~Vivianne~
It's my birthday. I just turned eighteen.
Today should feel exciting. I should feel nervous. Hopeful, even. That's how it's supposed to go.
Because in a werewolf's life, eighteen is the age when everything changes. When girls find their mates, when life suddenly means something in this twisted hierarchy we pretend is sacred.
But there's no cake. No smiles. No ceremony.
Just me. On the floor.
Beatrice, my stepmother, kicks me hard in the stomach, and I jolt awake, choking on the pain that rips through my body. My head feels like it's been split in two, the kind of pain that makes you wish you could just stop existing.
I try to move, but the crunch of glass beneath me keeps me in place. Broken shards everywhere. My eyes adjust to the bright light, the sour stench of alcohol still lingering in the air. And I realize…I never even made it to bed last night. I spent the night here, on the cold, dirty living room floor.
Because my father came home.
Williams Ramirez. Gamma of our pack.
He reeked of alcohol, a bottle of whiskey in his hand, and his words slurred.
"You little whore," he spat. "Where's the rest of the money? I know you make more than this at that stupid bar. Don't lie to me," he said as he counted the money I handed him.
"I don't have any more, sir," I'd whispered, trying to sound braver than I felt. But we both knew the truth.
"Liar!" His shove had slammed me into the ground, my body hitting hard. "Don't you dare lie to your father, you bitch."
"I'm not lying, I swear…please. I promise to come home with more tomorrow!" I'd cried when he dragged me up by my hair, pain shooting down my scalp.
But he hadn't listened. He never does.
He'd ripped through my pockets, and then through my room, like a wolf tearing at prey.
And he'd found it, thirty-five dollars. The tips I'd saved from the bar. The only thing I had. I wanted to use it the next day. My birthday. Just to buy myself something that was mine.
"You fucking liar!"
I hadn't even seen the bottle coming. Just the crack of glass slamming into the back of my skull, shattering on impact. The world spun. My vision blurred with black spots.
He'd tossed the jagged remains beside me. Then he walked out, pocketing my money, leaving me bleeding on the floor.
That was last night.
Now, the glass digs into my skin, my head throbs, and I can still hear his voice in my head. And this, this is my eighteenth birthday.
I blink the grogginess away and press a trembling hand against the back of my head. The pain spikes so sharply I nearly scream. It's like someone is driving a needle straight into my skull.
"Stand the fuck up, clean this mess, and go make my daughter and me breakfast, you filthy mutt!" Beatrice's voice lashes at me.
Tears flow down my face before I can stop them. I push myself upright, glass crunching under my palms, and stare at the wreckage scattered around me.
This is my life.
My father remarried after my mother died…died giving birth to me. For that, he's never forgiven me. I carry her face, her eyes, her smile. Every time he looks at me, it's her ghost he sees, and it curdles into hate.
He calls me the reason his fortune rotted into debt, the curse he can't drink away.
And I've learned to believe him.
I rush to serve them breakfast, clear the dishes, and finish every chore before I can even think about leaving for school.
When I'm finally free, I slip into one of Mirabelle's discarded gowns…faded, worn, a pity-gift from Beatrice last week. It fits in places I didn't expect, showing the curves I usually hide.
I look at my pale, freckled face in the mirror and sigh. My collarbone shoots out, my face is too thin, my eyes too hollow. I tug my ginger hair into a tight ponytail, hoping it makes me look brighter, less broken. Today could be the day.
My chance to find a mate.
I wonder if mates reject their matches just based on looks. What if they take one look at me and decide they didn't want me?
The thought twists my stomach into knots.
I slip into Mirabelle's room, her scent of vanilla and watermelon coating the air like poison. My fingers close around her foundation. Carefully, I dab it over the blister on my lip, the crusted blood along my cheek. It doesn't erase the pain, but at least it hides it.
Then I feel it.
My heart stutters, then races so fast I can barely breathe. A pull. A heat rushing through my chest.
My mate.
The mate bond is alive. And my mate is close by , so close that I can almost taste their alluring scent on my tongue. If they don't come looking for me, there's a good chance I'll find them first.
But even through the rush of excitement, something feels…off. The energy from the other side of the bond is heavy, which is odd. Still, I can't stop the thrill bubbling inside me. I've dreamed of this moment for as long as I've known what a mate call is.
Today, everything changes.
It's the start of a new session in college, and my schedule for the day is already daunting…warrior training first, shifting class second, and another class later in the afternoon. The first two are my worst subjects, but I push through because I have a plan to graduate as a Gamma trainee, prove myself in the Gamma force, and earn enough to pay off my father's debts. It's the only way I can see a future for myself.
I set out for college, the ten-minute walk to campus filled with nervous rehearsals in my head.
"Hi, I'm Vivianne Ramirez. I'm your mate."
No, that's too formal. Too stiff.
By the time I reach the campus gates, my stomach growls in fear. I don't even know if my mate is here, though nearly every young wolf-shifter in Moravthis attends this college. The odds are high.
On top of that, my inner wolf, though I've never met her, grows restless the moment I step onto campus. My mate is close. I can smell it. Cedar and wild rose, his scent swirling around me. Before I can even begin searching for him, my alarm goes off, it's time for class.
I chew the tail end of my pen down to distract myself during the class. My fingers tangle in my ponytail while I whisper terrible introductions under my breath.
"Hi, I'm Vivianne. I think I'm your mate?" No, too pathetic. Vivianne Ramirez here. I think we're…"
I slam my pen down. "Ugh!" My voice is louder than I intend, drawing angry, mean stares.
"The lesson today is combat endurance," the instructor says, walking towards my seat. "You must learn how to disarm and restrain your opponent without shifting. We're meant to rely on speed, precision, and the instincts of our wolves."
"Vivianne Ramirez. Mirabelle Ramirez." The instructor's voice jolts me. "Get on the mat and show the class what you've learnt.
Of course my opponent is Mirabelle.
We circle each other on the mat, her grin wolfish, mine a poor imitation of confidence. Her strikes come fast, I block once, twice…then her fist drives into my ribs, her elbow cracks against my cheek. I hit the floor hard, air ripped from my lungs.
Laughter ripples through the room. My wolf howls inside me, furious at the humiliation, but powerless to rise.
The day drags on. My bruises bloom under the uniform I had changed into as I sit through my last class…Healing. A calm room filled with herbs, salves, and the soft golden glow of spellwork. The lesson is on energy transfer, how to channel our own strength into a patient without draining ourselves. The irony isn't lost on me. I'm covered in bruises, and yet I'm the one learning how to heal someone else.
When it's finally over, I slip out, my body aching badly. But I can't delay this anymore. I have to find him.
I keep my head down as I weave through the crowded campus, avoiding eye contacts as I am not particularly popular here. Anywhere.
And then…
The scent.
It slices through everything. My breath falters, my wolf claws forward. Every step I take, it grows stronger, wrapping around me until it's all I can feel.
And then I see him.
Leaning casually against the wall, flipping through a notebook.
Lucas Wright.
I freeze.
Lucas, the soon-to-be Beta of Ravaryn Pack. Best friend to Raymond, the next Alpha. The only boy who was ever kind to me. He'd once kissed my hand when I was eight, telling me I had beautiful eyes. He was my childhood crush. My dream. My heart's foolish hope.
And now, here he is.
My mate.
His head lifts, his gaze locking onto mine. Time stops. His lips curve into that soft half-smile, the dimple on his cheek deepening.
My heart stutters, then bolts.
Overwhelmed, terrified, and utterly unprepared, I spin on my heel and run. Because he may be my mate, but he doesn't belong to me.