I woke up naked on the forest floor, cheek mashed into a mat of moss and leaf skeletons, the world spinning at some unfamiliar angle. I tasted dirt and my own dried sweat. Every muscle felt like it had been wrung out and left to bake in the sun, but it was a good ache, the afterburn of something huge and world-changing. The last thing I remembered was howling on a granite ridge, surrounded by the chorus of the Royal Pack, the full moon slick and raw in the sky.
Now, dawn streaked the treetops with watery gold, painting everything in a light so clear it hurt to look at. I raised my head. I expected some movie-magic transformation: a glow, a shimmer, maybe clothes that returned as if conjured by my new status. No such luck. I was as naked as the day I was born, skin caked in dried mud and streaked with scratches. And sprawled half a meter from me, equally filthy, was Derick.
His hair was plastered to his forehead with dried blood and sweat, pine needles decorating his back like war medals. He lay on his side, one arm flung out toward me, the other tucked under his head. Even in unconsciousness, his body curled slightly in my direction—a wolfish instinct that made something hot pulse behind my ribs.
I rolled onto my back and immediately regretted it. Pain bloomed in my hips and thighs, muscles threatening to cramp. My hands were covered in streaks of something that was definitely not mud. I took a cautious sniff: blood, but not mine, and not fresh. Maybe from a bramble, maybe from something bigger. I closed my eyes and tried to replay the night, but everything after the run blurred into a whirlwind of fur and fangs and wild, wordless joy. No clear memories. Just flashes: Derick's wolf beside me, a stream so cold it burned, the taste of night air so sharp it felt like biting into the moon itself.
Movement to my right. I cracked one eye open. Derick had propped himself up on one elbow, his expression one of confused wonder, as if he'd never seen trees before.
"Did we…" I started, my voice a gravelly rasp.
He blinked. "I have no idea." A pause. "I don't even remember shifting back."
We both looked down at ourselves, then at each other, then hastily away.
"Is this normal?" I asked, as if he would know.
Derick scrubbed a hand over his face, dislodging more pine needles. "No idea. But at least we didn't eat anyone."
"Speak for yourself," I muttered, remembering the taste of something rich and wild, probably deer. Or at least I hoped.
He grinned, slow and crooked. "Can you stand?"
I tried, but my legs had gone on strike. I managed a clumsy crab-crawl behind a fallen log and wedged myself upright, crossing my arms over my chest. Derick didn't bother with modesty; he pushed himself up and stood, towering over me, the early sun painting gold across his naked skin. He looked mythic, ancient and eternal and absolutely ridiculous at the same time. Then he glanced down and seemed to realize his state of undress, and for a second we both started laughing, the kind of crazed, exhausted laughter that can't decide if it's hysterical or mortified.
"We need clothes," I said, once I caught my breath.
Derick nodded and closed his eyes, focusing. I felt the tug on the pack link: a subtle, almost electric pulse along the back of my skull, a telepathic nudge that was at once foreign and utterly intimate.
A few seconds later, he opened his eyes. "Nicki's awake. I asked her to bring us something."
"Is she going to murder us for this?"
A slow smile spread across his lips. "She's more likely to laugh until she throws up."
I hugged my knees, feeling a flush creep up my face despite the cold. "Do you remember anything after the run?"
He shook his head, sending more detritus flying. "Just flashes. You, ahead of me on the ridge. Then nothing until now." He looked at me, expression turning serious. "Are you okay?"
I thought about it. My body ached, but not in any way I couldn't handle. My mind felt sharper than it ever had, as if the night had sandblasted off all the parts of myself that belonged to anyone else. Even the old, familiar bruises on my soul—the ones left by Josh, by years of trying to be invisible—felt lighter, scabbed over.
"I'm good," I said, and meant it.
We waited in silence, listening to the forest wake up around us: the click and whir of insects, the distant screech of a hawk, the muted crash of some animal blundering through undergrowth. Eventually, Derick sat down beside me, close but not quite touching. The air between us thrummed with something electric and raw, the mate bond alive and restless in the aftermath of the run.
He tilted his head back, eyes closed, breathing in the morning as if it were oxygen after near-drowning. "I've never felt like this after a shift," he said. "Usually I'm half-dead."
"Maybe we're dead and this is some kind of werewolf purgatory."
"If this is purgatory, the view is decent."
I rolled my eyes, but the compliment warmed me more than sunlight. "What's the plan when Nicki gets here?"
He considered, then grinned. "We'll see if she can keep a straight face."
It took twenty minutes, but eventually the telltale snap of twigs heralded Nicki's arrival. She stumbled into the clearing clutching an armful of what looked like bedsheets, her eyes hollowed by dark circles, hair sticking out at every possible angle. Unlike us, she looked like she'd gone twelve rounds with a freight train and lost every one.
"Holy shit," she said, stopping short at the sight of us. "You two look like you wrestled a bear and then fucked it to death."
Derick snorted so hard he nearly choked.
Nicki tossed the sheets at us, then flopped down on a stump and immediately buried her face in her hands. "I hate mornings. I hate you both for making me come out here. And I hate that you're so chipper. After a full moon I usually sleep until Tuesday." She looked up, eyes narrowing. "Why are you both awake? And why are you still in wolf-murder mode?"
I shrugged on the robe, which barely reached mid-thigh and smelled faintly of bleach. "We don't know."
Derick, who managed to look regal in a toga, even with dirt streaked across his chest, tried to explain. "We don't remember shifting back. Last thing we recall is the ridge."
Nicki squinted at us, suspicion sharpening her features. "You're not even hungover."
I checked. She was right—I felt like I could run a marathon. "Is that weird?"
"It's fucking weird. I saw you two last night. You shifted back hours after everyone else. The King even had a bet with Matt about when you'd finally de-wolf." She shook her head, amazed. "Nobody's ever shifted that long without dropping dead or going feral."
Derick looked at me, then back at Nicki. "There's something else."
Nicki rolled her eyes. "What, you woke up covered in love bites? I can see that from here, Derick."
I went red from neck to hairline. "No, that's—" I stammered, unable to finish.
He cut in, voice gentle. "We're fated mates, Nicki. It's why we recover so fast. Why we feel… like this."
For a second, I thought Nicki would start laughing again. Instead, she just stared at us, open-mouthed. "No way."
"Way," said Derick, deadpan.
She let out a long, slow whistle. "Holy shit. The Moon Goddess really is playing favorites."
I wrapped my robe tighter, feeling like an exposed nerve. "Can we talk about this later? Preferably when I don't feel like I spent the night in a blender?"
Nicki grinned, all teeth. "Fine. I'll see you at noon." She yawned so wide I thought her jaw might unhinge. "If you want me to believe you're the chosen ones, you better be able to eat your weight in pancakes." She shambled off, trailing sarcasm and the faint scent of exhaustion.
When her footsteps faded, Derick and I just sat there, wrapped in our makeshift togas, staring at the sunlight as it crept through the leaves.
We walked through the palace at sunrise, two half-dressed idiots wrapped in bedsheets, trailing mud and pine needles across the antique Persian rugs. The corridors were empty except for the ghosts of last night's laughter and the scent of fresh polish. Every step echoed like a gunshot against the marble, making me cringe and hunch my shoulders, as if I could hide inside the shapeless, toga-like robe Nicki had handed me in the forest.
Derick walked beside me, hair still tangled with twigs and sap, his stride confident despite his lack of pants. I watched his calves flex under the hem of the sheet, and the sight sent a weird little flutter through my gut. Maybe it was hunger. Maybe it was something else.
We reached our suite on the fourth floor. Derick fumbled for the key code, then shouldered the door open and held it for me, performing the courtly gesture with all the dignity a man in a toga could muster. I shuffled past him, trying not to trip on the hem or make eye contact. My mind ran in circles, chewing at the same question: what had happened last night, really? Had the run truly changed us, or was I still just a battered kid from Blackwater, playacting at royalty?
Inside, the familiar blend of clean laundry, lemon soap, and Derick's woodsy aftershave calmed me. I bee-lined for the bathroom, craving the feeling of hot water and something—anything—to scrub away the wildness. In the mirror, I barely recognized myself: hair matted, skin streaked with dirt, cheeks bright with windburn, eyes lit up like emerald lanterns. A feral grin split my face.
I watched Derick move behind me, peeling off his robe and tossing it onto the hamper with casual abandon. For a second, he just stood there, bare as the day he was born, and examined his own reflection. Our eyes met in the glass. His lips quirked.
"Care to join me?" he asked, cocking a brow in challenge.
I blushed so hard my ears burned. "Not until I'm human again," I said, and slammed the door shut.
My fingers trembled as I adjusted the shower, cycling the water from glacial to scalding before stepping in. The spray hit me with a thousand tiny needles, washing away blood and sweat and whatever was left of last night's girl-wolf. I scrubbed until my skin glowed, then just stood there, letting the heat work loose the knots in my muscles and mind.
I lingered until the steam ran out, then toweled myself dry and re-dressed in actual clothes—clean jeans, the softest green T-shirt I could find. I towel-dried my hair, leaving it wild and frizzy, and padded barefoot into the main room. Derick was already dressed, sitting on the windowsill and staring at the city. He looked almost regal again, except for the way he kept fidgeting with his watch band, glancing up every time I moved.
"Breakfast?" he asked.
My stomach answered for me, rumbling so loudly I thought the whole palace might hear.
We headed downstairs in silence, our footsteps muffled now by proper shoes. The palace was nearly empty at this hour. The grand dining hall, which could easily host three hundred guests, contained only a pair of sleepy kitchen staff and the dull clink of silverware on porcelain. Sunlight poured through the glass doors at the far end, painting the room in stripes of gold and shadow.
We chose a small table near the windows. Within minutes, the staff appeared, rolling out a cart loaded with food: eggs scrambled and fried, heaps of bacon, stacks of toast, fruit sliced with geometric precision. There were pancakes, muffins, even a platter of smoked salmon and a bowl of tiny, perfect strawberries. My mouth watered.
I started shoveling food onto my plate, barely pausing to chew. Derick did the same, matching me bite for bite, our forks clattering as we devoured everything in sight. After ten minutes, half the cart was empty and I still didn't feel full. My body hummed with restless energy, like it might burst through my skin at any moment.
Derick wiped his mouth, then sat back and surveyed me with open curiosity. "You're eating more than Nicki on deadlift day," he said, grinning.
I shrugged, cheeks puffed out with toast. "I can't stop. It's like my stomach is bottomless."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping low. "How do you feel? Really."
I put down my fork and considered. "Tingly. Like every nerve is wired to an electric fence. And… happy?" The admission surprised me, but it was true. There was a lightness in my chest, a buzzing in my limbs that felt less like anxiety and more like the need to sprint laps around the courtyard.
Derick's eyes narrowed in thought. "Last time I shifted after a full moon, I slept for a day and woke up feeling like I'd been run over. Now, I feel like I could shift again. Right now. And I'm not even tired."
"Me too," I said, staring at my hands. "I almost wanted to, in the hall. Like it was right there, just under my skin." I flexed my fingers, half-expecting claws to sprout from my nails. Nothing happened. Disappointment flickered, then vanished.
Derick reached across the table and took my hand. The contact sent a fresh shockwave through me, but this time it was warm, grounding. He turned my wrist over, examining the skin. "Do you remember the bruise you had? From sparring with Nicki?" He gently touched the spot on my cheekbone where, yesterday, Nicki's right hook had left a glorious purple mark.
I nodded, the memory sharp. "Yeah. It was spectacular."
He guided my hand to my own face. "It's gone. Not a trace."
I stared, pressing fingertips to the spot. Smooth skin, no pain, nothing.
"Mate bonds," he said, voice thick with wonder. "They're supposed to accelerate healing. But this is insane, Cassy. We were out there for hours—naked, freezing, hungry. We should be dead. Instead, we're…" He laughed, the sound bubbling up from his chest, incredulous and wild. "We're superwolves."
A flush crept up my neck, part pride, part embarrassment. "What now?"
He squeezed my hand, then released it, leaning back in his chair. His eyes drifted toward the window, unfocused. "We tell Nicki she's right. We'll show off at training, make Matt buy us lunch every day for a month." He traced a pattern on the tablecloth with his finger, lost in thought. When he looked up again, his expression had shifted. "And then... I'd like for everyone to go back to this. To what wolves were meant to be. Not trapped in ceremonies and politics, but free. Connected." His gaze turned gentle, serious. "We figure out what this bond can do."
I nodded, a strange hope ballooning behind my ribs. "We could be the start of something new. Like, actually new." Saying it out loud made it real, made it weirdly terrifying.
The silence stretched. I could sense Derick weighing his answer, his thumb tracing along the knife's edge of possibility. Then his lips twisted into a boyish half-smile. "We're both off training for the next few days because of the full moon. You're not scheduled for any etiquette torture, right?"
I grinned, baring teeth. "I think Natalia's taking a week off to file her fangs."
He laughed, head tipping back, and for a moment the sun caught his cheekbones and made him look painfully young. "Come with me to the archives. I want to show you something."
It sounded like an invitation and a test, the same way every new thing here did.
"Yes," I said, instantly, before I could overthink.