Fated by the Moon

3

Garin Monroe stalks the perimeter of the campus lot, hands shoved in the pockets of his peacoat, boots making deep impressions in the slushy gravel. The sun is low and flat, slanting through the skeletons of maple trees and throwing stripes across the windshields. He is supposed to be here to pick up the new medical release forms from admin and maybe scout the territory for threats—pack paranoia never dies, even when you swap wilderness for academia—but he’s already half-distracted by the muscle memory of old wounds.

He almost doesn’t register the smell at first. Not in the ambient haze of exhaust, cheap tobacco, and those little pine-tree air fresheners that never quite cover up the scent of youth. But then it hits him: strawberries and mint, so sharp and bright it overrides everything else.

He stops dead, nostrils flaring. The scent is familiar, but not in the way he expects. There’s no animal undertone, none of the bitter iron or fur-oil that marks a shapeshifter. It’s clean, almost clinical, threaded with human sweat and something that makes his mouth water. His pupils dilate. The hairs on his arms rise, electric.

He scans the lot with a predator’s economy: three girls loading groceries into a hatchback, an older guy arguing with parking enforcement, a blur of movement behind the smoking shed. There—a slim figure in worn jeans and a faded hoodie, walking at a clipped pace toward a battered Civic parked in the back row. She moves like she’s expecting trouble: head down, shoulders hunched, each step calculated to minimize her footprint. Her hair is the color of polished walnut, and though he can’t see her face from this distance, something about the set of her jaw calls to him. He tunes his hearing, filtering out the traffic and campus noise, and picks up the rapid but steady heartbeat, faster than a shifter’s, more fragile.

He’s about to approach—no plan, just a compulsion—when a hand grabs his arm, nails scraping his skin through the wool.

“Hey, fighter wolf.” The voice is honeyed and acidic all at once. Tammie Maddox. He knows her type—Alpha groupie, predatory as any born wolf but twice as cunning. She wraps herself around his side, presses her body flush against his, and breathes into his ear.

“Alpha Trevor said you’d be on campus today. Didn’t think you’d show.” She runs her fingers along the inside of his forearm, finding the thin scar that marks him as both survivor and threat. “Missed you at last month’s run.”

Garin shifts his weight, gently extricating himself. He’s polite, but the motion is automatic. He keeps his eyes on the Civic, on the girl who’s now unlocking the driver’s side door, moving with precise urgency.

“Got busy,” he says. “Medical detail. You know how it is.”

Tammie laughs, low and throaty. “They work you too hard. Trevor should give you a break.”

“Maybe.” Garin’s focus is split, his body still angled toward the scent trail. He can feel Tammie’s attention, sharp and jealous, tracking his gaze.

“You looking for someone?” she asks, pointed.

“Maybe,” he says again. He watches the girl—Ember, he realizes, the Alpha’s niece, though she’s never attended a single pack event. The name comes to him from an old briefing, or maybe just from the way she burns against the dull backdrop of the lot.

Tammie follows his eyes, spots Ember just as she slides into the car. “Her?” Tammie’s lips twist, not quite a snarl. “She’s nothing. Not even wolf.”

“She’s something,” Garin says, and the words are out before he can think them down. He watches as the Civic sputters to life, tailpipe coughing vapor into the cold. Ember glances once in the rearview, eyes catching his for the briefest second. He feels it like a current, a jolt right behind the sternum.

Tammie hooks her thumb in his belt, drawing him closer, but he doesn’t budge. She leans in, voice dropping. “Careful, Monroe. Strays don’t last long around here.”

He finally looks at her, letting the full weight of his attention settle. “Neither do threats.”

For a heartbeat, they’re in standoff. Then Tammie laughs, sharp and delighted. She lets go of him, turns on her heel, and walks away, the sway of her hips pure challenge.

Garin watches her leave, then looks back to the Civic. It’s already at the exit, brake lights blinking. He stands for a long moment, listening to the echo of Ember’s heartbeat even after she’s gone, the scent of strawberries and mint still lingering on the wind.

He files it away. Some things are worth remembering.