After eating, flirting, and saying arguably the gayest sentences known to the human species, James seriously considered walking into traffic.
Unfortunately, they still had another class.
Math.
The universal enemy of peace.
He slumped into his seat, dropping his bag to the floor like it offended him personally.
This was not the move.
Who the hell goes from overpriced Starbucks sugar bombs straight into hearing about the square root of some bullshit? Not even Navy SEALs trained for this.
James rubbed his temples.
The problem wasn't even the math.
No.
The problem was him.
Every sense he had — every sight, sound, smell — felt like somebody went into his brain settings and changed everything from "Normal Human Being" to "Batman With Paranoia Maxed Out."
He didn't just hear the teacher's voice.
He heard the teacher's heartbeat, that rhythmic thump-thump hiding under his words like he was a walking meat metronome.
He could hear Courtney whispering in the back row.
He could hear Jacob tapping his pen against his notebook like he was trying to summon a demon.
He could hear the janitor two hallways down pushing a mop across tile.
He wasn't paying attention to one thing — he was paying attention to everything.
Simultaneously.
The human brain isn't built for that. Humans don't multitask — not actually. They pause one thing and rapidly switch to another, like juggling tabs on a computer.
But James?
James was running 400 tabs at once with no lag.
That wasn't normal.
And the smell?
Don't even get him started.
He could smell everyone's lunch.
He could smell the lemon cleaner on the desks.
He could smell Michael's cologne from three rows over.
He could smell anxiety and nerves and gum and sweat and—
He gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles pale.
What the hell was happening to him?
Why could he track every single person in the classroom like a damn predator?
Why could he hear blood moving through someone's veins?
Why...
James's heartbeat hammered in his ears.
At first, he thought it was just stress — math class, the one place joy went to die, could do that to anyone.
But then his vision blurred around the edges, sharpening in the middle, and—
His eyes glowed.
Not metaphorically.
Not poetically.
Actually glowed.
A deep molten gold, like someone shoved a dying sun into his skull.
His entire body felt overstimulated as hell — like he'd just been born again but got shoved into the world unwrapped and screaming. Every smell hit him. Every whisper.
Every scrape of pencil. Every heartbeat in the room punched into his senses like someone cranked reality to max volume without warning.
He gritted his teeth.
Bad idea — his canines were getting sharper.
His nails clawed into the metal desk, digging like he was trying to anchor himself to reality.
Too late.
CRACK.
The sound sliced across the room.
Mr. Julian Trent — a man powered by coffee and spite — slowly turned around like an animatronic waking from sleep mode. His gaze scanned the students... then landed on James.
"Mister James," he said, voice flat with exhausted irritation, "do you have a problem?"
James said nothing.
Mr. Trent's eyes drifted down.
The desk wasn't broken, but it was absolutely bent. Metal warped under James's hands like tinfoil.
The teacher blinked once. Twice.
"I don't suppose you were focusing so hard on my lesson," he said dryly, "that you failed to notice you broke the desk, did you now, Mister Smith?"
James inhaled sharply and forced every nerve in his body to settle. The glow faded. His breathing steadied. Nails retracted. Jaw unclenched.
"Sorry," he said, rubbing the back of his neck
like a guilty toddler. "I'm just frustrated I don't get this."
Mr. Trent sipped his coffee — his lifeblood — with the tired resignation of a man who accepted his fate long ago.
"I see... If you feel overwhelmed, you can always check the syllabus. I offer after-hours help. We can review whatever you're struggling with."
The kindness was real.
The exhaustion was real.
The "but stop breaking my furniture" was extremely real.
"That would mean the world to me," James replied with a sheepish smile.
"But please," the teacher added, "do try not to destroy any more desks."
"Yes, sir," James muttered, trying to look innocent — which was hard when you were seconds from accidentally ripping the desk in half like a coupon.
Across the room, Michael watched carefully.
Too carefully.
He sniffed the air subtly, nose twitching in a way that would've been weird on anyone else. Something was wrong — he could tell instantly. James smelled like James.
Wild, raw, earthy. His usual scent buried under a cloud of cheap Axe body spray. But something else was missing.
Something important.
Something dangerous.
Michael forcibly stayed still, even though his whole body buzzed like he'd drunk jet fuel. His senses were flaring — reacting.
And James?
James was barely keeping it together.
He dug in his pocket, grabbed gum, shoved a stick in his mouth.
Chewing helped — something to focus on besides the thousand sensations shredding through him.
His bones felt like they were rearranging.
His muscles like they were tearing and re-stitching stronger.
But he needed to stay.
He needed to not freak out.
He needed to pass this class before something even worse happened.
As soon as the bell rang?
James bolted.
Out the door. Down the hall. Gone.
Michael didn't even get to say "bro—" before James was a full-speed statistic sprinting for freedom.
Mr. Trent watched him leave with the look of a man who was definitely not paid enough for this.
Michael remained seated, thinking.
James was odd today. Off. Wrong.
The signs were obvious — to him.
The boy was in the middle of turning.
But that made no sense. None.
Because James didn't smell odd.
Not even a little.
Not even a fraction.
He just smelled like... James.
Unrestrained. Wild. Untamed.
For a human, that would be insane.
For a supernatural? Unheard of.
Still, Michael had done his job. He'd claimed this city. No creature with half a brain would dare step inside its borders.
Well... except one history teacher who would absolutely whoop his ass if he stepped out of line.
Michael sighed.
If he were a good son, he'd report this to his father.
But fuck that man.
He tapped a girl's shoulder.
"Courtney, sweetheart," he said with his most innocent smile, "what's the moon phase tonight?"
Courtney melted instantly — one of those crystal girls. Astrology, moon phases, rising sun signs... something ending in "-ology."
"Oh— it's going to be a full moon tonight," she said, blushing.
A perfect smile spread across Michael's face.
Full moon.
Yeah.
He needed to keep an eye on James tonight.
Last thing he wanted was his best friend becoming a headline.
POV CHANGE — JAMES
James walked home the only way he could handle — through the woods.
The city was too loud.
Too bright.
Too much.
The forest?
Quiet.
Safe.
Calm.
He found the familiar tree — the same one where he'd saved the white wolf — and collapsed against it. His entire body screamed in pain, but he shut his eyes and waited for the agony to burn itself out.
He didn't even realize how fast he fell asleep.
Hours passed.
He didn't move.
Didn't twitch.
Didn't dream.
Just lay there until exactly midnight.
When he woke, the pain was gone.
His body felt normal.
Well... normal for him.
His brain had adapted to the sensory overload. He could still feel everything — smell, sound, heartbeats, wind, insects miles away — but now it didn't crush him.
His superhuman edge had always been there.
But this?
This was new.
And the pain?
Never again.
He stretched his fingers, sighed, leaned back against the bark.
Then he looked up.
The moon hung directly above the treeline — glowing, full, impossibly bright. A perfect silver disc painting the world in cool light.
Beautiful.
Calm.
Peaceful.
Enough to make his chest loosen.
"Damn... that's pretty," he muttered.
He pulled out his phone, aimed upward, snapped a picture.
"This is going straight to favorites," he said to absolutely no one.
He yawned, shut the screen.
"Well... time to go hom—"
And then—
Everything went black.
POV CHANGE
James woke up feeling sore — like he'd gotten the shit beaten out of him. He slowly tried to get up, but fuck, he was sore.
"What did I do last night?" he groaned, every muscle screaming.
"Yow, why do I have on different clothes?"
He blinked at his outfit — definitely not what he wore before.
He tried thinking.
"Think... did I change clothes when I came back?"
Nothing concrete came to mind.
Speaking of getting back home...
He had no clue how the fuck he got back.
Last thing he remembered, he was in the forest, chilling, and then—
He woke up home.
His head hurt.
He felt annoyed.
Fuck.
He went to the bathroom, did his morning routine, came out, and changed into black pants and a sleeveless shirt — since for some odd reason, even though it was cold outside, he felt warm.
"So this is what happen when I don't wear this necklace."
He looked at the gift left behind by his parents — a gold necklace.
It was quite pretty.
He placed it around his neck.
"There, you safe," he said softly, as if the necklace was alive.
He checked his phone — Michael had texted him.
James finally read the messages...
— 8:53 AM
— 8:55 AM
{Michael is typing...}
— 8:56 AM
— 8:57 AM
He quickly edited the message to remove the emojis.
— 8:58 AM
— 8:58 AM
And then—
Standing there was Luna — in all her 5'10" unsettling silver-moon beauty — her presence almost too sharp for the quiet room.
Her long, liquid-smooth silver hair fell past her waist like strands of pale moonlight that couldn't decide whether to glow or slice.
It framed her face in soft waves, ends drifting in invisible currents. Light clung to her collarbone, giving her that ethereal, almost-not-human shimmer.
Her eyes, piercing glacial silver, held that usual mix she was famous for: a calm, quietly judgmental softness... and the "I know something you don't, idiot" sharpness beneath it.
Her frame was deceptively delicate, tall and willowy, the kind of grace that looked like she could walk through a battlefield without getting a single drop of blood on her.
Her clothes were simple — a long, form-fitting shirt hanging loose over her hips, the fabric stretched in a few places from strain or movement.
But her arms and hands were scattered with dark bruises — the kind you get from a lot, and he repeated mentally, a lot of fucking fighting.
Her nails were slightly longer than normal, sharp in that subtle "could absolutely gut someone without trying" way.
Even standing still, she was a contradiction:
Beautiful, dangerous, gentle, lethal — and absolutely annoyed that James was making this her problem.
She tilted her head, silver hair sliding over her shoulder like water.
"You finally awake," she repeated, voice cool and melodic but carrying that familiar edge.
"What are you doing in my house?" was the first thing out of his mouth. He didn't remember inviting her, and even though she was 100% his type of woman, he'd rather know how the hell she got inside before anything else.
"I brought you here," she said casually, walking past him like he wasn't even there.
"You did?"
Confusion plastered across his face.
She went straight into his bathroom. The water turned on.
Hold up.
He paid the bills in this bitch.
"Do you know how much that bill cost?" he snapped. Maybe he was cheap, but every fucking quarter counted.
"Calm down, I am simply taking a shower," she said like this was normal human behavior.
"And you're going to let me—"
His mouth opened to argue but... no sound came out.
As if some magical force was forcing his ass to listen to her.
When she finished showering, she stepped out wrapped in towels.
He immediately looked away.
"May I please ask, what are you doing in my house?"
He didn't remember being buddy-buddy with her, so what the fuck was happening?
"Hm, so you did forget."
She looked at him like she could tell if he was lying.
"Well I wouldn't be asking if I knew, now would I?"
He was getting annoyed. Yet when he turned back and saw the towel, he turned around again, cheeks flaming red.
"A bad attitude and a virgin to boot. I can see why you live alone now," she said with a perfectly blank stare, as if stating an objective fact.
James was annoyed beyond belief — but before he could spit fire, she continued:
"At first I thought it did not work. Maybe I did not infect you. But fate was ugly."
He blinked, confused.
"Remember in the forest, where you were bitten by a white wolf?"
He raised a brow. "Yeah... that was like 2 days ago. I was then attacked by like a 9-foot-tall monster."
"So you remember all that," she said thoughtfully.
"I mean duh, who wouldn't?"
He looked at her like she was the idiot.
"So my will domination didn't work..." she muttered.
"Your will what?"
He was lost.
"Shush, new one."
And just like that — he couldn't speak.
What the fuck was that control she had over him?
"I am sure someone even as dense as you has noticed the changes in your body."
She walked to his closet, rifling through clothes like this was her house.
"Your senses being overwhelmed... your strength increasing... your stamina increasing... and you growing resistance to the supernatural."
She pinned him with a cold gaze.
Thinking back... yeah. He'd noticed.
Didn't mean he had changed, though.
"You are dense."
His brow furrowed.
How the fuck did she read his mind—
(It's pack telepathy. Since I have turned you, I can hear and speak to you through your mind. Think of it like a link.)
Her voice echoed inside his skull, even though her lips didn't move — except to yawn.
He freaked out internally.
What the fuck was happening to him?
"You are no longer human," she said lazily, biting into an apple she'd just taken from his counter.
"You are a werewolf now."
She said it like it was a weather report.