The denial was gone, replaced by a churning, white-hot fury that made Violet's blood sing a dangerous, off-key melody. Her 'dowdy new girl' act—meant to be a temporary, playful strategy—had backfired spectacularly, cementing her status as a background joke in her new school. Worse, it was a joke that the arrogant, beautiful William Wolf seemed to find highly amusing. The thought of his lazy, handsome smirk, the one he had given her after their soul-shattering kiss in the moonlight, now fueled a raw, physical need to break something.
She couldn't wreck the living room; Wynona would flay her. She couldn't run wildly in the woods; William Wolf was out there, and she didn't want to face the consequence of her recent, confusing transformation again.
The only safe target was the solarium.
She stormed into the glass-walled cabin, the setting sun painting the room in deep, bruised orange and purple hues. The single most infuriating object in the room was the two-hundred-pound, obsidian-black trough sitting smack in the center. It had been immovable, a symbol of her limitations. Now, it was her catharsis.
"Fine," she snarled, peeling off her thick jacket. "You want to be useless? You want to mock me with your weight? Let's see how useless you are when I'm done with you."
She approached the trough, which was roughly shaped like an oblong, ancient basin carved from volcanic rock. It had a rough, porous surface that resisted grip. This wasn't just physical labor; this was a war against an inanimate object, a desperate attempt to externalize the chaotic strength churning inside her.
She crouched, positioning her shoulder against the rim, and braced her feet against the solid earth floor. She strained. At first, there was only the familiar, frustrating resistance—the immovable mass of stone meeting the insufficient force of human muscle.
Then, the anger peaked. It wasn't just adrenaline; it was a shift, a deep, cellular surge that felt like liquid, molten gold igniting beneath her skin. Her vision didn't turn red this time, but her eyes, she knew, were flashing the tell-tale wolf-gold.
Push.
It was no longer difficult. It was merely heavy. Her muscles, suddenly dense and taut like wound steel cables, screamed in exertion, but obeyed an invisible, new commander. She could feel the new power coursing through her limbs—the terrifying, exhilarating power of the werewolf-succubus hybrid, stabilized and amplified by the recent energy transfer from William.
Violet's veins popped out like ropes against the pale skin of her neck and arms. A guttural sound ripped from her throat—a sound less human than it was a triumphant snarl of an apex predator claiming its prey.
Hnnnnnggghhh—UP!
With a grinding, sickening scrape of stone against soil that echoed deafeningly in the glass space, the two-hundred-pound trough lifted.
Violet held it aloft, suspended by pure, raw power. Her arms were shaking violently, but the trough was inches above the floor, held there by her will alone. The shock of the impossible feat hit her, stripping away the blinding rage in an instant. Her focus broke, her golden eyes faded back to green, and the unnatural, supercharged strength vanished as quickly as it had arrived.
She scrambled back, a millisecond before the obsidian trough crashed back down, splintering the aged, rotten floorboards where her toes had been.
"What the actual hell…" she whispered, staring at the destruction. She had always been stronger than a normal girl, but this was a completely different level—a feat of superhuman strength that belonged in a comic book, not a quiet Deadwood solarium. It was proof: the kiss with William, the transformation, the whole night was real, and it had irrevocably changed her, granting her terrifying, unquantifiable power.
The Revelation of the Hidden Path
Where the trough had rested, the floor was gone. In its place, sunken into the earth, was a section of ancient, moss-covered circular stone work.
It wasn't a well, nor was it a cellar opening. It was a mosaic—a collection of perfectly fitted stones forming a large, intricate, obsidian-and-slate circle, about six feet in diameter. It seemed to predate the cabin by centuries. Engraved faintly into the stone were swirling, indecipherable symbols—not runes, but complex, crystalline patterns that seemed to shift slightly when she blinked.
Violet knelt, tracing the patterns with a trembling finger. The stone was unnaturally cold, radiating a subtle, deep hum—an energetic resonance that vibrated in her bones. She pressed her palm against the stone.
A sudden flash.
She saw no images, but felt a dizzying pressure of knowledge: ancient routes, deep earth energies, and a connection to something vast and cold. It was like standing on a power conduit buried deep beneath the continent. She snatched her hand back, gasping.
"Violet? What in God's name was that noise?"
Wynona stood in the doorway, a frying pan held like a shield, her face pale. She took in the displaced trough, the splintered floor, and Violet's wide, shaken eyes. Then, her gaze fell upon the exposed circular path.
Wynona's face, usually a mask of detached cool, crumbled into a look of sheer, cold dread. She dropped the frying pan with a clang.
"No. Not here. Not in this house, too," Wynona muttered, stumbling backward. "Cover it. Now, Violet! Put the trough back! Don't look at it!"
"Mom, what is it?" Violet demanded, still staring at the path. "It's buzzing. It feels… alive."
"It's a ley-line convergence point," Wynona hissed, recovering her composure and taking on a stern, almost ruthless expression. "It's an anchor point for the old magic. The locals call it the 'Entrance to Narnia' in their silly folklore, but it's real, Violet. It's a wound in the earth's skin, where the veil is thin. You don't touch things like that. You seal them off."
Violet, sensing her mother's genuine fear, backed away. "You knew this was here?"
Wynona grabbed a shovel and started nervously sweeping soil back toward the path. "I knew the area was prone to them. That's why the rent was cheap. I thought I bought us enough space and time. This place is old, Violet. It draws things. It amplifies things. Now, help me cover it. The trough goes back. This conversation never happened."
The magical, terrifying strength she had just accessed, the primal terror Wynona was now exhibiting, and the silent, humming path beneath her feet—it all conspired to shatter Violet's sense of mundane reality. She knew now: her new life was not just about hiding a high school crush; it was about surviving a magical reality her mother desperately feared.
The Sweet Taste of Victory, The Bitter Pill of Deception
The next morning, after Wynona ensured the obsidian trough was back in place and bolted down with new, heavy-duty screws (much to Violet's silent amusement), they shared a tense breakfast.
"Don't look for trouble, Violet," Wynona said, slicing a piece of bacon. "If you have to hide, hide well. It's better to be the dowdy new girl than the witch-wolf girl who broke the heir of the Winter Moon clan."
Violet flinched at the last part, which confirmed her darkest suspicion: the kiss hurt William.
"I'm doing this to protect him, you know," Violet mumbled, accepting the extra bacon Wynona passed her.
"I know, honey. Now eat up. You need to keep your strength. You've become… heavy-duty recently." Wynona gave a significant look toward the solarium, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips before it vanished.
Violet retreated to her room to prepare for school, her mind already running calculations. The 'Dowdy New Girl' persona was no longer just a joke; it was essential camouflage. William was looking for an irresistible 'fairy' who stole his strength and kissed him senseless. He was looking for her Winner self. The dorky, unattractive mask was the safest barrier she could erect between her true, dangerous nature and her unsuspecting, irresistible mate.
She donned the shapeless, dusty-rose hoodie and the baggy brown corduroys, secured the oversized, round spectacles onto her nose, and tied her hair into a severe, unflattering ponytail. Her face was scrubbed clean, save for a hint of cherry lip gloss to appease the succubus part of her that demanded some form of sensual expression.
The transformation was complete. The powerful, magnetic, terrifying creature that lifted a two-hundred-pound trough was now hidden inside a soft, easily overlooked cocoon.
"Time to go," she muttered, heading out the door, feeling the heavy, cold presence of the hidden path humming beneath the thyme grass lawn.
Honors Class: The Smirk That Knew
At the school gate, the Principal intercepted her. "Miss Darkwood! Good news. Given your excellent placement tests, you've been approved for the Honors Program starting today. We're excited to have you."
Violet nodded, adopting the shy, grateful expression she'd practiced in the mirror. This was bad. Being in the Honors Program meant constant proximity to the most high-achieving, most popular students—a demographic William Wolf personified.
The Principal ushered her through the corridor and into the familiar, brightly lit classroom. The silence that fell upon her entry was not the immediate, mocking snicker of the day before; it was an expectant hush.
Violet walked to the teacher's desk, avoiding all eye contact, focusing on the worn leather of her backpack strap.
Then, she couldn't help it. Like a moth to the moon, her gaze was drawn to the first row.
William Wolf was there.
He wasn't standing, of course. Chapter 4's exhaustion, compounded by the vampire attack detailed in the later chapters, had left him hobbled. He was seated at a desk near the window, his leg elevated slightly on a chair, a sleek metal crutch propped beside him. His dark jeans and simple Henley shirt didn't diminish the effortless aura of wealth and raw physical appeal that clung to him. He looked like an injured king.
Violet froze. Every instinct told her to run, but the Dowdy New Girl persona forced her to hold her ground, to perform the appropriate reaction of a shy, star-struck nerd. She kept her head tilted down, trying to channel fear and awkwardness.
William didn't laugh. He didn't stare dismissively. He didn't even acknowledge her in the way he would a new face. Instead, his deep, amber eyes—the same eyes that had glowed gold when he transformed—locked onto her green ones with an electric, disconcerting intensity.
He wasn't looking at a nerd. He was looking at a secret.
His mouth, the same mouth that had delivered the most sensual, life-altering kiss of her life, curved into a slow, deliberate, knowing smirk.
It wasn't a challenge; it was an acknowledgment.
"I know it's you."
The message was transmitted with crystal clarity, shattering Violet's carefully constructed world. He saw past the glasses. He saw past the hoodie. Her entire double life, the strategy of weeks, had collapsed in the face of his single, possessive gaze. The realization was a dizzying blow, stealing the breath from her lungs. The Dowdy New Girl was already compromised. The Wolf Prince was injured, but he was hunting, and he knew exactly which sheep wore a wolf's disguise.
Violet stood unmoving, caught like a rabbit in the headlights of a very fast, very handsome truck, praying the teacher would intervene before she did something that involved either screaming or turning into a wolf right there in front of the periodic table.