Fryer grease and despair. That's the perfume of the Grey Zone. It coated the back of Ravenna's throat, a film she couldn't scrub away no matter how hard she brushed her teeth. She kept her head down.
Wipe the counter. Ignore the yelling. Be invisible. Invisible meant safe. Invisible meant surviving another shift at this dump without getting killed.
"High-Ranking Lycan Elder Found Assassinated—Bloodlord Suspected."
The headline on the newspaper taped to the window was peeling, but the words still screamed. That death had turned the air in the Grey Zone into pure static.
Every werewolf was itching for a fight. Every witch was looking over their shoulder. And Ravenna? Being a hybrid meant having a civil war in her blood cells. Witch against Wolf. Oil against water. Today, the mixture felt volatile.
She dug her knuckles into the laminate counter until they turned white. Not here. Not today.
"Missed a spot." Mr. Krenshaw. The shift manager. He pointed a sausage-thick finger at a puddle of strawberry milkshake.
"Clean that. And table three. Don't touch the walls."
He hated when she touched the walls. He didn't know what was under the peeling wallpaper in the back corner. Her secret. A messy, half-assed protection ward she'd been scratching there for weeks.
One shaky line at a time. Usually, it calmed her. But today? Useless.
"Hey. Grease stain." Ravenna stiffened. She didn't need to turn around to know who it was. Garon. He leaned over the counter, all sneer and cracked leather jacket. Low-tier thug. Ran numbers for a minor pack. He smelled like cheap whiskey and wet dog.
"Your change," she muttered, shoving the crumpled bills toward him.
He didn't take it. instead, he leaned in, invading her personal space. "You got a look on you, girl. Twitchy. You seen anything funny since the Elder dropped?"
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Even a bottom-feeder like Garon reeked of Wolf. The scent hit her nose—wild, demanding, irritating. It poked at the Lycan rage buried deep in her gut.
The fire woke up. But the cold, logical fear of her Witch side tried to drown it out. Leave, she begged silently. Just walk away.
"Look at me when I'm talkin' to you!" Garon slammed his fist on the counter. Snap. That was the sound of her control breaking.
The Lycan side roared, wanting to rip his throat out. The Witch side shrieked, desperate to throw up a shield. The two forces slammed into each other in her core. The air in the diner grew heavy. A low hum vibrated through the floorboards, rattling the silverware.
Garon stopped mid-snarl. He blinked, looking around. "What the hell is—"
Ravenna couldn't breathe. Her vision swam. It wasn't just heat anymore. It was pressure. A churning, destructive rot trying to tear its way out of her skin.
She gasped, choking on air that tasted like ozone. The energy needed a door. It found one in the tiny protection ward on the back wall.
The explosion didn't go bang. It went shred. A chaotic blast of silver and black light blew outward. The windows facing the alley didn't just break; they dissolved into glittering dust.
The air filled with the sharp tang of burnt wood. The plastic counter caught fire, melting into grotesque, bubbling shapes right in front of Garon. He screamed, clutching his ears, scrambling backward like a crab. Krenshaw dove under a booth.
Ravenna stood frozen. Her hands were smoking. Literally smoking. She looked down at her fingertips. They glowed with a faint, sickly silver light.
I am the chaos, she thought, the realization hitting her harder than the blast. I am the nightmare. This wasn't a failed spell. This was raw, untamed power. Hybrid power. The hunters wouldn't miss a signal like this. It was a beacon.
"You freak!" Garon spat, stumbling over a fallen stool. "I'm gonna tell the Alpha! I'm gonna—"
She didn't wait for him to finish. Survival instinct. It was the only thing she was good at. She vaulted over the burning counter, shoving past the scrambling thug. She tore out the back door, lungs burning. Into the alley. Narrow. Trash-strewn.
She dodged rusted pipes and overflowing bins, sprinting until her legs felt like jelly. She didn't look back until she hit the main street, a grime-covered market pretending to be a thoroughfare.
She slowed to a fast walk, forcing her breathing to even out. Blend in. Just another face. But her hands were still trembling. She ducked into a small, dark recess near a deactivated loading dock, pressing her back against the cold stone.
She'd just confirmed every fear the packs and covens had. Mom died to keep me a secret, she thought, a sob rising in her throat. And I just blew it up.
Then, the air changed. The hair on her arms stood up. This wasn't her chaotic mess. This was order. Dominance. Ancient Lycan power rolling in like a storm front.
It smelled of deep pine forests and old, expensive leather. It made her knees weak. It commanded fear. Worse, it commanded submission. Slowly, terrifyingly, she looked up.
A man blocked the mouth of the alley. Silhouetted against the harsh streetlights, he looked less like a person and more like a verdict. Tall. Broad shoulders that strained against a suit that cost more than this entire block. He didn't smell like the Grey Zone. He smelled like the Ironwood Wilds. Clean. Dangerous. Alpha. His gaze swept over her—the singed apron, the shaking hands, the residue of wild magic still clinging to her skin like static.
His eyes were dark brown. No. Wait. They were bleeding gold at the edges. "I sensed the chaos," the Alpha said. His voice was a low rumble that vibrated right in the center of her chest.
"An energy signature that shouldn't exist. You smell of ash and a broken curse." He took a step closer. He was Emin Fernwhistle. The highest-ranking Lycan in the region. The man who made grown wolves wet themselves. The man who famously hated magic.
His golden eyes flashed. A look of primal fury crossed his face, mixed with a twisted, confused agony. "You," Emin snarled. The word dropped like a hammer. "You are my Fated Mate."