WOLFBOUND

CHAPTER ONE: BORN FROM THE SCREAMS

That was the sound his spine made, splintered like dry wood under the force of claws that ripped through fur, flesh, and bone. He roared, not in fear, but in betrayal, his golden eyes wide with disbelief as his own blood painted the snow in thick strokes of crimson. The one who held his heart now held his throat, and his snarl was the last thing he heard before the forest devoured the echo of his scream.

Lyra bolted upright in bed, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat. Sweat slicked her skin, and strands of ash-brown hair clung to her cheeks. Her face was striking, high cheekbones, full lips, and wide, storm-gray eyes that still held the echo of terror. A delicate beauty clung to her features, but in that moment, fear made her look almost haunted. Her breath came in shallow bursts as she scanned the room, struggling to shake the last image burned into her mind. The taste of blood clung to her tongue, heavy and metallic, even though there was none. Her hands trembled as she reached for her throat, and it was intact. Whole. But the pain in her chest remained, as if she’d been the one torn open. A howl still echoed in her skull, and it wasn’t hers, but it felt like it belonged to her all the same.

“It was just a dream,” she whispered, but even as the words left her lips, they felt like a lie.

Downstairs, the front door creaked on its hinges. Not slammed. Not kicked. Creaked, like someone had opened it slowly, carefully, as if they wanted to slip inside without waking the house. Aunt Mave was still asleep, her room sealed like a vault. But Lyra’s skin prickled as if the entire forest had crept in and taken a seat in their living room. She slid out of bed, feet bare against the cold floor, and opened her door just in time to catch a shadow vanishing down the hallway.

She followed it.

The air shifted as she crept through the hallway, every instinct screaming that something was watching. Not someone, but something. A shape moved at the edge of the staircase, a flicker of silver eyes that disappeared the second she blinked. Her heart pounded in her ears as she stepped down one creaking stair, then another, until her hand met the banister that felt warmer than it should’ve been. Too late, she noticed the faint scent in the air, musk, wild pine, and something else… coppery, like rust. Like blood.

Lyra reached the bottom step and came face to face with him.

Ronan Thorne stood in the open doorway, half-cast in moonlight, one boot inside her house and the other planted firmly on the porch. He looked like he belonged to the forest, tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in a black coat dusted with snow and smelling faintly of pine and storm. His hair was dark, tousled like he’d run through trees to get there, and his eyes, silver-gray, sharp and unreadable, locked onto hers like he’d been searching for her all his life. He looked too wild to be trusted. And too familiar to be a stranger.

“You shouldn’t be awake,” he said, his voice smooth but sharp, like velvet dragged across broken glass. “Not yet.”

Her breath caught, because how did he know she had been dreaming?

Before she could speak, Aunt Mave appeared behind her, silent, sudden, and fierce. Her hand clamped down on Lyra’s shoulder like iron. Mave was older than most would guess, with streaks of silver running through her ink-dark hair and eyes that flickered gold when she was angry, which was rare. Her features were sharp, elegant in the way wolves are just before they lunge. Wrapped in a long robe that rustled like leaves, she looked more like a sorceress than a small-town aunt. But in that moment, she looked like a warrior.

“Go to your room,” Mave ordered, eyes locked on Ronan like he was something she’d once fought and barely survived. There was no warmth in her voice, just steel. “Now.”

But Lyra didn’t move.

Neither did Ronan.

Then came the whisper, low, almost like the house itself breathed it. “She’s waking up.”

And everything inside Lyra cracked open.

Lyra’s legs locked beneath her. Not from fear, but recognition. She knew the voice. It wasn’t Ronan’s. It wasn’t her aunt’s. It came from somewhere deeper, somewhere that scratched behind her ribs and whispered things she didn’t understand. She turned to Mave, whose expression had collapsed into something not quite human, panic buried beneath ancient sorrow.

“Mave,” she said, the name brittle on her tongue. “What’s going on?”

Instead of answering, Mave snapped her fingers. A gust of wind burst through the house, slamming the door shut so hard the windows rattled. The lights flickered. “He shouldn’t have come,” she hissed. “It’s too soon. Too damn soon.” Her eyes burned gold for half a second before she blinked the glow away, but Lyra saw it. She **felt** it. And the house, old and crooked, suddenly felt like a cage.

Ronan didn’t flinch. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. “She’s dreaming of Fenric. That means the bloodline’s surfacing. You can’t hide her anymore, Mave. She has to know who she is.”

Fenric.

The name sliced through Lyra’s mind like a falling blade. She staggered back, hand reaching for the stair rail as a pulse pounded behind her eyes. Images flashed, teeth, claws, the cry of betrayal, the roar of fire splitting the sky. The same man from the dream. The same death she woke up tasting. Her voice shook. “Who is Fenric?”

Mave’s silence answered for her.

Ronan’s jaw clenched. “He’s the first of us,” he said. “And the one who died with a knife in his back and a curse on his tongue.”

“But why am I dreaming of him?” Lyra’s breath misted in the air, though the room was stifling hot. “Why do I feel like… like I watched him die?”

Mave looked like she might shatter. “Because you’re a Hollowfang, Lyra. And his blood is waking inside you.”

The name struck like thunder in her chest. Hollowfang. She didn’t know what it meant, but it unlocked something. A memory not hers. A scream. A woman dragging a child into the woods. Flames. Teeth. Wolves.

“Enough,” Mave said, suddenly exhausted. She turned to Ronan. “If you’re going to take her, then at least give her time to understand what she’s walking into.”

Ronan’s eyes softened. “Time is exactly what we don’t have. The other packs are moving. If she doesn’t awaken before the full moon, someone else will try to control her, and if they succeed, Fenric’s rage won’t stay buried.”

“Wait,” Lyra said, everything inside her unraveling. “What do you mean awaken?”

Mave didn’t meet her eyes. “It means you’ve got less than a week before your first shift. And the thing inside you doesn’t care if you’re ready.”

The floor felt like it dropped beneath her. Her whole life had been built on silence. On peace. On the quiet lies Mave wrapped around her like blankets. But now the truth was clawing up through the seams, loud and ugly.

“I’m not—” Lyra shook her head, but her voice betrayed her. “I’m not a monster.”

“No,” Ronan said, stepping closer. “You’re something far more dangerous than that.”

And outside, in the woods where shadows breathed and snow fell in sheets, a howl rose, long, low, and mournful.

Something had heard her awaken. And it was coming.