulse too steady. She knows about supernaturals. More—she feeds them information through those leather journals she thinks are secret.

"Transfer students. Scholarship cases. Things that smell like..."

She pauses. Inhales. Her perfectly threaded eyebrows furrow.

"Like rain."

"I shower regularly."

"Cute." Scarlett's fangs peek out. "But we're not talking about soap. You smell like... what is that? Petrichor?"

"And green." Evangelina's crow caws agreement. "Like rainforest. Like things that hunt in trees."

My spine goes rigid. Too close. Way too close.

"Maybe it's my shampoo?"

"Maybe you're something that climbs." Natasha prowls closer, and I smell wolf curiosity mixing with jealousy. "Jaguar? Ocelot? Some kind of cat?"

Relief floods through me. Let them think feline. Cats are common enough, pose no real threat to the ecosystem here. Nothing like what I actually am.

"Maybe I just like Crabtree and Evelyn."

"Nobody likes Crabtree and Evelyn that much." Charlotte's still studying me, and I see the moment she decides I'm interesting enough to keep. "What are you hunting, kitty cat?"

The nickname stings perfectly. Let them think I'm some small predator playing above my weight class. I catalog each girl while maintaining my nervous act.

Charlotte: Trading information for protection. Those journals contain enough intel to bury half the families here. She's building her own empire on secrets.

Natasha: Beta wolf straining against biology. Wants Sasha's attention but also genuinely protective of pack. Would die for him, but might kill him first.

Evangelina: That crow isn't her familiar—it's her handler. Someone's watching through those black eyes. Someone with cartel connections and body counts.

Scarlett: Not just old. Ancient. Playing high school for the thirty-seventh time because eternity is boring and teenage cruelty never gets old.

Ophelia: Fae bound by contract to be here. Every word she speaks has three meanings, and all of them are legally binding.

"You're right." I let truth season the lie. "I do smell like questions. Like why I'm here. What I want. Who's hunting who."

Charlotte's eyes narrow. "And?"

"And maybe that's exactly what I planned."

Ophelia moves. Between blinks, she's in my face, smelling like ozone and old growth forest. Her fingers touch my cheek and reality bends.

"You're drowning yourself in chemicals."

"Allergy medication."

She laughs bright as breaking glass. "Liar, liar, scales on—oh. Oh, that's interesting." Her fingers trace my jaw, leaving trails of something between pleasure and pain. "Not scales. But not fur either. What are you swallowing, little hunter?"

My anaconda writhes. Wants to show this fae princess exactly what swallowing means.

"Anxiety meds. Transfer student stress."

"Lies taste delicious from you. But not as delicious as what you're hiding." She leans close enough to kiss. "The boys sense it. That's why they circle. They want to crack you open and see what's inside."

"And you?"

"I want to watch when it happens."

She steps back. The others stare like they're seeing me fresh. Or seeing what Ophelia sees—something wearing a girl suit badly.

"Interesting." Charlotte's smile turns real, which makes it worse. "Ladies, I believe we've been underestimating our new student."

"Definitely." Scarlett's tongue flicks over fangs. "Question is, what do we do about it?"

Silent vote. Micro-expressions and pheromone shifts. Even Charlotte participates, though she shouldn't be able to smell what they're smelling.

Natasha delivers the verdict. "You sit with us. Let everyone know you're under our protection."

"Why would you protect me?"

"Because." Evangelina's crow hops to my shoulder. Its weight feels prophetic. "Something interesting is about to happen at Blood Moon. We collect interesting things."

"Plus." Ophelia glides toward the door. "Sasha and Kenji aren't the only ones who enjoy playing with pretty cats. We're just better at catch and release."

They file out. The crow digs talons through silk, insurance or encouragement.

I check my reflection. Still human-shaped. Still lying.

But now with backup.

---

The party exists in architectural impossibility. Lysander's penthouse breaks reality into suggestions, fae magic making stairs lead up and down simultaneously. Doors open onto rooms that shouldn't fit. Windows show seven cities that don't share a continent.

I follow the mean girls through crowds that part like we're plague carriers. Charlotte provides running commentary in whispers that carry exactly as far as she wants.

"Vampires own the top floor. Height equals hierarchy in their tiny minds." She gestures to pale figures draped on furniture. "Never go up alone. They share everything—blood, bodies, blackmail."

The wolves from earlier cluster near the bar, trying not to stare. Charlotte notices.

"Already making friends? Impressive. Most charity cases don't get hunted until second semester."

"I'm an overachiever."

"Clearly."

I spot Kenji through the crowd, surrounded by demons who orbit his heat. He's mid-story, hands miming explosions. His eyes find mine across impossible distance. The connection hits like electrical current finding ground. My cold recognizes his heat, biology screaming compatibility.

He starts toward us. Natasha shakes her head minutely. He stops.

"First rule of supernatural parties—never look eager. Desperation smells like dying prey."

She steers me toward french doors that lead to a balcony. Night air tastes purple out here, fae magic turning sensation into synesthesia. The city spreads below like a circuit board God forgot to debug.

"Enjoying the view?"

Sasha materializes from shadow. The mean girls evaporate except for that damn crow, now perched on the railing like it's selling tickets.

His voice runs fingers down my spine. I don't turn. The suppressants are thinning under supernatural pressure, each interaction wearing them tissue-paper thin.

"Pretty lights hiding ugly truths."

"Speaking from experience?"

"It's my M.O."

He moves beside me, not touching but close enough I feel winter radiating from his skin. We stand in silence that's anything but comfortable. I count his breaths—seventeen per minute, too controlled for calm.

"They're planning to take you when sanctuary expires."

"The wolves? I figured."

"Not just wolves. Word travels fast. Unclaimed omega at Blood Moon." He turns, and his profile hits like elegant violence. "Half the underground's mobilizing."

"And you?"

"I don't make plans. I make facts."

Arrogance that should annoy. Instead, heat pools low in my stomach, wrong response to apex proximity. My anaconda recognizes something in him—patient hunter, careful killer. Equal.

"Big words from someone who hasn't caught me yet."

His laugh tastes like Russian winter. "Haven't I?"

He moves, caging me against the railing with arms that don't quite touch. I could escape twelve different ways.

I don't.

"What are you hunting, Mina?"

The way he says my name should require permits. All Moscow vowels and barely leashed violence.

"Truth."

"Specific truth? Or the kind that gets everyone killed?"

"Both."

"Greedy."

"Focused."

His hand rises, hovers near my face. "May I?"

I nod.

His fingers ghost along my jaw, cold that burns in the best way. The touch stays light but I feel the strength underneath. How easily he could break things. How much control it takes not to.

"Your skin is cold."

"It's freezing in here."

"Liar."

That word again. Everyone knows I'm lying. No one knows about what.

"Tell me something true." His thumb finds my pulse, counts heartbeats that come too fast. "One thing."

I consider deflection. But something in his eyes—grief recognizing grief—makes me honest.

"My mother's dead. Murdered. And her killer is here, at Blood Moon."

His hand stills. "You're sure?"

"Pattern recognition is genetic, apparently."

"Is that why—" He stops. Restructures. "Is that why you came?"

"Among other reasons."

"What other reasons?"

I turn in his hold, back to railing, front to all that patient winter. This close, I see the wolf bleeding through—gold fracturing silver in his irises.

"Maybe I like dangerous boys who play Rachmaninoff at three AM thinking no one's listening."

Direct hit. He actually blinks.

"You were listening?"

"Sound carries in empty towers. Especially grief."

"I'll remember that."

"Please do."

We're too close. Close enough to share breath, bad decisions, the kind of mistakes that reshape lives. His hands bracket my waist, thumbs finding the gap between shirt and skirt. Skin on skin. Electric.

"Sasha."

Kenji burns in the doorway, backlit by party lights that halo him in flame.

"We have a problem."

Sasha doesn't move. Doesn't break eye contact. "Define problem."

"The Calabrese are here. With friends. The kind who work in laboratories."

My blood crystallizes. The suppressants aren't hiding enough.

"And they're asking about unclaimed omegas. Specifically—" Kenji pauses, testing words. "Ones that smell like rain forests. Like the Amazon."

Fuck. Too specific. Too close.

Sasha's grip tightens, broadcasting ownership. "She's claimed."

"Since when? Last I checked, she invoked sanctuary. Can't be claimed under sanctuary."

"Details."

"Laws."

They face off over my head, but I catch the undercurrent. This is performance, establishing claim for witnesses.

And we definitely have witnesses.

"Come on, guys." I slip from between them, needing space before my anaconda decides to solve this by constriction. "Fighting over me already? You've known me less than a day."

"Time moves different for supernaturals." Sasha's eyes stay locked on Kenji. "Some of us recognize what we want immediately."

"Some of us don't need to own what we want."

"Protection isn't possession."

"Tell that to your wolf."

"My wolf—"

"Boys." Charlotte materializes like she was waiting for her cue. "As entertaining as this is, we have bigger problems. The Calabrese brought a full lab team. They're asking about cats who smell like rain."

Everyone looks at me.

"What kind of cats?" My voice stays steady through pure will.

"The kind that don't exist in North America. The kind that might be worth millions to the right buyer."

"I'm from Ohio."

"Nobody's from Ohio." Charlotte's smile cuts. "But nice try."

Footsteps on marble. Multiple sets. Coordinated.

Paolo Calabrese flows onto the balcony like an oil spill gaining sentience. Beautiful in that Renaissance painting way—all cheekbones and casual murder. But his eyes reflect nothing.

"Neutral ground, Calabrese." Sasha shifts, putting himself between Paolo and me.

"Everything's negotiable." Paolo's attention slides past Sasha, finds me like heat-seeking missile. "Even neutrality."

He inhales. Theatrical. Threatening.

"Petrichor. Green growth. Something else..." His perfect brow furrows. "Not jaguar. Not ocelot. Something bigger. Rarer."

Too close. Way too close.

"I'm a fan of Crabtree and Evelyn. Some people smell like primrose, I like to smell like moss."

"Funny." He moves closer. Charlotte retreats because she's smart. "But we both know soap doesn't change what you are underneath. The labs pay excellent prices for unique specimens."

"She's not for sale." Kenji's temperature spikes. Paint bubbles on the walls.

"Everything's for sale. Just a matter of currency."

"No sale. No negotiation. She's under F4 protection."

"F4 doesn't have authority over biological assets."

"She's not an asset."

"Then what is she?"

The question hangs sharp as a blade.

I step forward, straight into Paolo's space. Let him think I'm stupid with bravado.

"I'm Mina Padilla. Transfer student. Boring in every possible way."

"Boring?" His laugh shows too many teeth. "Cara, you're many things. Boring isn't one."

"Matter of opinion."

"Matter of biology." He leans in, inhales again. "You smell like evolution. Like something that shouldn't exist but does."

"Pass."

"Not an offer. Just observation."

"Observe from farther away."

His hand blurs. But not fast enough. I catch his wrist, grip tight enough to grind bones.

We freeze. Him shocked I could move that fast. Me realizing I just showed cards I meant to keep hidden.

"Interesting." He doesn't pull away. "Very interesting. What kind of cat moves like that?"

"The kind that doesn't like being touched without permission."

"Let go, Paolo." Sasha's voice carries death and winter. "Now."

"Or what? You'll start a war over one girl?"

"Yes."

Simple. Certain. Alpha wolf ready to reshape the world for what he's claimed.

Paolo releases. Steps back. But his smile promises this isn't over.

"Enjoy your sanctuary, Miss Padilla. But when the moon rises..." He doesn't finish. Doesn't need to.

When they're gone, I sag against the railing. The suppressants scream through my system, failing faster with each supernatural interaction. My skin feels too tight, muscle memory trying to expand into something that needs more room than this balcony.

"You need to leave." Kenji's hand hovers near my back. "Before more come."

"Can't. Sanctuary means I stay on supernatural ground."

"f**k sanctuary." Sasha turns me to face him. "What kind of cat are you?"

The million-dollar question. Literally, given lab prices.

"The tired kind. The hunted kind. The running-out-of-time kind."

"That's not—"

"I know."

Charlotte clears her throat. The crow caws something that sounds suspiciously like "tick tock."

"Thirty minutes to moonrise. The Calabrese are the appetizer. Once sanctuary expires..."

"Feeding frenzy." I finish.

"So what's the plan?" Kenji asks. "Because I'm ready to burn this whole place down if necessary."

I look at them. These boys ready to start wars for a girl who's lying with every breath. Charlotte and her crow, unexpected allies in designer cruelty. The party beyond, full of teeth and hunger and things that would pay millions to cut me open and see what makes me impossible.

My mother would say run.

But my mother's dead. And running won't find her killer.

"The plan?" I meet Sasha's eyes, then Kenji's. Let them see the predator under the prey costume. "We make it to moonrise. Then things get interesting."

"Define interesting."

I smile, and for once, I don't hide all the teeth.

"You'll see."