Amara was halfway through redrawing Rheon's jawline for the fourth time when the penthouse alarm chirped.
Not the sharp, urgent tone of a security breach—the one that made her wrist buzz and guards appear from the walls—but a softer, annoyed chime from somewhere in the living area. Like the building itself had rolled its eyes.
A second later, her phone vibrated.
VALTOR ACCESS:Unauthorized override at Private Elevator 2 – Identity pending.
She frowned.
"Identity pending" sounded like the kind of thing you didn't want to see in a building full of people who could probably punch through walls.
Her wrist stayed quiet, which she took as a sign this was annoyance, not apocalypse.
Still… her fingers slipped reluctantly from the stylus.
She padded out of the studio, barefoot on the hallway rug. The penthouse was unusually loud for mid-afternoon—muffled voices, the distant clack of heels on marble. As she reached the main living area, she heard Ms. Kwan's voice, sharper than usual.
"Miss Zara, you know you're supposed to notify us before—"
"Relax, Mei, I brought coffee," a new voice cut in. Young. Bright. The vowels carried the easy arrogance of someone who'd never had to check their bank balance before ordering dessert.
Amara rounded the corner and stopped.
There were three people in the room.
Ms. Kwan stood near the kitchen island, looking like she was negotiating a hostage situation with only her patience as a shield. One of the guards hovered by the wall, visibly recalibrating what "threat assessment" even meant.
And between them, in the middle of the room like she'd been dropped there by a whirlwind, stood a girl.
Not a girl, technically. Woman. Early twenties, maybe. Dark hair in a glossy, messy braid that looked artfully careless rather than truly chaotic. Leather jacket slung over a black dress that cost more than Amara's old rent. Boots. Smudged eyeliner. Ear piercings glinting when she turned her head.
She held a cardboard drink tray in one hand, a bright smile in the other.
When she saw Amara, she lit up even more.
"Oh my god," she said. "It's you."
Amara had a wild, irrational moment where she thought the girl meant you as in the problem, the variable, the contract-bound artist living in my brother's wolf tower.
Then Zara Valtor, because who else could she be, set the drinks down and practically bounced toward her.
"You're Amara Reyes," she said. "From WebVerse. Blood Moon Contract. Oh my god, I hate how much I love your trauma."
Amara blinked. "That is… the strangest compliment I've gotten this month," she said.
"I'll top it," Zara said. "Your episode where Rheon tears his tie off in the burning boardroom? Changed me on a molecular level. I was like, 'ah yes, this is what generational curses feel like, but make it hot.'"
"You follow my comic," Amara said slowly.
"Obviously," Zara said. "I have the internet and issues."
She turned slightly, as if remembering her own entrance. "Mei, you can relax," she said over her shoulder. "I'm not here to leak state secrets or turn off the security grid. Again."
"Again," Ms. Kwan repeated, pinching the bridge of her nose.
The guard coughed strategically and retreated toward the hallway, deciding this was above his pay grade.
Amara tried to adjust.
Nothing in her orientation packet had covered "sudden younger sister of your werewolf jailer barges in with iced lattes and opinions."
"You're… Zara," she guessed.
Zara brightened. "He told you about me?" she asked. "Wow. He really is in crisis."
"I saw your name on some file," Amara said. "Legal… something."
"Ugh, estate paperwork," Zara groaned. "Don't talk to me about trusts. It triggers my rebellion. Anyway, hi. Yes. Zara Valtor. Professional disappointment. Amateur DJ. Full-time embarrassment to my brother."
She stuck out a hand.
Amara shook it automatically.
The instant their palms met, the binding at Amara's wrist fizzed—not pain, not the sharp warning of a near-breach, but a curious, pricking awareness. Like something in the unseen lines that connected her to Lucian had just registered a new node.
Zara's eyes flicked down, as if she felt it too.
"Whoa," she said softly. "He wasn't exaggerating."
Amara stiffened. "About what?" she asked.
Zara's smile came back, quick and playful, but something sharp glinted under it now.
"We'll get there," she said. "First, yay, we love you, big fan, can I get a selfie? Oh wait, you're under, like, seventeen NDAs right now." She winced theatrically. "Mei will tase me with her eyes."
"Miss Zara," Ms. Kwan said, "you know pictures are not advisable."
Zara pressed a hand to her chest. "I would never betray the sacred trust of the penthouse," she said. "Besides, I don't need photos. I have a very good memory."
She tapped her temple.
Then, more quietly to Amara: "Seriously, though. I've been obsessed with your work for months. I wanted to DM you but I figured you were drowning in weird messages already."
"That's… not wrong," Amara said.
She thought of the flood of comments, the death threats disguised as jokes, the "be my girlfriend or I'll stop reading" brigades.
"What a delightful meeting of minds," Ms. Kwan said dryly. "Miss Zara, can I assume your brother knows you're here?"
"He will in approximately… twenty seconds," Zara said. "The elevator tattled on me and I'm pretty sure his phone exploded."
On cue, footsteps sounded from the hallway.
Amara's spine straightened before she could help it.
Lucian appeared a moment later, tie loosened, expression already tight. When he saw his sister, something in his face did a complicated shift—annoyance, fondness, exasperation, concern, all colliding.
"Zara," he said. "You bypassed the lock again."
"Good afternoon to you too," she replied, opening her arms like she expected a hug. "Surprise visit. Family bonding. Don't you read brochures on work-life balance?"
He didn't hug her.
He did, however, reach out and gently fix the collar of her jacket, a small, automatic gesture that said more than an embrace would've.
"You triggered three protocols," he said. "You can't keep using my personal override code."
"It's not personal if IT wrote it down," she said. "You should talk to them about their password hygiene."
Then, as if remembering the script, she turned to Amara and stage-whispered, "Don't worry, he's always like this. He was born under a spreadsheet."
"I was born in a hospital like everyone else," Lucian said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"That's what the humans were told," Zara shot back.
Ms. Kwan made a tiny, pained sound and busied herself rearranging coffee cups.
The word "humans" hung in the air a moment longer than it should have.
Amara's gaze flicked to Lucian.
He didn't react.
Zara, apparently, saw the glance.
"Oh, right," she said brightly. "You two live together now."
She exaggerated the word like it was the punchline of a joke.
Color crawled up Amara's neck.
"We don't—" she began.
Lucian cut in. "She's here under contract," he said. "Not as a housemate."
"Uh-huh," Zara said. "And the cameras are for 'security' and not because you're a control freak, and the moon is just a rock. Sure. Love that for you."
"Zara," he warned.
She rolled her eyes. "Relax, I'm not going to start chanting 'one bed' in the comments," she said. "I'm not twelve."
"That sentence gave me hives," Lucian said flatly.
Amara coughed, nearly choke-laughing.
Zara's gaze snapped back to her, delighted. "See?" she said. "She has a sense of humor. You didn't break her completely."
"I wasn't trying to break her at all," Lucian said.
Zara snorted. "You dragged a storyteller into the heart of our mess and slapped a binding on her," she said. "You're either trying to break her or make her one of us. There isn't a third option."
That last word—our—hung heavy.
Pack.
The way she said "one of us" curled around something in Amara's chest and tugged.
"Coffee?" Zara added suddenly, holding up the drink tray like a peace offering. "I brought bribes. Mei won't let me smuggle in contraband pastries anymore, but she can't ban caffeine. I checked."
Ms. Kwan sighed. "I limited sugar after the incident with the broken chandelier," she said. "Not pastries in perpetuity."
"It was one chandelier," Zara protested. Then, to Amara: "Do you want something? I got extra. I wasn't sure if you were a 'black coffee and trauma' girl or a 'sugary latte and trauma' girl."
"Sugary latte," Amara said. "With trauma."
"Same," Zara said, passing her a cup. "Wow. It's like we're spiritually connected."
Lucian looked like he was mentally reviewing the building's structural integrity.
"You can't just barge in here whenever you like," he said. "This isn't a hotel."
"It's a den," Zara replied. "A nest. A very expensive, over-secured nest."
She hopped up onto one of the barstools, swinging a booted foot, entirely at ease.
"Also, hi," she added, wiggling her fingers at him. "You didn't say anything about the fact that your favorite obsessive fan artist is literally in your house."
"She is not my favorite obsessive fan artist," he said.
"Name one you've spent more money on," Zara challenged.
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
Ms. Kwan made a valiant attempt not to smile.
Zara smirked. "Thought so," she said. "It's okay, it's cute."
Amara felt like her molecules were vibrating.
Being fangirled was not new. Being fangirled by the sister of the man who'd sued her into signing a magic contract, while said man glowered in a penthouse that looked like her own panels, was… new.
"You read the comic," Amara said cautiously. "Like… all of it?"
"Twice," Zara said cheerfully. "Once for the angst, once for analysis. I have notes."
"Please don't show her your notes," Lucian said.
"I highlighted every time you were accidentally portrayed as not-a-monster," Zara told him. "It was generous of her."
"She didn't know what she was doing," Lucian muttered.
"She never does," Zara shot back. "That's why she's useful."
Amara cleared her throat. "I'm right here," she said.
Zara swung toward her. "I know," she said. "I'm still in the phase where your existence feels like fanfiction, sorry."
"She's a person, Zara," Lucian said quietly.
Something softened in Zara's expression at that. Just a flicker.
"Yeah," she said. "I know."
She hopped down from the stool and came closer to Amara, lowering her voice a little.
"Seriously," she said. "I know this is probably… overwhelming. The whole… binding, penthouse, wolf in a suit situation. If it helps at all, your comic was already making my life easier."
Amara blinked. "Easier how?" she asked.
Zara shrugged one shoulder. "Someone finally put a name and a face to… this," she said, gesturing vaguely at the air, at the tower, at her brother. "Obviously you didn't know how on-the-nose you were being, or you wouldn't be breathing, but still. Seeing him through someone else's eyes? Seeing the… good parts, too? That was… nice."
Her mouth twisted around the last word like she wasn't used to saying it.
"It's not all accurate," Lucian said.
"No," Zara agreed. "Sometimes she made you kinder than you are. Sometimes worse. Sometimes more stupid. That's the fun of fiction."
She leaned in, conspiratorial. "But the part where you stand in front of the window at three a.m. and make broody faces at the moon? Ten out of ten accuracy. I've seen it since I was nine."
"Zara," Lucian said warningly.
"What?" she asked. "She already knows you howl in corporate."
"I do not howl in corporate," he said.
"Metaphorically, then," she said.
Amara's brain buzzed. "You said… our mess," she said slowly. "And 'one of us.' And… pack."
Zara's eyes flicked to Lucian.
He shook his head, the slightest movement.
Zara rolled hers.
"You can't keep pretending in front of someone who literally dreamt the scar under your ring," she said. "The pretending ship sailed, hit an iceberg, and sank three episodes ago."
"Zara," he repeated, more steel in it now.
She held up both hands in surrender. "Fine, fine, relax," she said. "I'm not going to give her the family PowerPoint on 'So You Accidentally Wrote About Werewolves.'"
Amara choked on her coffee.
Zara grinned. "Kidding," she said. "It's more of a Google Doc."
"Zara," Lucian growled.
The sound made the hair on Amara's arms stand up.
Not because it was loud. Because it wasn't human.
Zara's grin widened. "See?" she told Amara. "That's what the comment section hears in their heads when they read your chapters. You really are 'so accurate it's scary.'"
"It was supposed to be metaphor," Amara said weakly. "Symbolism. Predatory capitalism. The beast inside… all that."
"Yeah," Zara said. "About that."
She flopped back onto the stool, stretching like a cat.
"You remember that panel where Rheon is sitting with his pack around the table?" she asked. "The one with the moon filter overlay, and everyone's eyes just a little too bright?"
Amara nodded slowly. "I used reference photos from some corporate retreats," she said. "Mixed them with… vibes."
"Those 'vibes' looked a lot like our last family gathering," Zara said lightly. "Except our table is uglier. They keep pretending it's rustic; it's just old."
The word family hung there with extra weight.
"Zara," Lucian said again, but this time there was a thread of warning and plea mixed together.
She glanced at him.
Whatever passed between them in that look was… layered.
She softened.
"I know," she said quietly. "Lines. Rules. Safety. I'm not trying to blow the doors off the den, alpha."
He flinched, just barely, at the title.
Amara saw it. Zara saw her seeing it.
"You picked the word," Zara told her with a little shrug. "We're just living with it now."
"I picked it because it sounded dramatic," Amara said weakly. "I didn't realize I was… subtitling."
Zara's eyes gleamed. "Subtitling," she repeated, clearly filing the word away. "That's one way to put it."
She hopped down again, restless energy radiating off her, and walked toward the huge window.
"You see all that?" she asked, gesturing at the city.
Skyscrapers gleaming. Streets pulsing. The river dark and steady.
"Most of them sleep through full moons," she said. "Through storms. Through whatever strange thing vibrates under the bones of this place. They live and die and never know there are… other rules running underneath."
She turned back, gaze flicking between Amara and Lucian.
"Some of us don't get that luxury," she said.
"Enough," Lucian said quietly.
Zara sighed, exaggerated. "You're no fun," she said. "I'm just saying, if you keep her this close and pretend she's blind, you're going to make her crazy."
"She's already halfway there," Amara muttered.
Zara shot her a grin. "Artists all start at halfway," she said. "It's the draw."
She moved closer to Amara again, dropping her voice. "Anyway," she said. "Point is: you're not insane. The echoes? The dreams? The way your panels and his life keep… touching? That's not in your head."
Relief and fear crashed together in Amara's chest.
"You've… seen it before?" she asked. "Something like this?"
Zara hesitated.
Lucian didn't say anything.
"Yes," Zara said finally. "Not exactly like this. Never exactly like this. But… we've had people who could… feel the current more than others. Old stories written before they happened. Songs that made elders very nervous. You're not the first storyteller to stumble onto the pack with your pen."
The word pack came easily this time. No joke, no fluff.
"Zara," Lucian said, more tired than angry now.
She shot him a look that said I know and I'm still doing it anyway.
"But you," she told Amara, tapping her lightly on the forehead, "are the first one whose work went viral while doing it. Congratulations. You turned the family secret into trending content. Honestly iconic."
"Please stop saying 'viral' and 'family secret' in the same sentence," Lucian said.
"I can't help it," she replied. "You picked a storyteller with Wi-Fi. This is on you."
Amara's brain whirled.
"So your… pack," she said slowly, feeling out the contours of the word, "isn't just… your executive team."
Zara laughed. "Oh, sweetie," she said. "If only you knew how many of those are in the pack too."
"Enough," Lucian repeated, more sharply. "You're here to visit, not to debrief."
"Fine," Zara said. "No debriefing. Just… vibe checks."
She took a step back, hands up again.
"Look," she said, more serious now. "He's not going to tell you anything he doesn't have to. That's how he's wired. But he brought you here. Into the den. Into the eye of the storm. That means, whether he admits it or not, you're… under our protection. That's not nothing."
Our protection.
Pack protection.
The words were dangerous comfort.
"Protection with terms and conditions," Amara said.
"Everything worth having comes with those," Zara said. "Ask any of us."
She glanced at her watch and clicked her tongue. "I have to go before the elders start sending me '??' emojis," she said. "I told them I was at yoga."
"You don't do yoga," Lucian said.
"They don't know that," she replied.
She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. It was quick, practiced, and he tolerated it with only minimal stiffening.
"Try not to terrify her," she whispered, but not quietly enough that Amara couldn't hear.
"I'm not the one talking about packs and elders," he murmured back.
She pulled away, rolling her eyes.
Then she grabbed her phone and turned to Amara one last time.
"I meant what I said," she told her. "Your comic… it's scary how accurate it is. Not the details—that's where you kept almost getting yourself killed. The… feeling."
She searched for the word.
"The weight," she said finally. "Of loving a monster who's trying very hard not to be one."
Amara's throat tightened. "He's not—" she started.
"He is," Zara said bluntly. "So am I. So are most of us, in our own ways. The trick is… where you point the teeth."
Her gaze slid to Lucian, then back.
"You see that clearly," she told Amara. "Clearer than most. That's why it's scary. That's why he doesn't know whether to sue you or hire you or chain you to the balcony."
"Zara," Lucian hissed.
She blew him a kiss.
"Welcome to the pack, in the broadest metaphorical sense," she told Amara. "Don't die. Don't break. And if you ever need a chaos buddy, text me. My number is in your access app now. Mei can't stop me. I'm inevitable."
She flicked an imaginary speck of dust off her jacket, winked, and sauntered toward the elevator.
Ms. Kwan appeared from nowhere to escort her, murmuring something about scheduled visits and blood pressure.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.
Zara stepped inside, turned, and saluted with two fingers.
Then she was gone.
Silence rushed back in, thick as ever.
Amara stood there, coffee cup in hand, feeling like a hurricane had blown through the room and left everything in the same place but slightly rearranged.
Lucian exhaled slowly.
"She's… a lot," Amara said.
"She's my sister," he said simply.
Something in his voice made her look at him.
Gone was the polished CEO veneer, the courtroom predator. For a moment, he just looked like a tired older brother whose little sister had just juggled knives in front of his new, fragile variable and walked away whistling.
"You're softer around her," Amara said before she could stop herself.
He shot her a look.
"I mean," she backpedaled, "you still look like you'd fire a board for sneezing wrong, but there's… a difference. Like the suit doesn't fit as tightly."
"That's because she constantly tries to set it on fire," he said dryly. Then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, the gesture unexpectedly human. "Zara has… always taken liberties with rules."
"She also seems like the only person in this building who talks to you like you're not a walking shareholder meeting," Amara said.
His mouth twitched. "She forgets sometimes," he said. "That there's more at stake than our childhood patterns."
"She remembers enough to say 'pack' like it's a pronoun," Amara said.
He went still.
"Don't," he said.
"Don't what?" she asked softly. "Don't use the word you've been dancing around since the courthouse? Don't acknowledge that my 'so accurate it's scary' comic might be because I've been accidentally eavesdropping on your… pack… from the internet?"
His eyes flashed.
Not gold.
Not yet.
But sharpened, edges cutting.
"Zara likes to poke the tiger," he said. "It doesn't mean you should start petting it."
"You know you're mixing metaphors at this point," she said.
He pressed his fingers briefly against the bridge of his nose, as if he, too, felt the day wearing thin.
"Whatever she hinted at," he said, "whatever you think you heard—put it aside for now. It doesn't change the terms. It doesn't change the lines. It only makes them more dangerous."
"Dangerous for who?" she asked.
"For you," he said quietly. "Always for you."
Her wrist buzzed, the binding reacting to something in his tone or the truth of the statement.
She rubbed it absently.
"She said I'm under your protection," Amara said. "Pack protection. Whatever that means."
"It means if something comes for you, it goes through me," he said.
"And who comes for me if you decide I'm the problem?" she asked.
His jaw tightened.
"That's not a question you need to worry about today," he said.
"That's not an answer," she replied.
He looked at her then, really looked, like he was weighing the cost of honesty against the safety of ignorance.
Whatever he found there, it made his shoulders soften a fraction.
"Zara shouldn't have said what she did," he said. "But she was right about one thing: you're not insane. Your work resonates because there is something to resonate with. There is a… pack. There is a mess. You stepped into it. That's real."
Her heart pounded.
He stepped back, the distance between them growing again.
"But whether you like it or not," he added, "for now, you're in it. And as long as you're in it, you're ours to protect."
The word ours slid over her skin like a weight and a blanket at once.
"I didn't agree to be 'ours,'" she said.
"You signed the contract," he said. "The magic doesn't care what you thought you were agreeing to."
She wanted to argue.
Instead, she looked at the door Zara had walked through. At the faint echo of laughter still clinging to the air. At the coffee cup in her hand, suddenly heavier.
"So what now?" she asked. "You tighten the rules? Limit my access to your staff? Install a shock collar for my conversations?"
He almost smiled. Almost.
"No," he said. "Now… you go back to the studio. Because your next chapter is due tomorrow, and my sister will roast both of us in her group chat if you miss an update."
Her laugh came out surprised. "Is that what you're afraid of?" she asked. "Your sister's group chat?"
"You've never seen it," he said. "It's ruthless."
He turned away, already shifting back into efficiency.
"House rules haven't changed," he said. "Neither have ours. Zara is… noise. Don't let her distract you from the work."
"She made it sound like the work is the distraction," Amara muttered. "From something bigger."
He paused at the hallway.
"Everything is a distraction from something bigger," he said without turning. "That's how we stay sane."
Then he left.
Amara stood alone in the living room, the city glittering outside, the echo of "pack" still vibrating in her bones.
Through Zara, she'd seen something she hadn't expected: not just the sharp teeth of the wolf who'd bound her, but the edges of the den around him. A sister who teased and poked and loved him in her own chaotic way. A household that wasn't just staff and guards, but something more woven. More animal.
She wasn't ready to call it family.
She wasn't ready to call it hers.
But as she walked back down the hall toward her studio, coffee cooling in her hand, her wrist humming faintly with every step, one thought kept looping in her mind:
So accurate it's scary.
If Zara was right, then she wasn't just writing about monsters in suits anymore.
She was writing inside their story.
And the pack was watching.