I should run.
Every instinct I have—every rule I carved into my bones—screams at me to turn around and disappear into the city before something irreversible happens.
Instead, I stand there.
Frozen.
The man leans against the brick wall like he belongs there, like the night itself bent to make room for him. Up close, the pull is worse. Sharper. My skin prickles as if a storm is building just beneath it, waiting for permission to break.
He smells wrong.
Not human-clean. Not pack-familiar either. There's something muted about him, like a howl trapped behind glass. It unsettles me more than outright dominance ever could.
"Hey," he says again, slower this time, eyes studying my face like he's trying to place me in a memory that doesn't exist. "I didn't mean to freak you out. I just—"
He stops abruptly.
I feel it before I see it.
His gaze sharpens. His nostrils flare almost imperceptibly. His head tilts, just slightly, like an animal catching a scent.
My heart stutters.
No. Humans don't do that.
"I need to go," I cut in, my voice tighter than I intend. I take another step back, then another, increasing the distance between us inch by precious inch.
He straightens from the wall.
The movement is smooth. Too smooth.
"Wait," he says, lifting his hands in a placating gesture. "I'm not trying to follow you. I just—something felt… off. When you were inside."
The moon pulses overhead, an ache blooming beneath my ribs.
"That happens," I lie. "It's a city."
I turn sharply, forcing my feet to move. I can feel him watching me, his attention a tangible thing pressing between my shoulder blades.
Don't look back.
I make it three steps.
Then he speaks again.
"What's your name?"
The question hits harder than it should.
Names are dangerous. Names are anchors. Names make it harder to disappear.
I keep walking.
Behind me, I hear his footsteps.
Measured. Controlled.
Not chasing—but not retreating either.
My pulse roars in my ears. I break left, melting into the stream of pedestrians, using bodies and noise as a shield. The city closes around me, swallowing my scent, my fear, my existence.
When I finally dare to glance back—
He's gone.
Relief crashes into me so hard my knees almost buckle.
I don't stop moving until I reach my apartment. Locks click into place. Curtains are drawn. I lean my forehead against the door, breathing hard, willing my heartbeat to slow.
Idiot, I tell myself. You stayed too long.
I pace the room, restless energy crawling under my skin. The moonlight seeps through the cracks in the curtains, silver and accusing. I can still feel him, like an echo that refuses to fade.
He is dangerous.
Not because he wants to be—but because he doesn't know what he is.
I lie awake for hours, listening to the city breathe. When sleep finally drags me under, it is shallow and sharp-edged.
Morning comes too soon.
I go about my day with mechanical precision—work, errands, anonymity—but something has shifted. The world feels thinner, like a veil has been torn and stitched back poorly.
It's late afternoon when it happens.
I sense him before I see him.
The same wrongness in the air. The same pull.
I stop short on the sidewalk, dread pooling low in my stomach.
Across the street, he stands outside a café, phone pressed to his ear, frustration etched into his features. Sunlight catches in his dark hair. He looks painfully normal.
Human.
Except when he turns his head.
Our eyes meet.
Recognition flashes across his face—quick and undeniable.
He hangs up without a word.
And smiles.
Not predatory. Not smug.
Curious.
Like I am a puzzle he has decided to solve.
I take a step back.
He crosses the street.
Every nerve in my body screams at once. I pivot, ready to run, but his voice stops me mid-motion.
"Lyra."
My blood turns to ice.
I never told him my name.
Slowly, I turn.
He's close now. Too close. His eyes search my face, dark and intent, like he's waiting for confirmation of something he already knows.
"I don't know why," he says quietly, "but I couldn't stop thinking about you. And I swear—when I say your name out loud—it feels right."
The moon surges.
Pain lances through my chest as something ancient and furious stirs awake.
Because no man has ever spoken my name like that.
And survived.
I open my mouth to tell him to leave.
To run.
To save himself.
Instead, the world tilts—and the moon answers him.
Loud.