THE WOLF BEHIND HIS EYES

The first time I saw Adrian Cross, he was standing in my bedroom. I screamed so loudly that my neighbour's dog started barking. He didn't even flinch. Instead, he leaned against my wardrobe with his arms folded, watching me with an expression that suggested breaking into a stranger's bedroom was a perfectly reasonable way to spend a Thursday evening. "You're late," he said. I stared at him. Then I grabbed the nearest object within reach, which happened to be a pillow. "Get out of my room!" His eyes dropped to the pillow, and one corner of his mouth lifted. "Are you planning to attack me with that?" "If necessary." "Terrifying." I threw it at him. He caught it without even looking. That was the moment I decided I hated him. He was infuriatingly handsome, which somehow made the situation worse. His dark hair fell carelessly across his forehead, and his grey eyes looked almost silver beneath the light from my bedside lamp. He wore a black jacket over a plain shirt, dark jeans, and an expression that suggested he had never worried about the consequences of anything in his entire life. I had never seen him before. I was absolutely certain of that. And yet, he looked at me as if we had an appointment I had forgotten about. "Who are you?" I demanded. "Adrian." I waited. He waited too. "That's your answer?" "You asked who I was. I answered." "Fine. Adrian what?" "Cross." The name meant nothing to me at the time. I would later discover that it meant a great deal to the people who lived beyond the ordinary world I thought I knew. Right then, however, I was more concerned about the fact that he had somehow entered a locked bedroom on the second floor of a house with no balcony. "How did you get in here?" "Through the window." I slowly turned toward the window behind him. It was closed. The curtains were drawn, and the lock was still in place. I looked back at him. "That window is locked." "Not anymore." I took a step toward my phone. His expression changed. "Don't call the police, Isabelle." My hand froze. For a moment, I forgot how to breathe. I had never told him my name. Nobody had. My aunt called me Belle. My teachers called me Isabelle Hart. My friends called me Izzy, depending on how much trouble I was causing. But this stranger had walked into my bedroom and addressed me by my full name as though he had known me for years. "How do you know that?" I asked. He straightened away from the wardrobe. The amusement disappeared from his face, leaving something more serious behind. "I've been looking for you." A cold feeling settled in my stomach. "Why?" He opened his mouth to answer. Three sharp knocks interrupted him. "Belle?" my aunt called from the hallway. "Who are you talking to?" I turned toward the door. When I looked back, Adrian was gone. I blinked. The space beside my wardrobe was empty. I rushed toward the window and yanked the curtains aside. It was still locked. There was no fire escape, no balcony, and no convenient tree stretching close enough to reach. I checked behind the door, even though I knew how ridiculous that was. Nothing. "Belle?" my aunt called again. I hurried to the bedroom door and opened it. Aunt Margaret stood in the hallway wearing her usual floral nightdress. Her dark brown hair, now threaded with silver, was tied into a loose bun. She had a book tucked beneath one arm, and she looked prepared to lecture me about making noise at an unreasonable hour. Then her eyes moved past me toward the window. She stopped. "Who was here?" she asked. I swallowed. "Nobody." Her gaze returned to my face. "Don't lie to me." I had never heard her speak in that tone before. My aunt was strict when she needed to be, but she rarely raised her voice. Even when I broke her favourite vase at fourteen, she had been more concerned about whether I had hurt myself than the broken porcelain. Now she looked genuinely frightened. "I saw someone in my room," I admitted. "A boy. He said his name was Adrian Cross." The book slipped from beneath her arm and landed on the floor. For several seconds, she didn't move. Then she stepped into my bedroom and shut the door behind her. "Did he have grey eyes?" My stomach tightened. "Yes." "Dark hair?" "Yes." "Did he say anything about your birthday?" "No. Why are you asking me these questions?" She gripped my wrist. Her fingers were cold. "Listen carefully, Isabelle. If that boy comes back, you must stay away from him." I pulled my hand free. "You can't just tell me to stay away from someone without explaining why." "His family is dangerous." "What does his family have to do with me?" She looked away. That small movement told me more than any answer could have. My aunt knew something. Something important. And she had been keeping it from me. "Who is Adrian Cross?" I asked again. Margaret pressed her lips together. "His family has influence in places ordinary people know nothing about. You must never go anywhere with him, and you must never follow him into the forest." I stared at her. "The forest?" She looked as if she regretted saying it. "Forget I mentioned that." "How am I supposed to forget it? Aunt Margaret, a strange boy appeared in my locked bedroom, knew my name, and vanished before my eyes. Now you're acting as though you've heard of him before." "I have." The answer came so quietly that I almost missed it. My heart began to pound. "How?" She rubbed her forehead. "Because I knew his parents." I waited for her to continue. She didn't. "And?" "And that is all you need to know tonight." "No, it isn't." "Isabelle." "Who were my parents?" The question escaped before I could stop it. It was the one subject that could make a room go silent faster than anything else. My parents had supposedly died in a car accident when I was six. That was the story I had been given for as long as I could remember. I had no clear memory of the accident, no grave I had visited, and only two photographs of them. Whenever I asked for details, my aunt would say I was too young to remember and that discussing the past would only make me unhappy. For thirteen years, I had accepted that answer. I was nineteen now. I was tired of accepting it. "What things have you never told me about them?" I asked. My aunt's expression softened, but the fear remained. "Belle, there are things about your childhood that you cannot understand yet." "Then help me understand them." She looked toward my bedroom window. For one strange moment, she seemed to be listening to something outside. Then she whispered, "I promised your mother I would keep you safe." My anger faltered. "You promised her what?" Before she could answer, a howl rose from the garden. It was deep and powerful, nothing like the distant sound of a dog barking at night. The windows trembled. My aunt went completely still. Another howl followed. Then a third. I rushed to the window. Three wolves stood in our garden beneath the streetlights. I had seen wolves in documentaries and photographs. These were different. They were enormous, with thick black coats and golden eyes that shone even from a distance. Their bodies were perfectly still as they watched the house. The middle wolf was larger than the others. Silver markings stretched across its forehead, forming a strange pattern that reminded me of a crescent moon. It stared directly at me. I stepped away from the window. The wolf stepped forward. My heart beat faster. Something about its gaze made me feel as though it recognised me. That was impossible, of course. Wild animals did not recognise strangers through bedroom windows. I was about to turn away when the wolf tilted its head. A sudden pain shot through my chest. I grabbed the windowsill. The room blurred. For one terrible second, I wasn't standing in my bedroom anymore. I was somewhere else. A forest stretched beneath a blood-red moon. Snow covered the ground, and a woman in a torn white dress ran between the trees. She held a baby against her chest, whispering words I couldn't understand. Behind her, men shouted. A wolf howled. The woman stumbled, looked down at the baby, and began to cry. Then she lifted her face toward the moon. "Forgive me," she whispered. The vision shattered. I stumbled backward, knocking a lamp off my bedside table. My aunt caught me before I hit the floor. "Isabelle!" I clutched her arm. "What was that?" Her face had lost all colour. "What did you see?" "A forest. A woman. She was holding a baby, and someone was chasing her." My aunt's eyes filled with tears. I stared at her. "You know her." She didn't answer. "You know who she was!" "Please," she whispered. "Not now." "Was it my mother?" She covered her mouth. That was answer enough. My knees weakened. I had spent thirteen years believing my parents were gone. Now a strange boy had appeared in my bedroom, three wolves were watching our house, and my aunt looked as though the truth might destroy her. I couldn't keep pretending that everything was normal. "What is happening to me?" I whispered. My aunt held me tightly. "Your nineteenth birthday was supposed to be your last normal day." I pulled away enough to look at her. "What does that mean?" She hesitated for so long that I thought she wouldn't answer. Then she said the words that changed everything. "It means, Isabelle, that you were never human." I stared at her. For a moment, I genuinely thought I had misheard. "What?" She closed her eyes. "Your mother wasn't human. Neither was your father." I shook my head. "No. That's impossible." "I wish it were." "Are you saying they're aliens or something?" Despite everything, she almost smiled. "No, Belle." I glanced toward the window. The three wolves were still there. One of them lowered its head, as if bowing. My throat went dry. "Werewolves?" I whispered. My aunt said nothing. That silence was more frightening than any confirmation. I backed away from her. "You're joking." "I'm not." "People don't turn into wolves!" "Some people do." "That's ridiculous." "I know how it sounds." "Then explain it!" My voice cracked. My aunt reached for me, but I stepped back again. She looked devastated. "I wanted to give you a normal childhood. Your mother wanted that for you too. We thought if you stayed away from the packs and lived among humans, you might never have to face any of this." "Any of what?" "Your inheritance." I laughed, but there was no humour in it. "My inheritance? Aunt Margaret, I don't even have enough money to replace the shoes I ruined last month." "Money has nothing to do with it." "Then what does?" She glanced toward the garden. "The wolves outside are not ordinary animals. They belong to a group called the Nightshade Pack. Their leader has been searching for you for years." I remembered the boy in my room. Adrian Cross. "I thought you said his family was dangerous." "They are." "Then why are they looking for me?" My aunt's face crumpled. "Because someone has finally discovered that you're alive." A chill travelled down my spine. "Who?" Before she could answer, something struck the front door. Once. Twice. Then a man's voice called from outside. "Margaret Hart. Open the door." My aunt grabbed my hand. I had never seen her so afraid. "Stay here," she whispered. She hurried down the hallway. I should have listened. Instead, I followed her. At the bottom of the stairs, I could hear the front door unlocking. Cold air swept into the house, carrying the scent of rain and wet earth. A man spoke. "Where is she?" "She's asleep," my aunt replied. "Don't lie to me." "I am telling you the truth." There was a pause. Then the man said, "The pack has sensed her awakening. You cannot hide her anymore." I crept closer to the doorway. Aunt Margaret stood facing a tall man dressed in a dark coat. His face was partially hidden beneath the shadow of his hood, but I could see the sharp line of his jaw and the strange golden glow in his eyes. He turned. His gaze found mine immediately. I froze. For one second, neither of us spoke. Then his expression changed. Recognition. Shock. And something dangerously close to fear. "Impossible," he whispered. My aunt stepped between us. "Leave her alone." The man ignored her. He stared at me as though I were a ghost that had crawled out of a grave. "You're supposed to be dead," he said. I felt the blood drain from my face. "Who are you?" He took one step forward. "Someone who knew your mother." My aunt raised her hand. "That's enough." The man looked at her. "You have no idea what you've done. By keeping her here, you've endangered every person in this house." "She is a child." "She's nineteen, Margaret. And the awakening has begun." I looked from one to the other. "Would someone please explain what is happening?" Neither answered. The man reached inside his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He held it toward my aunt. "Take her to the northern territory before sunrise. If the council finds her first, they will not let her live long enough to understand what she is." My aunt didn't take the paper. "And if I refuse?" His expression hardened. "Then I will have to bring her myself." A growl rose from somewhere outside. The man's head turned sharply toward the garden. For the first time, he looked uncertain. "He's here," he muttered. "Who?" I asked. The man looked at me again. "Adrian Cross." A strange warmth spread through my chest at the sound of that name. I hated it. I hated that my body seemed to react to a boy who had broken into my room and vanished without explanation. I hated that everyone around me knew something I didn't. Most of all, I hated that part of me wanted to see him again. The man stepped back onto the porch. "Keep her inside," he warned my aunt. "Whatever you do, don't let her follow him into the forest." Then he disappeared into the darkness. My aunt locked the door and leaned against it, breathing hard. I stood on the stairs, trying to process everything I'd heard. Someone knew my mother. The Nightshade Pack had been searching for me. A council wanted me dead. And Adrian Cross was somehow at the centre of it all. I turned toward the window. The three wolves were gone. For a few seconds, the garden was empty. Then a figure emerged from the shadows beneath the old oak tree. Adrian. He stood beneath the rain, his dark hair damp against his forehead. Even from the window, I could see the silver gleam in his eyes. He looked up. Our gazes met. This time, he didn't disappear. He lifted one hand and pressed it against his chest. Then he pointed toward the forest. I shook my head. Absolutely not. He frowned, as though he had heard my answer. Then something moved behind him. A fourth wolf stepped out from between the trees. Unlike the others, this one had a pale grey coat and a long scar running down its muzzle. It lunged. Adrian turned just as the wolf sprang toward him. A blur of black fur and silver light crossed the garden. I gasped. The two wolves crashed into the bushes, and a sharp snarl tore through the night. My aunt grabbed my shoulder. "Don't look!" But I couldn't turn away. Adrian emerged from the darkness a moment later, breathing hard. His clothes were torn, and a thin line of blood ran down his cheek. The grey wolf had vanished. Adrian looked directly at my window. His expression was no longer amused. He looked angry. Not at me, I realised. At whoever had sent that wolf. He mouthed something I couldn't hear through the glass. Then he pointed at the door. I shook my head again. He raised his hand and held up three fingers. Three seconds later, someone knocked on our front door. My aunt swore under her breath. I stared at Adrian through the window. He was already moving toward the house. My aunt turned to me, her face pale. "Isabelle, whatever happens next, do not trust everything he tells you." "Why?" She looked into my eyes. "Because Adrian Cross may be the only person who can protect you." She swallowed. "But he may also be the reason your parents died." The knock came again. I looked toward the door. Then back at Adrian. He was standing on our porch, waiting. And for the first time in nineteen years, I felt something stir deep inside me. It wasn't fear. It wasn't anger. It was a voice I had never heard before, whispering from somewhere beneath my thoughts. Open the door. I stepped forward. My aunt caught my wrist. "Belle, don't." But the voice came again, stronger this time. He's ours. I stared at the front door, my heart pounding. Then I heard Adrian's voice from the other side. "Isabelle, I know you can hear me." I held my breath. "We don't have much time," he continued. "The people who killed your parents have discovered that you're alive." My aunt went completely still. Adrian paused. Then he said the one thing that made my blood turn cold. "And if you stay in that house tonight, they'll come for you before midnight." The clock above the staircase ticked once. Then twice. It was eleven fifty-nine. I looked at my aunt. She looked at me. Outside, something enormous howled beneath the moon. And somewhere deep inside my chest, a wolf answered.