She jumped 4

Do you know what it’s like when someone lives rent-free in your head? And I mean really lives there—with furniture, a fireplace, maybe even a goddamn cup of tea steaming on the windowsill while they make themselves comfortable in every corner of your thoughts.

That’s what this stranger was doing to me.

The one from the tower. Silver eyes like frozen fire, burning cold and relentless. The one who caught me red-handed with the registry in my grasp and still let me walk away.

He hadn’t touched me—hadn’t even threatened me. Hadn’t demanded my name or dragged me before the council like any reasonable person would have done.

He just looked at me. Really looked. Like he could see straight through every lie I’d ever told, every mask I’d ever worn, every desperate plan I’d ever made. And then those words, delivered like a prophecy: “They’re not ready for you.”

I hadn’t slept right since. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard that voice—low and rough and absolutely certain. I replayed every second: the way he moved through shadows like he owned them, the way the air itself seemed to bend around him, the way my heart had hammered against my ribs when our eyes met.

Was he a guard? Impossible. Guards didn’t move like that, didn’t speak like that.

A contender? Maybe, but the heirs weren’t supposed to arrive for another week. The schedule was sacred, unchangeable.

So who the hell was he?

I was still turning it over in my mind when I sat before the mirror in the communal dressing chamber, dabbing moonstone shimmer across my collarbones.

The preparation ritual before the second ceremony was always chaos—thirty girls crammed into one space, all desperate and glittering and sharp-edged with ambition.

“Oh my goddess, did you hear?” Seraphina’s voice cut through the chatter like a blade. She was practically vibrating with excitement, her hands fluttering as she spoke. “Alpha heir Hector will be here tonight!”

The room exploded.

“Hector?” someone shrieked. “THE Hector Veylor? The ghost prince himself?”

“The one nobody’s seen in three years,” another girl added, leaning forward conspiracially. “They say he only comes out for blood or battle.”

“I heard he’s absolutely feral,” said Cressa, the girl in blue lace whose father owned half the shipping district. Her smile was sharp enough to cut glass. “Like, rip-your-throat-out-and-still-make-you-beg-for-more kind of ruthless.”

“God, I hope so,” someone else giggled. “I want my Alpha dangerous.”

“I’ve been saving myself for years just thinking about him,” Cressa announced boldly, completely shameless. “If he wants to bend me over and take me in every position imaginable, I’ll say thank you and arch my back prettier.”

“Cressa!” Several girls gasped in mock horror, but they were all leaning in, hungry for more details.

“What? We all know what this is really about. The Selection isn’t some romantic fairy tale—it’s about proving you can handle an Alpha’s needs. All of them.”

They dissolved into squeals and mock-slaps and breathless speculation about what Hector Veylor might want from his Luna. I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw my past lives.

Not because they were desperate—I didn’t blame them for that. Desperation was honest, at least. But because they thought this was about desire, about fate, about getting picked and fucked and patted on the head like good little wolves.

They had no idea this wasn’t about finding a mate. This was about survival. And maybe, if I was very lucky, getting some answers along the way.

The Frenzy ceremony was the most dangerous part of the entire Selection process. It was an ancient tradition—older than the councils, older than the written laws.

Back when our ancestors were truly wild, unmated wolves would gather during the full moon, drawn together by scent and instinct and the primitive need to find their match.

Now it was controlled, civilized, sanitized. But still deadly.

They blindfolded us with silk that smelled of lavender and lies. We weren’t told how many contenders had been allowed into the chamber—could be five, could be fifteen. The numbers changed every year, kept secret to maintain the element of true choice.

Our scents were masked with oils and incense. The rules were simple: no permanent markings, no names exchanged, no full shifts allowed. Kissing was permitted. Light touching was expected.

Everything else was supposed to be off-limits.

Supposed to be.

My heart hammered beneath the blindfold as I stood in the circle with the other girls. The chamber was large—I could tell from the way sounds echoed—but it felt suffocating. Footsteps circled us like predators stalking prey. A growl rumbled from somewhere to my left. Nervous laughter bubbled up from behind me.

Then I heard it: a girl’s sharp intake of breath, followed by a soft moan. Someone was already breaking the rules.

Someone stepped close to me. Too close. I could feel body heat radiating against my skin, could smell leather and pine and something sharper underneath—desperation, maybe. Or hunger.

Hot breath ghosted across my cheek. I turned my face away instinctively.

“Don’t be shy, beautiful,” a voice murmured against my ear. His hands found my arms, fingers digging in just shy of painful. “Let’s see what you’re hiding under all that attitude.”

His mouth pressed against my jaw, sloppy and claiming. I flinched hard.

“I said don’t be shy.” He went for my lips anyway, pressing his mouth to mine with zero finesse. His tongue forced its way past my lips like he was conquering territory, not courting a potential mate.

I jerked back, bile rising in my throat. “Get off—”

He didn’t. His grip tightened, and I felt my hands clench into fists, ready to break his nose blindfold or no blindfold.

Then the air shifted.

Like the entire room drew breath and held it. A sound cut through the chamber—not loud, but sharp as a blade. Deep. Possessive. Absolutely lethal.

The growl of an Alpha who would not be challenged.

“Mine.”

That single word. That voice. I froze completely, every muscle in my body locking tight. The hands on my arms disappeared instantly. The contender who’d been kissing me stumbled backward so fast I heard him crash into someone else.

Silence fell like a curtain. Even the other couples stopped what they were doing.

The air grew electric, charged with power that made my skin buzz and my wolf whimper in recognition. I didn’t move. Couldn’t move. That voice—low and rough and absolutely certain—was burned into my memory.

It was him. The stranger from the tower.

He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t approach. But his presence filled the space around me like smoke, like shadow, like something I couldn’t escape even if I wanted to.

The other contender muttered something unintelligible and retreated fast, his footsteps fading toward the other side of the chamber. And still I stood there, trembling under silk and secrets, feeling marked in ways that had nothing to do with teeth or claws.