Armani wasn't one to develop feelings for anyone. It just wasn't in her werewolf blood. She'd been on a dry spell since she was born—about 18 years of nothing and no one, and she preferred it that way. People had started whispering, mostly behind her back but sometimes to her face, with that half-joking tone that tried to cover real curiosity.
"Maybe she's into girls," they'd say.
It wasn't true, but she couldn't care less.
Let them think whatever the fuck they wanted. The rumors entertained her. In fact, they almost made her day. She liked the idea of people speculating, confused, scrambling to label something they didn't understand. That was the whole point—Armani was chaos in wolfskin. Let them chase shadows while she set fires.
She didn't even know she'd started falling for him—Joe—until that one time. That one fucking moment that rewired everything.
She saw him get smothered by another girl—some basic bitch trying to cling to his side like a barnacle—and without thinking, she growled. Not an annoyed huff. A full, low, territorial growl that vibrated in her throat and almost slipped out loud. And the thought slammed into her chest like a truck.
Her mate.
Wait, what?
Hell no. What the actual fuck? Where did that thought even come from?
She shook it off, or tried to. Armani never did feelings. She didn't do fluttery butterflies or giggly shit. The closest she ever came to romance was looking a guy in the eye before knocking his ass out in training. That's how she flirted.
But Joe…
He was different. Even back during their biology practical, they'd somehow just clicked. The lab room had gone quiet, the air had been filled with chemical smells and boredom, but they vibed. Strange, considering their polar-opposite personalities. He was all optimism and light-heartedness, throwing around dumb jokes like glitter. She was the complete opposite.
Cold. Pessimistic. Sharp-tongued. She smoked like it was a religion. Wore black almost religiously. A baddie through and through—confident, stylish, tattooed, a little gothic without going full Hot Topic. No piercings. No black lipstick. Just all dark fits and don't-fuck-with-me energy.
But he balanced her.
And there was something else about him that gnawed at her brain. He was too strong for a regular human, like too strong. His scent wasn't human, but it wasn't supernatural either. Something in-between. She remembered the signs—the way he got all tense and broody during full moons, like something was pulling at him from the inside. The way he ate like his metabolism was racing a jet engine.
The name sealed it for her.
McCall.
She did her research after their project meeting. That name meant something. She knew exactly who his ancestor was, and so did her pack. The blood of a legendary werewolf ran through Joe's veins, dormant, locked behind whatever the universe hadn't yet unleashed. All he needed to manifest it—his strength, his speed, the instincts—was a bite.
Just one.
After they split the research project, she offered to swing by and drop off her part. His apartment was small, plain, barely furnished. She remembered because he lived alone, and that already made her a little more protective of him. She reached the door and immediately her stomach dropped.
The door was open. Not all the way, just cracked—enough to look unforced to someone who didn't know better.
But Armani knew better.
The scene inside wasn't dramatic—no broken glass or flipped furniture. Just a subtle tension in the air. Like something had passed through and taken care not to leave mess. That was worse.
His scent still lingered, but it was faint—fresh, but fading. He hadn't been gone long. Whoever took him was stronger. Much stronger.
She followed the trail.
By nightfall, she'd gathered her pack. No one needed to question her authority—she was Luna, and in their pack, there was no Alpha. She led by power and respect, not hierarchy. Some of her packmates were also students at the same college as her and knew Joe, had smelled the oddness in his blood.
They found the cult in a moonlit clearing deep in the woods.
She saw him.
Bound.
On his knees.
A werewolf's hand wrapped around his face like it was a ripe fruit about to be crushed. She crouched, muscles coiled, ready to leap—but someone beside her grabbed her wrist.
"Wait."
She didn't want to.
She couldn't.
But she did.
Until the Alpha raised his claw, aiming for Joe's neck. That's when she stopped thinking. That's when instincts took over.
She launched forward in a blur of fur and claw.
The impact sent the Alpha flying across the clearing, crashing through a tree and crumpling the trunk like paper. Her claws dripped with blood. She didn't stop. She landed between Joe and the cult, growling with a snarl that tore through the air like a banshee's scream.
The Alpha recovered quickly, snarling back, eyes wild with frustration.
The fight exploded.
Her pack collided with the cult's like a wave of knives. The cultists were larger, stronger in frame, all bulk and brawn. But Armani's wolves were lean, trained, and smart. They moved like ghosts, slipping between swings, tearing into tendons and throats. The air grew thick with the sound of claws against muscle, screams gurgled by blood, fur being ripped off skin.
Stamina.
That's what made the difference.
The cultists weren't used to prolonged combat. They were ceremonial, ancient. Armani's wolves were predators who trained for survival and speed. The cultists grew sloppy. One by one, they fell, leaving only the Alpha and his looming rage.
Then it was just her and him.
He was massive. Taller than any werewolf she'd fought. His arms were tree trunks, his claws the size of kitchen knives. He charged like a bull, and she met him halfway.
They clashed.
He slammed her into a tree so hard it cracked down the center. She spun free, dug her claws into his gut and dragged downward. He howled and backhanded her across the clearing.
She skidded through mud and blood, rolled, and sprang up again, shoulder dislocated. She popped it back into place with a grunt.
He came again. This time she ducked under him and bit deep into his thigh, almost snapping bone. He retaliated by grabbing her by the neck and slamming her repeatedly into the earth until it cratered.
They were both bleeding now. Both limping.
She didn't stop.
He went for her throat—missed—and she countered with a slash to his chest that nearly split him open. Blood poured down his fur, matting it in thick, dark streams. He roared. Grabbed her leg. Threw her through a log.
She got up.
He charged.
She leapt.
Midair, she twisted, landed behind him, kicked his spine, and as he turned, she jumped and bit into his neck.
They tumbled. His claws raked her back. Her jaw refused to let go. She held on, tighter, tighter, until she could taste his blood down her throat.
The Alpha finally dropped. Groaning. Then still.
The cultists scattered.
Cowards.
She stood over the Alpha, panting, fur torn, body shaking from the exertion.
It was over.
She limped through the trees, past dead cultists and fallen packmates, until she found him.
Joe.
Still alive. Blinking. Eyes wide and dazed. Waking up slowly.
He looked up.
And saw her.
The same silver-and-black werewolf who'd saved him, now standing just a few feet away. His head tilted, heart racing.
She stepped forward, let her form shift.
Bones snapped. Fur receded.
It was Armani.
He stared, breathless.
"…Armani?" he whispered.
She didn't answer.
She let her wolf come back.
And then, without a word, she bit into his neck.
Deep.
Claiming him.
Changing him.
Everything went white in his mind. And then—
Black.