Forbidden Nature

“Every wolf is born beneath the same moon, yet no two are destined to walk the same path. Some are born to lead, others to follow, but all must eventually surrender to the nature bestowed upon them.” — Elder Aldric Voss The Moonstone Chronicles, Vol. I: The Order of Nature Freya  Freya Summers stood before the full-length mirror in her bedroom, studying her reflection with a mixture of curiosity and mounting disappointment. She had been staring at herself for nearly ten minutes, turning this way and that, searching for some small indication that the universe had acknowledged the significance of the day. Unfortunately, the universe appeared to be entirely unimpressed with her eighteenth birthday. There were no miraculous changes to her appearance, no sudden surge of confidence, and certainly no mysterious transformation that might explain why every adult in her life had spent years insisting that turning eighteen would change everything. She looked exactly the same as she had yesterday. How incredibly anticlimactic. Leaning closer to the glass, Freya pressed her palms against her cheeks and squished them together, distorting her reflection into something that resembled an irritated chipmunk. Her dark green eyes, which she had always considered slightly too large for her heart-shaped face, stared back at her beneath a pair of expressive brows. A light scattering of freckles dusted the bridge of her small nose, while her mouth remained as annoyingly disproportionate as ever, with its thinner upper lip and fuller bottom one. Even her chocolate-brown hair, which fell in loose waves past her shoulders, seemed determined to remain stubbornly ordinary. “Well, that’s disappointing,” she muttered, releasing her face and watching her cheeks return to their usual shape. For most teenagers, turning eighteen meant adulthood, independence, and the exciting possibility of making questionable decisions without parental permission. For werewolves, however, the milestone carried considerably more weight. Eighteen marked the beginning of a new stage in their lives, one governed by instincts, ancient traditions, and the awakening of bonds that had supposedly been determined long before they were born. It was the age when females experienced their first heat, when the potential for a mating bond began to emerge, and when the possibility of finding one’s destined mate became something more substantial than the romantic nonsense whispered between giggling schoolgirls. At least, that was what she had been told. Freya had always imagined there would be something unmistakable about the change. Perhaps her senses would sharpen overnight, or she would awaken with some profound understanding of herself and her place in the world. She would even have settled for a mysterious voice announcing that congratulations were in order and that her complimentary adulthood package would arrive within three to five business days. Instead, she had woken up with a slightly stiff neck and a desperate need to pee. Apparently, destiny wasn’t particularly concerned with making a good first impression. There was, however, one development she couldn’t entirely dismiss. For the past several days, she’d experienced a peculiar awareness lingering at the edges of her thoughts, almost like an invisible thread stretching toward something she couldn’t quite reach. It wasn’t painful or particularly distracting, but whenever she allowed her mind to wander, she could feel it there, a faint and persistent tug that left her restless without understanding why. According to everything she’d learned, it was the earliest indication that her mating bond was beginning to awaken. Somewhere in the world, there was supposedly a wolf whose soul had been created to recognize hers. The Moon Goddess herself had determined their compatibility, binding them together through something far more permanent than affection or choice. Once the bond matured, her mate would be able to identify her by scent, an instinctive recognition that would leave little room for uncertainty. Naturally, the male would recognize the bond first. Because heaven forbid the females receive an equal opportunity to make decisions about their own romantic futures. Freya rolled her eyes at the thought. She had never understood why the Moon Goddess, who was presumably female herself, had designed a system that gave males such an irritating advantage. Perhaps there was some profound celestial reasoning behind it, but Freya suspected that even divine beings occasionally made questionable decisions. Exhaling heavily, she leaned toward the mirror until her breath clouded the glass. With the tip of her finger, she traced a small, crooked heart through the condensation before stepping back to inspect her handiwork. The heart was lopsided, her reflection remained unchanged, and she was beginning to think the entire concept of adulthood had been grossly exaggerated. Her gaze drifted lower, taking in the rest of her reflection. At barely over five feet tall, she had long since accepted that she wasn’t going to experience some miraculous growth spurt. Her figure was petite, with soft curves that had developed gradually over the past few years, though she still felt awkward in her own skin more often than she cared to admit. There were girls at school who seemed to move through life with an effortless confidence Freya couldn’t begin to imitate. She, on the other hand, had once managed to trip over her own feet while standing perfectly still. A remarkable achievement, really. She was considering whether adulthood might at least improve her coordination when the bedroom door suddenly began to swing inward. “Hey, loser, your mom—” “ZANDER!” Freya lunged across the room with a startled shriek, catching the edge of the door and slamming it shut before her stepbrother could push it open any farther. The impact rattled the frame, and she stood there for a moment with her heart hammering against her ribs, painfully aware that she was wearing absolutely nothing. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she shouted through the wood, pressing one hand against her chest. “Have you ever heard of knocking, you pervert?” There was a brief silence from the hallway, followed by a low, thoroughly obnoxious laugh that made her wish she could reach through the door and strangle him. “Calm down, Freya. It’s not like you’ve got anything worth looking at anyway.” Her mouth fell open in outrage. Of all the arrogant, insufferable things he could have said, that was precisely the response she should have expected. “You’re twenty-three years old, Zander! You’d think someone would have taught you basic manners by now.” “And you’re eighteen,” he replied lazily. “You’d think someone would’ve taught you how to lock a door.” Freya glanced toward the small brass lock positioned beside her hand and silently cursed herself. It wasn’t that he was wrong, which somehow made the entire situation considerably more irritating. She had lived in the same house as Zander Pierce for five years, more than enough time to learn that privacy was a privilege he respected only when it happened to be his own. “What do you want?” she demanded, deciding that acknowledging his point would only encourage him. “Your mom sent me to get you. Something about a surprise birthday breakfast downstairs.” Freya closed her eyes and slowly pressed her forehead against the cool wood. “Zander, please tell me you understand what the word surprise means.” “Of course I do.” “Then why the hell would you tell me?” “Must’ve slipped my mind.” His amusement was unmistakable, and she could practically picture the smug expression stretching across his ridiculously handsome face. Not that she would ever admit to finding him attractive. Zander already possessed an ego large enough to require its own zip code, and she had no intention of contributing to the problem. “You’re an asshole.” “So I’ve been told. Now hurry up before your mother sends me back.” “Try opening my door again, and I’ll break your fingers.” His laughter followed him down the hallway, accompanied by the retreating sound of his footsteps. Freya waited until she was certain he’d gone before releasing the breath she’d been holding and pushing away from the door. What a f*****g jerk. Zander Pierce had been an unwelcome addition to her life five years earlier, when his father married her mother and effectively turned Freya’s already complicated existence upside down. At thirteen, she had been forced to adjust to a new home, a new family, and the deeply unpleasant realization that her mother’s new husband happened to be the Alpha of the Moonstone Pack. As if that hadn’t been enough of an adjustment, she’d also inherited his arrogant eighteen-year-old son, who had apparently decided from their very first meeting that making her miserable would be an entertaining way to pass the time. Their relationship had hardly improved with age. Zander was everything Freya wasn’t. Confident, powerful, infuriatingly self-assured, and entirely comfortable with the expectations placed upon him. As the Alpha’s only son, he had been raised with the understanding that he would eventually inherit leadership of one of the largest and most respected wolf packs in the world. His future had never been a question of possibility, only a matter of time, and his classification as an Alpha had merely confirmed what everyone had already assumed. Freya, meanwhile, had spent most of her life trying to figure out where she belonged. Her mother certainly hadn’t seemed to struggle with the transition. Molly Summers had fallen for Alpha Tom Pierce with a speed and enthusiasm that Freya still found difficult to understand. Both had lost their fated mates, and the shared grief had apparently created a connection strong enough for them to consider building another life together. The pack had celebrated their union as something beautiful, a second chance at happiness for two people who had already endured unimaginable loss. Freya had been considerably less enthusiastic. Her father had died when she was ten years old, killed while defending pack territory against a rogue wolf who had attempted to cross their borders. She could still remember the terrible confusion of that day, the hushed voices filling their home, and the way her mother’s face had seemed to collapse when someone finally told her what had happened. For months afterward, the house had felt hollow, as though the absence of one person had somehow stolen all the warmth from every room. Three years later, her mother had married someone else. Freya understood that wolves who lost their mates sometimes formed second bonds, though those relationships were different from the sacred connection established by the Moon Goddess. She understood that her mother had been lonely and that Tom had offered her comfort when she needed it most. What she couldn’t understand was how Molly had managed to open her heart to another man when Freya was still struggling to accept that her father would never walk through their front door again. Perhaps it was selfish. Perhaps it was unfair. She had never claimed to be particularly reasonable where her father was concerned. Tom, unfortunately, made holding a grudge against him exceptionally difficult. The man was almost offensively kind, forever offering gentle encouragement and patient understanding, even when Freya deliberately tested the limits of his tolerance. He had never demanded that she call him Dad, never attempted to erase her father’s memory, and never treated her as anything less than a member of his family. It was difficult to resent someone who seemed so determined to give her absolutely no reason to dislike him. Zander, on the other hand, had no such redeeming qualities. At least none she cared to acknowledge. Shaking off her thoughts, Freya crossed the room and opened her closet, where the outfit she’d purchased the previous weekend hung neatly near the front. She had fallen in love with it almost immediately, convinced that something new was appropriate for the beginning of her senior year and, more importantly, her eighteenth birthday. Samantha, her best friend and enthusiastic supporter of nearly every questionable decision Freya had ever made, had practically dragged her to the register after seeing her try it on. According to Sam, the outfit was perfect. According to Freya’s reflection, there was absolutely no reason to make such a production out of getting dressed. She stood there for another moment, considering whether she wanted to deal with the inevitable lecture Sam would deliver when she discovered the new clothes had been abandoned. Eventually, she pushed the outfit aside and reached for her favorite faded black hoodie, a pair of light-wash skinny jeans, and the worn Vans she’d owned for longer than was probably respectable. Comfort won over fashion every time. Besides, she didn’t feel any different from the girl she’d been yesterday. Dressing like someone else seemed a rather pointless way to celebrate becoming herself.