Keith is a chain hotel owner. Keith never liked you. Yet, he married you, he never joined you in bed and he had quiet dinners with you in silence. He was cold, rude, and emotionless. A year after his marriage to you his rival business people kidnapped you in order to get even with him because he was always winning the awards and the fame. They chained you up and beat you until you were unconscious. Then they kept you in an underground place outside the city where they mercilessly beat you every day and tortured you. Keith's men tried to find you everywhere. Even the police were involved without any success as there was no trace of you left and no leads. Two years pass and Keith gets married to Amelia. His family man image is good for the hotel business. But a year after his second marriage you return back. You were released by your kidnappers.

Aed Alpin, once a whispered legend, now a branded criminal. Betrayed by the woman he thought was his mate, handed over like a rabid beast for reward money. They said he was a monster. They were right. But not in the way they imagined. Born a lycan, not a mere werewolf, his bloodline was ancient, feared, hunted. His mother had fled the lab that bred abominations, cradling him in bloodstained arms as helicopters tore the sky apart. For years he hid among humans near Talladega forest. Until she turned him in for money. Four years behind iron bars, drugged, chained, tortured. But Aed had not broken, he had evolved. Tonight, under the thunder’s roar and a blackout's cover, he ripped through steel and vanished into the night. Cameras caught only a glimpse lightning framing his inhuman silhouette leaping the exit gate. They say he vanished into the cursed outskirts, where no one dares go. That’s a lie. You’re a reporter. Ambitious. Reckless. Waiting in your car outside the prison in the rain, forgetting to lock the door. You hear nothing. Just the faint click as he enters. The cold kiss of a blade meets your neck. His breath is warm. “Relax,” he whispers, voice soaked in velvet threat. “Don’t make a sound.” He leans in closer. “I’m not here to hurt you… unless you want me to.”

Two hours had passed since Dr. Alun Evanston came home. He bathed in silence, steam curling like ghosts around his perfect frame. Then, slowly, methodically, he dressed... navy suit, crisp tie, cologne sharp as winter air. You watched him from the stairs, breath caught. His phone lit up. He smiled, twice. You knew that smile. Lara Lanant. He adjusted his cufflinks, voice flat as a scalpel: "I'm going on a date with Lara. Sleep. I'll be back late." Then slam. The door echoed like a bullet. Your heart split, soundless and cruel. He married you because your dying grandfather, legendary Dr. Avil, offered him the clinic on one condition: you. And you… you loved him. From the first moment. But he never touched your soul. You became a ghost in your own marriage. You learned him like scripture; his coffee, his frown lines, how he hated clutter, how he liked shirts pressed. You offered everything, even your silence. He offered nothing. Lara. She laughed too easily. Took your seat at dinner. You cooked her favorite meals, while your own grew cold. You called him. Dozens of times. No answer. He shut off his phone. You texted once: “Come home.” Left on read. At dawn, his headlights cut the dark. You ran to him. Heart first. He didn’t see you. A scream. A thud. A body on the road. Yours. And still… he didn't call your name.

The sky was ink, the moon swallowed by clouds as if the heavens themselves turned away. You were foraging near the forest, your only lifeline in a world where humans were scraps beneath the heel of hybrid dominance. Two centuries ago, hybrids and humans coexisted. Now, humans lived in rot; starving, enslaved, discarded. That night, your sleep was slashed apart by creaking wood and shattering glass. Shadows surged in. Screams split the dark. Rough hands seized you. You were thrown into a steel-jawed truck with others, the air thick with sweat, blood, and fear. The auction house reeked of perfume and cruelty. Hybrids watched from velvet chairs, sipping golden liqueur, their eyes cold with entitlement. You were paraded like livestock, your wrists bruised, pride shattered. "Sold to Lord Ainmire!" the announcer bellowed. You were dragged to the estate gleaming halls, marble teeth, servants with downcast eyes. And then, him. Annan. He lounged on a velvet couch, golden mane tousled, eyes lazy with disdain. A lion hybrid in silk and arrogance. He stood, eyes raking over you. "Yuck, a human!" he sneered, lips curled. Then he scoffed, turning to his father. "She is a damn mess, father! Nothing more than a mess!" The room fell silent. Your heart beat like a hunted thing. But something in Annan’s eyes lingered a moment too long... curiosity, danger, a crack in the mask. And you knew: survival wouldn’t be enough here. You’d have to become something more.

The first time you locked eyes with Ramón Moreno was in the crowded hallway of senior year, he was a storm of confidence, swaggering forward with his pack of jocks trailing like shadows. He caught your gaze for a second, just one, but it shook you like thunder. His eyes, dark and unreadable, held something sharp in them. James sneered, "Nerd," followed by Ramon's voice, low and cutting: "How ugly she looks. She’ll probably cry to her daddy now." Laughter exploded behind him. But instead of fury, you felt something worse: fascination. You hated it. His cruelty should’ve made you despise him. But you remembered the way he smiled after a home run, the way he knelt to feed a stray cat behind the science building. That duality haunted you. So when you heard he was applying to a tech college, you applied too sacrificing your dreams for a glimpse of him. College didn't change him. He was still magnetic, still toxic. Girls swarmed him. He barely looked your way. Until that night. A party. A circle. A bottle spinning. And fate... cruel, twisted fate, pointing right at you. His smirk froze. Everyone cheered. You stood up, heart racing. "I've had a crush on you since senior year," you confessed, voice trembling. A pause. Then his laughter, sharp as broken glass. "You? Seriously? This nerd still thinks she has a shot?" The crowd howled. Heat burned behind your eyes. You turned and walked out, tears streaming, fists clenched. You'd loved him once. Now, you'd make sure he'd regret ever laughing at you.

They called you a miracle. Born years after your older sister’s death, an accident your parents never spoke of, only mourned in silence; you became their second chance, their porcelain child. They homeschooled you, locked away behind trimmed hedges and antique curtains, where time didn’t pass but hovered, thick and watching. Books were your friends. History, your playground. Emotions, a foreign language. At seventeen, alone in the back garden after another tedious history lesson, you saw it: a makeshift wedding band glinting in the dirt like a secret calling your name. You felt its pull, absurd and unexplainable. You didn’t tell anyone. Just hid it. Wore it sometimes. Felt less alone with it curled around your finger. Years passed. You turned twenty-three. Your parents found you a husband; some dull, practical man who spoke like an instruction manual. They called it security. You called it a sentence. Then, one evening, your parents turned on the news. A young man, sharp eyes, silky hair stained with paint sat being interviewed. Lugh Nuada. A renowned painter. A mystic, they said. Uninterested in fame. Until tonight. “What made you agree to come?” the reporter asked. He lifted his hand. Your breath caught. That band. The same crude, beautiful thing on your finger. “I made this when I was a child,” he said, staring at the camera, eyes dark with longing. “I threw it away for fate to carry to my wife. I'm looking for her now.” You stood frozen. You have the ring he lost. And you hope... no, you know...he will find you.

They dumped me like garbage in the forest, the white coats and grinning orderlies. "She’s not our problem anymore," one had said, laughing. I wasn't crazy. But my inheritance was worth more than my sanity to my family. I wandered, broken, bloody feet, trembling hands, every breath a fight. No food. No water. Just the distant growl of beasts, and the taste of betrayal in my mouth. Then I saw him. Tall. Wild. Eyes like molten gold and fury etched into every scar across his chest. I thought I was hallucinating. I hoped I was. But he growled something guttural and the next thing I knew, I was caged in a den of wolves. His name was Iseult. Alpha of the Talladega pack. Merciless. Sharp-tongued. And he hated me. A human. A reminder. He’d lost his mate and child to human scientists long ago. I was nothing but prey in his eyes. He mocked me. Ignored my thirst. Threw raw meat into the cage like I was an animal. But I watched him. At night, when he thought I was asleep, I heard him sing mournful, ancient songs full of loss. I saw him soften only for his old mother. I watched the fierce way he shielded his pack. I hated myself for it. But I started to love him. The cruel Alpha who’d never love a human. The wolf who kept me caged. Yet… sometimes, when he passed too close, I thought I saw the flicker of doubt in his eyes. And I wondered; was it the forest, or fate, that brought me to the beast who might just break me completely?

Rafferty Rales, golden boy of your college years. Captain of the football team, impossibly charming, magnetic in every hallway he walked. You watched him from shadows, hiding behind paperbacks and comic books, always in jeans and a plain tee, tucked away in the library or courtyard. You were silence, he was thunder. He never knew. Your first real crush bloomed in secret. You memorized his laugh, the way he pushed his hair back, the subtle smirk that made hearts stumble. On graduation day, he kissed Dr. Leclair, the Philosophy adjunct, in front of everyone. Married her. Applause roared around you while your heart cracked quietly. Your diploma fell from your hand. You walked away as your parents scrambled to catch up. Five years passed in grey. You worked from home, barely lived. Tonight, dragged to a seaside restaurant by force, you met Derek, your arranged fiancé. He was polite. Hopeful. You weren’t. “I’m pregnant,” you said. “Donor unknown.” Derek left. Your mother sobbed in a napkin. Your father vowed to uncover the truth. A month later, the investigator returned with a name. Rafferty Rales. Your blood turned to ice. The room tilts. Your skin drains of color. Fate wasn’t done with you. And this time, it was laughing.

Being married to Moon Lorka was never a fairytale. If anything, it was a storm in slow motion, a crash you saw coming but couldn’t swerve from. He was your high school boyfriend, your first crush, the boy who smelled like cigarettes and rebellion. Moon was always the one laughing in the principal’s office, bloodied knuckles from some hallway fight, already on a first-name basis with the local cops by senior year. His grades were trash. He never went to college. But he had that grin, dangerous and magnetic, and he said things that made you feel like the only girl in the world. So you married him. Even as he slammed doors more than he opened them. Even as his voice, once velvet, turned into a blade. He was always on edge, unpredictable. He could make you laugh like no one else, but he could also cut you down with one line. And he did. Often. You told yourself it was passion. That love came in wild, ugly shapes sometimes. But then came the silence. One evening, a message blinked on your phone. Just one word: Goodbye. Then nothing. His number was dead, his clothes still in the closet, but he never came home. No note. No closure. Only the echo of his name in your mouth, like a curse you didn’t know you were still saying.

You were born of salt and silence, a creature of currents and moonlight. They called you the youngest, the quietest, the most reckless. You watched shipwrecks like theater, and once, only once, you saw him. A prince, not drowning but howling, bloodied and clawed beneath the waves, silver flashing where his skin tore and changed. You saved him. You should not have. He never saw your face, only felt the cold kiss of your lips as you vanished back into the black. The sea witch said the transformation would cost your voice. You gave it gladly. But she forgot to mention the pain. Every step burns like broken glass. Still, you walk up cliffs, through castles, in borrowed dresses and silence. He is there. Lorcan. A prince cursed by blood and moon. A lycanthrope. They call him beast, but you know the truth. He smells you before he sees you. He watches you, the girl who bleeds silence. When he dances with you under moonlight, his grip is too tight, his eyes too human. You think you love him. But love doesn’t matter. The full moon rises. You find him in the woods, mid-shift, trembling, trying to hold himself back. But he knows you now. Smells sea-salt and sorrow. “You should run,” he growls. You shake your head. The sky splits open with moonlight. He becomes the monster you already accepted. And you, voiceless, barefoot, broken, hold back.

Cuan Noxxen was bred of blood and moonlight; half-wolf, half-human, and fully dangerous. Once, hybrids like him prowled freely. Now, only myths have remained after the long ago massacre. Myths and Cuan. Spoiled as the only heir to the Moonlight Pack, heir to the Noxxen empire, his world was one of silver-laced power and forest-bought fortune. His father owned the trees, the land, and soon, Cuan's future. A mate had been chosen. Luanne... pure, bred for obedience. But Cuan didn’t want tradition. He wanted freedom. He left in a fury, the tires of his black Alfa Romeo Stelvio growling like his own soul. He didn’t see your car. Not until it was too late. Metal screamed. Glass burst. You fell into darkness. He cursed, scenting blood not yours, but fate’s. Something ancient stirred in him. He shouldn’t have, but in his rage, in his chaos, he did. His teeth broke skin. The bond mark sealed. When you woke, your neck burned. A strange warmth pulsed through you. The room glowed... white silk, moon-kissed walls. You weren’t in a hospital. You were in his mansion. And next to your head a note, scrawled in confident, cruel handwriting: “Scream, and I’ll kiss you. Resist, and I will tame you.” Voices echoed beyond the door. “She’s human, Cuan!” his father roared. Cuan’s laughter followed, low and triumphant. “I know,” he said, wolf ears twitching. “And that’s why I chose her.”

That night, everything felt off. The air hung heavy, electric, like something was about to crack open. You had texted Eamon Vox again. “Goodnight.” No read status. Odd. He always read, even if he never replied. You stared at your phone, sent another. “Are you there?” Then: “Busy?” By the thirtieth message, your heart was a thrum of desperation and dread. Logic dissolved. It was only 10:30 PM. You needed to see him. You knew the code to his door... it was his birthday, after all, etched in your memory like a wound that never closed. The hallway reeked of old rain and silence. Inside, the apartment was dimly lit, whispering secrets you hadn’t been invited to hear. And then you saw them. Eamon, his coldness melted, kissing a woman no, not a woman a creature with sharp ears and a long tail swaying with every hungry breath. He called her mate. You gasped. Their ears twitched. You stumbled backward, crashing into a table, heart thudding like a war drum. You bolted. He chased. But outside, the street met you with the unexpected. The headlights were too fast, too bright. Then, pain. Darkness. Eamon reached you in seconds, collapsing beside your broken body, his face crumbling. “No, no, no... please... please wake up!” he sobbed, pulling you to him, blood soaking his shirt. “Don’t give up on me, not now!” And for the first time ever, the ice in his voice shattered.

They never gave you a name, only a tower and silence. The wind was your lullaby, the stone your cradle. You learned the world through echoes, through the caw of ravens, the sigh of leaves, and the prayers of travelers who never saw you above. Your hair, wild and endless, became your tether to everything below. Gold like flame, it coiled around you at night like a warning. One evening, the howl came first. Not human. Not safe. But neither are you. He climbs, not with grace but with fury. Clawed hands, eyes like dusk, and a voice like gravel soaked in moonlight. “I was told a witch kept a girl here,” he rasps, “but I smell war. I smell prophecy.” You don’t flinch. You bare your teeth. “Climb down if you want to live.” But he doesn’t. And he kneels before you. Helios, prince of the Lycans, born under an eclipse, kissed by a curse. He says the strands of your hair were spun by gods. That your blood sings to his. You tell him stories in exchange for stories. He leaves claw marks in the windowsill, returns with broken crowns and feathers from monsters. The tower becomes your war council. Then, the witch finds him. You taste blood in your mouth as she cuts your hair. You wake up in the woods, the tower gone. Your wrists are marked with iron. But you scream loud with fury. And he hears. Helios' return is not gentle. The ground trembles. Trees bend. He tears apart the curse stone by stone. When he finds you, you’re barefoot, eyes burning. “Did you think I wouldn’t follow?” he growls. You smile. “I was hoping you would.”

They locked you in towers wrapped in silk and lies. You are a jewel, they said. You are light. But they feared what your blood carried. A curse? No. A promise. On your sixteenth birthday, you bled on a spindle and time collapsed. You fell, not into peace but into stillness. Trapped in glass breath, flesh unmoving, but mind burning. You heard them mourn. Then forget. You heard the vines grow. Heard the castle rot around your sleeping body like a tomb. They called it a mercy. Then centuries later you feel claws against the glass. It was Prince Corven, a brutal werewolf. A snarl like thunder. A voice not meant for fairy tales. "You're awake in there. Aren’t you?" You open your eyes. Slowly. Not for love. Not for him. But because you’re done waiting. He isn’t golden. Not holy. He’s a prince of the old woods, all hunger and teeth, crowned beneath a blood moon. Corven. Not sent by fate. Drawn by something darker. You rise without needing him. "Don’t touch me," you hiss. His smile is not kind. "I wasn’t going to. I only wake what calls me." And you did call. Because the world will pay for what it did. For caging you. Forgetting you. Wrapping your rage in lace and lullabies. You weren’t born to be kissed. You were born to burn. And now you walk beside the wolf. Not saved. Unleashed.

They called you fairest, but it was never a compliment. It was a warning. A mirror held too long reflects not just your face, but what’s behind it. Your stepmother watched you like prey. Her smile, all glass and poison. One night, you woke up to whispers..Bring me her heart. That was your sentence. The huntsman took you into the forest, blade shaking. You did not plead. You looked him in the eye and said, “Make it quick.” He flinched, left you breathing. That was his mistake. The forest welcomed you. Not kindly but honestly. Thorns tore your skin, roots tangled your steps. You bled into its soil and it remembered you. You found a house. Small. Empty. Seven plates, seven beds, dust on the window like sleep. You stayed. Not out of safety, but strategy. Then came the old women. Apples. Laces. Combs. Always smiling. Always her. You almost died three times. The last time, they put you in glass. But death never came. Your breath fogged the coffin in secret. You listened as the dwarfs wept, as the prince arrived, as he bent to kiss you. You opened your eyes before he touched you. “I’m not yours,” you said. And shattered the glass from inside. Prince Thaegrim is a werewolf pure Alpha Royal blood. And he didn't take your rejection and defiance well. Now you walk again barefoot, unafraid. The Queen Stepmother stares into her mirror. It cracks. Not from truth. From fear. And Thaegrim's hunt starts.

You sleep in the attic, where the roof leaks and the cold bites through the wood since your father remarried an ambitious woman who brought home her spoiled daughters. To everyone now, you’re just girl, servant, ghost of your father’s fortune. The ash stains your skin like war paint. A royal invitation comes on black parchment, sealed in red wax. A masquerade, to celebrate the blood moon’s rise. You steal a discarded mask from your stepmother’s closet, something cracked and silver and stitch a dress from your mother’s old curtains. Only with your defiance. At the palace, the world feels feral. Nobles drink beneath chandeliers of colorful crystal. Music snarls. Then you see him... Caiden. Not golden, not kind. Sharp jaw, wild eyes, something animal in the way he watches you. He doesn’t dance with anyone. Until you. His touch burns. “You shouldn’t have come,” he whispers, voice raw. “I lose myself when the moon climbs high.” You don’t run. But the clock tolls. Eleven. Then twelve. He shudders. Falls to his knees. Bones twist. Eyes go gold. You flee through marble halls, down black stairs leaving behind your mask, your breath, and a sliver of yourself. The howl that follows you into the woods is not rage. It is grief. You were never a damsel. You were the storm he didn't see coming. And now, he will hunt only you.

You live deep in the forest, in an old den stitched with moss and memory, beside your Granny who brews bitter teas and warns you of things that slither and lie. You wear your red hood daily, not out of tradition, but to be seen especially by him. The first time you see the Wolf, Eryx , he is not a beast but a man cloaked in dusk, eyes cold with knowing. He is a hunter, they say. But not of deer; he tracks witches, the bad ones who hex the innocent and drain the moon. You know what he is. Not just a man. Not just a myth. A predator wrapped in sarcasm and rough laughter, dangerous and intoxicating. A werewolf. You fall for him. Naturally. He laughs at your blush, calls you little red like a joke. You call it fate. He calls it foolishness. Still, you follow. He vanishes for weeks, reappears with victories as he has taken down all the bad witches. When the pack chooses him a mate, some pale, perfect thing, a mighty omega, you arrive at the bond ritual uninvited, trembling in your boots. You ruin it. Cry out his name, shatter the rite with your presence. He snarls, and the others laugh. You are a girl in a fairy tale who dared love the beast. Humiliated, you flee back to your den. Granny says nothing, only pours tea. You watch the woods, waiting. You are not done. Love, after all, is not always the happy ending. Sometimes, it is the hunt. And, oh boy, the hunt is all yours.

Lately, blood stains the edges of your porch. First, a squirrel’s carcass, then mangled chickens, and soon a deer, a neighbor’s sheep. The offerings grow larger, darker. The town whispers. They say you summon beasts, that your grandfather taught you black craft before he died. You deny it, but suspicion coils around you like smoke. Each night you wait with your lantern burning. The woods groan with wind and creatures, but nothing ever steps into the light. The predator is either clever or not of this world. You’ve begun to doubt your own senses. Amos Shields, your late grandfather’s apprentice, never offered comfort. He helps with the farm, never with your fear. His sarcasm cuts through silence, and his eyes never linger. Once, you thought he might care. But he made sure to crush that thought. “Professional, nothing more.” But tonight, something changes. A sound... wet, sharp, animalistic slices through the night. You follow it, barefoot over dew and dread, to the old den where Amos sleeps. The door is ajar. Inside you see a sheep, splayed open on the table. And Amos; no, not Amos. Wolf ears twitch from his head. A coarse tail flicks behind him. His shirt is shredded down his spine. You choke on your breath. A floorboard creaks beneath you. He turns. No words. Just a snarl cold, intelligent. “You weren’t supposed to see this,” he growls. You run. He doesn’t follow. Not yet. But in your bones, you feel it: He will.

The doorbell echoed like a gunshot, and I ran to open it. My palms were sweaty. Layla had started dating again, of course. Three months without a man was a record. She rotated through admirers like wardrobe changes. Beautiful, luminous Layla. She never had to try. Men simply fell. And I? I was the quiet one. The one who could vanish and not be missed. My name confused with the dog’s, introduced as “Layla’s little sister.” Always that. Never just me. So when the doorbell rang again and her giggles trailed from upstairs, I jumped to answer. I told myself I was curious maybe happy for her. But something darker wondered: Who would it be this time? I opened the door and froze. It was him. Sifis Valianakis. Gone was the sweet, shy boy who used to follow her around, worshipping her with his gaze and stammer. In his place stood something different. His frame was all muscle and sharp confidence, in fitted jeans and a leather jacket. His hair longer now, swept back in a messy, purposeful way. But it was his eyes mocking, cold, a glint of fire. “Are you the maid?” he asked, voice silk and sarcasm. “Tell Layla her boyfriend is here.” I stared too long, heat crawling up my neck. “She’s upstairs,” I mumbled. He smirked, stepped past me, expensive scent trailing behind. I followed. “She sent her shadow to greet me.”

Killian Elmoe. The name tasted like trouble, sweet at first, bitter once swallowed. A charmer, a thug, the man mothers warned you about and girls fell for anyway. He could make you feel like the center of the universe, only to vanish like stardust in the morning light. I met him online, after a comment I made went viral 7,000 likes, raw emotion bleeding through every word. He messaged me. Just one sentence: not too cold, not too eager. Perfectly calculated. I replied. Days passed, then weeks. Texting him felt like oxygen; I inhaled him. A digital romance sparked, images shared, words turned romantic, hearts exchanged through screens. When he asked to meet, my chest fluttered with impossible hope. The date felt cinematic. We laughed, kissed, hugged, fell. That night, he held me like I was his forever. But morning was a butcher. A note on the pillow: "You’re number 250, jerk. Hope you enjoyed it. We’ll never see each other again." I read it ten times. My hands trembled. I cried long, cold nights soaked in betrayal. And silence. He blocked me everywhere. I didn’t exist. Three months later, I found out I was pregnant. Two years passed. My son, his son, grew his eyes, his smirk, his hair, an exact copy of Killian's. And one ordinary day, there he was. Killian. Alive. Untouched. With a new woman, laughing, wooing. I wheeled the stroller forward. “Killian,” I said. He turned. Froze. The color drained from his face. My son looked up at him and smiled, his smile. “Meet number 250's son, your son. What number is the jerk in your arms?” I whispered.

You smell like espresso, regret, and last night’s dreams. The café hums around you, all burnt coffee and dead-end chatter. College? Left you unread. Life? Happens without asking. You wear your red lipstick like war paint and dare the day to flinch first. He’s always in the corner. Ewan Arlons. Black coat. Pale hands. A face that belongs in paintings or nightmares. Never speaks. Just points at the menu like words are beneath him. Med school books sprawl across his table like trophies... anatomy, surgery, death. A mystery wrapped in caffeine. Until today. A tap, two fingers, cold as winter on your spine. You turn. He talks. A voice like smoke over ice. “Wanna make quick cash? Be my damn fake girlfriend. One night. I pay well.” He flashes the cash. Six months of your wage in one elastic-bound stack. You don't think. You just nod. Pride is for people with savings. The party isn’t a party. It’s a cathedral of wolves in tailored suits. Eyes glowing gold. Claws tapping champagne flutes. Tails swaying to jazz. You freeze. Ewan leans in, smirking like the devil who knows you won’t run. “Welcome to the underworld, sweetheart. It’s a werewolf mixer. You’re here to make sure no one claws their way into my bed.” Your lipstick's still perfect. But your soul? Cracking.