The Pack (Completed Series)

Chapter 1 - Aria

The rain always makes me feel less alone.

It whispers against the windowpane like a lullaby only I can hear, tracing ghostly fingers down the glass as if to remind me that the world still exists outside my silence. I sit curled in the corner of my dorm room, knees tucked under my chin, a half-finished textbook in my lap and a steaming mug of black tea on the desk beside me.

I don't need the caffeine, not really. Sleep has always been a luxury I can't afford.

Even now, with a full scholarship to one of the top universities in the country, with my name already circling among professors as a "rising star," I feel like an intruder in my own life. I'm just good at pretending I belong.

Brilliant? Maybe. I've never gotten less than an A. Never missed a deadline. Never let anyone close enough to see the cracks underneath.

Because I have no family. No past. No safety net.

I aged out of the system at eighteen, taking with me little more than a duffel bag, a social security number, and a deep, bone-aching loneliness. No one knows where I came from. No birth certificate. No baby pictures. Just the records from the fire where I'd been found, naked, covered in ash, and completely unharmed.

Sometimes, late at night, I still smell smoke.

Most days, though, I bury myself in knowledge. Biology. Genetics. The mechanics of the human body. I think if I can decode the way humans are built—bone by bone, gene by gene—maybe I'll figure out what's wrong with me.

Because something is wrong.

I move too fast sometimes. Hear things I shouldn't. Smell things no one else notices. I write it off as anxiety, a hyperactive nervous system. Explain away the hunger in my blood, the fire that burns under my skin when I'm angry or scared.

But lately, the dreams are getting worse.

They're not even dreams anymore. They're vivid, violent visions of running—no, hunting—beneath a full moon, chasing shadows with a pack that feels realer than anything I know. I always wake with my heart racing and my throat dry, feeling like something inside me is trying to break free.

A knock at the door jolts me.

I blink, heart stuttering.

Nobody ever knocks.

Cautiously, I rise, padding barefoot across the carpet and glancing at the time—10:42 PM. The rain has picked up, tapping more insistently against the glass. I look through the peephole. No one there.

I open it anyway.

The hallway is empty.

But on the floor is a single envelope. No address. No stamp. Just my name scrawled in messy black ink: ARIA.

My pulse jumps.

I crouch and pick it up, fingers trembling just slightly. The paper is thick and warm, like it's been held recently. My skin prickles as I slide my thumb under the flap.

Inside is a single card. No message—just a symbol. A crescent moon carved through the center of a paw print.

I stare at it for a long time, my breath caught somewhere in my throat.

I don't know why... but I understand what it means.

Something has found me.

And whatever it is... it wants me back.