THE MORNING AFTER
1604 Words
LENA'S POV
I woke to the sound of breaking glass.
My eyes snapped open, immediately alert. The digital clock on the nightstand read 5:23 AM, and pale morning light filtered through the curtains of my hotel room. For a moment, I lay perfectly still, listening.
Silence.
Then I smelled it, the sharp, chemical scent of spray paint.
I slipped out of bed, bare feet silent on the carpet, and crept toward the window. The curtains were drawn, but I could see shadows moving outside. Multiple figures, working quickly in the pre-dawn darkness.
My phone was already in my hand, finger hovering over 911, when I heard the footsteps retreating. Car doors slammed, the engine started, and tires squealed as they sped away.
I waited five minutes before pulling back the curtains.
"Damn," I whispered.
The window of my ground-floor room was intact, but the glass was covered in red spray paint. Words dripped down like blood: "MONSTER LOVER" and "GO HOME" and worse. Much worse.
I grabbed my robe and stepped outside. The cool mountain air hit me like a slap, and I could see my breath in small puffs. The vandalism wasn't limited to my window, they'd hit my rental car too. All four tires were slashed, and "WOLF b***h" was spray-painted across the windshield.
"Charming," I muttered, pulling out my phone to call the rental company.
"Ms. Carter?" A voice behind me made me jump.
I spun around to find a man in his seventies, wearing a bathrobe and holding a steaming mug of coffee. His room was three doors down, and he looked genuinely concerned.
"I'm sorry, I heard the commotion. Are you alright?"
"I'm fine. Just some vandalism." I gestured at the car. "Did you see who did this?"
"Three young men. Local boys, I think. "They were wearing masks, but I recognized the pickup truck." His expression was apologetic. "I'm Harold Winters, by the way. I own a hardware store on Main Street."
"Lena Carter." I shook his offered hand. "I don't think you know a good rental car company?"
"I can give you a ride into town if you need one. "It's the least I can do." Harold's eyes were kind. "I want you to know, not everyone in Silver Ridge feels this way about outsiders." Some of us believe in hospitality."
"Thank you. That's very kind."
"Logan Blackwood's a good man," Harold said quietly. Whatever he is, he's never hurt anyone in this town. Some folks are just scared of what they don't understand.
Two hours later, I was sitting in Mabel's Diner on Main Street, nursing my third cup of coffee and waiting for the insurance adjuster. The dinner was exactly what I'd expected:red vinyl booths, checkered linoleum, and the kind of pie case that belonged in a Norman Rockwell painting.
What I hadn't expected was the reaction to my presence.
Conversations stopped when I walked in. Heads turned, whispers followed. The waitress, a woman in her fifties with tired eyes, took my order with professional politeness but kept glancing toward the kitchen like she was waiting for backup.
"You're the PR lady," said a voice behind me.
I turned to find a man in his thirties, wearing coveralls and a suspicious expression. His coffee mug was clenched in his fist like a weapon.
"I am."
"Come here to make that monster look good?"
"I came here to help someone tell their story."
"His story?" the man's voice rose. His story is that he's been lying to all of us for years. Living among us, pretending to be human."
"And what's he done to hurt you?" I kept my voice level.
"He's a predator. "They all are." The man stood, and I could see other patrons watching us. "What happens when he loses control? When he decides he's hungry for something other than hockey pucks?"
"Sit down, Jim." The waitress appeared beside our table. "Let the woman eat her breakfast in peace."
"This isn't over," Jim muttered, but he retreated to his booth.
I was buttering my toast when Nina walked through the door, looking like she'd stepped out of a fashion magazine despite the early flight. Her presence was like a breath of fresh air in the tense atmosphere.
"Jesus, Lena." She slid into the booth across from me. "This place is like something out of a horror movie."
"You should see my hotel room."
"I did. Stopped there first." Nina's expression was grim. "Please tell me you're not staying there another night."
"I'm not staying anywhere if I can't get a rental car."
"Already handled." She pulled out her phone. "I've got a black SUV being delivered in an hour. Tinted windows, GPS tracking, and enough armor plating to stop a rifle round."
"Nina…"
"Don't even argue with me. "After what happened to your room, we're not taking any chances." She signaled to the waitress for coffee. "I also brought backup."
"What kind of backup?"
"The kind that carries badges and knows how to use them." Nina's smile was sharp. Two private security consultants. Former military. They'll be here this afternoon.
I stared at her. "You hired bodyguards?"
I hired protection. "There's a difference." She leaned forward. "Lena, this isn't just about public relations anymore. You're getting death threats. The vandalism was just the beginning."
Before I could respond, my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: "We know where you sleep."
Nina saw my expression change. "What is it?"
I showed her the screen. Her face went pale.
"That's it. We're calling the police."
"No." I deleted the message. "We're calling Logan."
An hour later, I was back at the Silver Ridge Wolves complex, sitting across from Logan in a conference room that smelled of coffee and desperation. He looked like he hadn't slept, and there were dark circles under his amber eyes.
"I heard about your hotel room," he said without preamble.
"News travels fast in a small town."
"I'm sorry. "This is exactly what I was afraid of." Logan's hands were clenched on the table. "Anyone who associates with me becomes a target."
"Then we need to change the narrative."
"There is no narrative. I'm a werewolf. End of story."
"That's not a story," Logan said. "That's a fact." I pulled out my tablet, opening a document Nina had prepared. "A story has context, motivation, humanity. Right now, all people know is that you're different. We need to show them why that doesn't make you dangerous."
Logan's laugh was bitter. "You want to make me sympathetic? Good luck with that."
"I want to make you human."
"I'm not human."
"You're not a monster either." I leaned forward. Tell me about your pack. Your real family."
Logan's expression shattered. "No."
"Logan…"
"I said no." His voice carried a warning growl. "That's off limits."
"Then tell me about hockey. Tell me why you chose this town, this team. Tell me about the teammates who've become your family."
For a moment, Logan's expression softened. "They don't know what I am."
"Do they need to?"
"They will soon enough." He gestured toward the window, where we could see reporters setting up cameras in the parking lot. "This circus isn't going away."
"Then we control it." I turned the tablet toward him. "We schedule interviews, we craft talking points, we show the world that Logan Blackwood is more than just his species."
Logan stared at the screen, reading the preliminary strategy Nina had outlined. "You really think this could work?"
"I think it's our only shot."
"And if it doesn't? If people still want me dead?"
"Then at least we'll have tried."
Logan was quiet for a long moment, studying the document. Finally, he looked up at me.
"Okay. But we do this my way. No lies, no sugar-coating. People deserve the truth."
"Agreed."
"And if anyone on my team gets threatened because of this, we stop. Immediately."
"Of course."
Logan reached for a pen, then paused. "There's something else. Something you need to know."
"What?"
Before he could answer, the conference room door opened. A massive man in his early thirties filled the doorway, wearing a Wolves jersey and a concerned expression.
"Logan? Sorry to interrupt, but Coach wants to see you about the practice schedules."
"Tank." Logan's voice was carefully neutral. "This is Lena Carter, the PR consultant I told you about."
Marcus "Tank" Thompson was even larger than Logan, with the kind of build that suggested he spent more time in the gym than was strictly healthy. His handshake was firm, his smile genuine.
"Ms. Carter. Good to finally meet you." Tank's eyes were warm and intelligent. "I hope you can help our boy here. He's been through enough."
"I'm going to try my best."
"That's all anyone can ask." Tank turned to Logan. "Are you okay, man? You look like you haven't slept in days."
"I'm fine."
"Damn." Tank's expression was concerned. "You've been acting weird ever since that interview." More than usual weird.
I watched Logan's face carefully. There was something in his expression:fear, maybe, or guilt.
"I'm just stressed," Logan said.
"Well, don't stress too much. "We've got your back, you know that." Tank clapped Logan on the shoulder. "Whatever's going on, we're family. That doesn't change."
After Tank left, Logan sat in silence for a full minute. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
Tank doesn't know what I am. And he can never find out.
"Why?"
Logan's amber eyes met mine, and I saw something that made my stomach drop. Pure, undiluted terror.
Because Tank's father was the hunter who killed my pack.
- Writer
