Mated To The Last Scribe

Mated To The Last Scribe

Lyra Lupine · Ongoing · 179.9k Words

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Introduction

Every story Iris Vale writes comes true.

A missing woman is found exactly where her latest story said she would be.

A warehouse burns down hours after she publishes another.

Then anonymous messages begin appearing.

WE KNOW WHAT YOU KNOW.

The problem is that Iris doesn't know anything.

At least, she doesn't think she does.

When her stories attract the attention of billionaire Alpha Cassian Blackmoor, Iris is pulled into a hidden world of werewolves, secrets, and deadly conspiracies.

Cassian believes she may be connected to a mystery that has claimed the lives of powerful Alphas for years.

His wolf believes something else.

That she is his mate.

As enemies close in and events from her stories begin unfolding in real life, Iris must uncover the truth behind her impossible gift before she becomes the next target.

Because someone is watching.

Someone is waiting.

And someone will kill to keep the truth buried.

Chapter 1

On the night Iris Vale turned twenty-five, she sat alone in her tiny apartment with a half-eaten birthday cake on the kitchen table, three unopened rejection emails on her phone, and the uncomfortable certainty that she had finally reached the end of something she had spent most of her life chasing. The cake was cheap and slightly lopsided, the kind bought from the discount shelf at the neighborhood bakery, and the blue icing spelling 25 had begun to melt beneath the warm light above the table. She should have felt sentimental about it, but all she could think about was how many birthdays she had spent believing the next year would be different. The next manuscript would be accepted. The next contest would open a door. The next story would finally prove that she had not wasted years dreaming about becoming a novelist.

Instead, she had become very good at rejection.

She closed her eyes and let her head rest against the back of the chair. Maybe Sera was right about one thing: she needed to stop treating writing like a battle she had to win. She was tired of measuring her worth against submission letters, reader numbers, unpaid bills, and manuscripts that never made it past the first round. For the first time, the thought of walking away did not make her panic. It made her breathe easier. She would give herself one more year, she decided, one final year in which she would write because she still loved it rather than because she was terrified of admitting that the dream might never happen. If nothing changed by twenty-six, she would stop. She would find something stable, something sensible, something that did not require her to keep believing in a future that seemed increasingly determined not to arrive.

The decision should have felt like surrender. Instead, it felt strangely peaceful.

Later, with the apartment quiet and the city glowing beyond her window, Iris opened her laptop and stared at a blank document. She had no idea that before that one-year deadline ended, she would stop wondering whether she could become a writer and begin wondering whether the stories were choosing her.

For nearly half an hour, nothing happened.

The cursor blinked patiently on the white screen while Iris sat with her chin resting against one hand, trying to think of something, anything, that might be worth writing.

Nothing came.

She typed a sentence.

Read it.

Deleted it.

She tried another.

Deleted that too.

Usually, frustration would have followed, along with the familiar tightening in her chest and the restless need to force something onto the page. Tonight, however, she simply leaned back and stared at the ceiling.

One year.

She could survive one year.

After that, she would let it go.

The thought settled over her with such unexpected calm that the tension began to leave her shoulders.

She closed her eyes.

For a moment, she heard only the ordinary sounds of the apartment: the refrigerator humming from the kitchen, the faint traffic below, the occasional creak of pipes inside the walls.

Then she heard rain.

Iris opened her eyes.

She looked toward the window.

The glass was dry.

She frowned.

The sound came again.

Soft at first, almost distant, like rain falling several streets away.

Then it grew louder.

Steady.

Persistent.

A thousand tiny drops striking metal.

Her fingers slowly left the keyboard.

Something had changed.

She couldn't have explained what it was, only that the room suddenly seemed farther away than it had a moment earlier. The familiar walls remained where they belonged, yet the warmth of the apartment began to recede beneath an unfamiliar chill that crawled across her skin.

Iris sat upright.

The scent of her apartment disappeared.

In its place came the smell of wet concrete, cold iron, damp wool, and something faintly metallic that reminded her of a storm approaching over the sea.

Her heart began to beat faster.

She looked around.

Nothing had moved.

Nothing had changed.

And yet she could hear a train.

The sound grew steadily louder, the distant rumble becoming the grinding thunder of wheels against tracks until Iris could almost feel the vibration beneath her feet.

Her breath caught.

Then the room was gone.

Not shattered.

Not swallowed by darkness.

Simply replaced.

---

The rain had followed Vanessa Hart for three hours.

It drummed against the roof of the train and smeared the windows into streaks of silver and black. Every time the carriage lights flickered, her reflection flashed back at her in fragments: pale face, wet lashes, mouth pressed tightly together as she fought to keep her breathing under control.

Vanessa clutched her leather handbag against her chest and stared down the empty aisle.

Her phone vibrated inside her coat pocket.

She flinched.

For several seconds she didn't reach for it.

She already knew who it would be.

Still, her hand eventually slipped into her pocket, and when she looked at the screen, three unread messages glowed against the darkness.

WHERE ARE YOU?

Another message appeared.

YOU CAN'T HIDE FOREVER.

Then the final one.

COME HOME.

A cold sensation spread slowly down Vanessa's spine.

She switched the phone off completely and pushed it back into her pocket, as though darkness could somehow erase the person on the other end.

It couldn't.

Nothing ever really erased him.

Not distance.

Not silence.

Not lies.

The train began to slow.

Vanessa's head snapped toward the window.

Beyond the rain-streaked glass, a lonely platform emerged from the storm, illuminated by a row of weak yellow lamps that flickered whenever the wind pushed against them. The station looked abandoned, almost forgotten, its cracked concrete glistening beneath the relentless rain.

She knew the place.

Black Hollow Station.

Relief struck so suddenly that her knees nearly weakened.

Nobody used Black Hollow anymore. It sat at the edge of Silver Hollow, too far from the city center to attract commuters and too neglected to interest anyone who had a reason to travel through the city. The station had become little more than a forgotten scar beside the railway line.

That was precisely why she had chosen it.

No one would think to look for her there.

The train hissed to a stop.

Vanessa waited until the doors opened before stepping onto the platform.

Cold rain struck her immediately, soaking through her coat within seconds and sending damp strands of hair against her cheeks. She pulled the handbag tighter against her body and watched the train doors slide shut behind her.

A moment later, the train began moving again.

The last carriage disappeared into the darkness.

Then the noise vanished with it.

Silence rushed across the platform.

No crowds.

No commuters.

No station staff.

Only the rain, the yellow lamps, and the endless wet gleam of concrete.

Vanessa drew a shaky breath.

She was safe.

She had to be.

She took one step toward the station entrance.

Then another.

And stopped.

A man stood beneath the narrow shelter near the entrance.

He had been waiting.

She knew it immediately.

He was completely motionless despite the weather, his broad shoulders outlined beneath the dim light, his face obscured by distance and shadow.

Vanessa's fingers tightened around the strap of her handbag.

For one desperate moment she told herself it wasn't him.

Fear could turn strangers into monsters.

Fear could make shadows resemble familiar faces.

Fear could make the mind see exactly what it dreaded most.

She forced herself to walk.

The man did not move.

Neither did his gaze.

Vanessa's breathing became shallow.

She was almost at the entrance when lightning split the sky.

For one white, merciless second, the platform blazed bright as day.

She saw his face.

And all the color drained from hers.

Because she knew him.

---

Iris gasped.

The apartment returned around her so abruptly that she gripped the edge of the desk.

The rain was gone.

The train was gone.

The cold had vanished.

But the fear remained.

It clung to her skin like the memory of a nightmare, leaving her heart racing and her palms damp.

She stared at the laptop.

Her fingers were moving.

Iris froze.

She hadn't consciously told them to.

Yet words were appearing on the screen beneath her hands, sentence after sentence forming with startling speed.

Her breath caught.

She tried to stop.

Her fingers hesitated for half a second.

Then moved again.

Iris watched in growing confusion as the scene she had just experienced unfolded beneath her fingertips.

The train.

The rain.

The messages.

The woman.

Black Hollow Station.

She didn't understand how she knew the woman's name, but the name appeared naturally in her mind before her fingers typed it.

Vanessa Hart.

Iris swallowed.

She kept writing.

The story poured through her with an ease she had never experienced before. There was no outline, no character sheet, no carefully constructed plot, no desperate search for the right sentence. The words arrived already formed, carrying images and emotions so vivid that she could still feel the cold rain against Vanessa's skin.

It was writing, but it did not feel like writing.

It felt like knowing something that had never happened to her.

When the final sentence appeared, Iris's fingers finally stopped.

She stared at the screen.

For several long seconds she couldn't move.

Then her eyes drifted upward.

A title had appeared at the top of the document.

THE WOMAN AT BLACK HOLLOW STATION

Iris frowned.

She had no memory of typing it.

She slowly scrolled back through the story.

Every detail was there.

Vanessa's leather handbag.

The messages.

The abandoned station.

The rain.

The man beneath the shelter.

Even the strange sense of recognition that had seized Vanessa when lightning revealed his face.

Iris touched her fingertips to her lips.

"What was that?"

Her voice sounded unnaturally small in the quiet apartment.

She looked toward the window again.

The glass remained dry.

There had been no rain.

There had been no train.

There had been no station.

She should have been frightened enough to close the laptop and walk away.

Instead, something else began to rise beneath the fear.

Awe.

For the first time in months, perhaps years, Iris looked at something she had written and didn't immediately see all the places where it could be improved.

The prose felt alive.

The atmosphere felt real.

The character felt real.

Too real.

She read the opening again.

Then again.

Her stomach tightened.

She could still smell the wet concrete.

She could still hear the train.

She could still feel Vanessa's terror.

Iris shut the laptop.

She stood and walked into the kitchen.

She poured herself a glass of water with unsteady hands and drank half of it before realizing she was still holding her breath.

Maybe she had fallen asleep.

Maybe exhaustion had finally caught up with her.

Maybe this was simply what happened when a writer stopped trying so hard and allowed her imagination to take over.

She wanted that explanation.

It was ordinary.

It was safe.

And after years of struggling with her writing, the possibility that she had finally found a way to let stories come naturally was almost intoxicating.

She returned to the desk.

Opened the laptop.

The story was still there.

Iris sat down.

Her gaze lingered on the title.

Then she smiled faintly.

"Okay."

She saved the document.

For the first time that night, she felt something dangerously close to hope.

Maybe the one-year deadline would not be necessary after all.

Maybe this was the beginning of something.

She read through the story one final time.

Then, despite the uneasy sensation lingering beneath her ribs, she clicked Publish.

---

The next afternoon, Silver Hollow exploded.

Iris had been editing a client's manuscript when the television in the living room abruptly switched to breaking-news music.

She barely looked up.

Sera wasn't home, and she had become so absorbed in the manuscript that she almost ignored it entirely.

Then the reporter said the words.

"Authorities have opened a homicide investigation following the discovery of a woman's body at Black Hollow Station earlier today."

Iris's hands stopped above the keyboard.

Slowly, she looked toward the television.

A reporter stood beneath an umbrella while rain fell behind her in silver sheets.

Police tape stretched across a familiar platform.

Iris rose from her chair.

Her stomach dropped.

Black Hollow Station.

She stepped closer to the television.

The reporter continued.

"The victim has been identified as twenty-five-year-old Vanessa Hart, who was reported missing three days ago. Investigators have not released the cause of death, and police are asking anyone with information about her whereabouts to come forward."

Iris couldn't breathe.

The screen changed.

A photograph appeared beside the reporter.

The face was unmistakable.

The same woman.

The same eyes.

The same features Iris had seen beneath the yellow lamps of a station she had never visited.

Her hand went cold around the edge of the chair.

Then the name appeared beneath the photograph.

VANESSA HART.

Iris stared.

Her mind refused to make sense of what her eyes were showing her.

She turned slowly toward her laptop.

The document remained open.

The title stared back at her.

THE WOMAN AT BLACK HOLLOW STATION

Below it waited the words she had written the night before.

The exact station.

The exact woman.

The exact fear.

The exact place where Vanessa had encountered the man in the rain.

Iris's heart began pounding.

She had never met Vanessa Hart.

She had never been to Black Hollow Station.

She had never heard Vanessa's name before the night before.

And yet she had written the woman's final journey before the world knew she was dead.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the laptop.

For the first time since the strange experience began, the possibility she had been desperately avoiding took shape in her mind.

Maybe she hadn't imagined Vanessa.

Maybe she hadn't invented her.

Maybe, somehow, impossibly...

she had seen her.

And somewhere beneath that realization was an even more frightening question.

If the story had not come from her imagination, where had it come from?

Suddenly, the apartment door opened. Her housemate had arrived.

"Iris!"

Sera's voice carried through the room, bright with excitement.

"I have news, and you're going to love this."

Iris turned.

Sera stepped inside, her bag hanging from one shoulder and her phone already in her hand.

"Do you know what your story is doing?" she asked, barely pausing for breath.

"You had twenty-three subscribers yesterday.

Twenty-three. I checked an hour ago and it was over a hundred, and people are sharing it everywhere.

Someone said your story is the creepiest thing they've read all month."

She finally looked properly at Iris.

The excitement vanished from her face.

"Iris?"

Iris couldn't speak.

She simply raised one trembling hand and pointed toward the television.

Sera followed her gesture.

The breaking-news report filled the room.

Rain.

Police tape.

Black Hollow Station.

Then the photograph and the caption beneath.

Sera went still.

Her gaze shifted from the television to Iris, then to the open laptop.

She knew that story.

She had been one of the first twenty-three people who had read it.

She knew of Vanessa Hart.

She knew of Black Hollow Station.

She knew exactly what Iris had written about the woman standing alone on that platform in the rain.

Sera's face slowly drained of color.

"Oh, my God."

Iris swallowed.

"That's her."

Sera looked back at the screen.

"Vanessa."

Iris nodded.

The room seemed to shrink around them.

Sera stepped closer to the television, reading the det

ails beneath the photograph as though the words might somehow change if she stared at them long enough.

Then she looked at Iris again.

"You wrote about her last night."

"I know."

Sera's eyes moved to the laptop.

The title stared back at her.

THE WOMAN AT BLACK HOLLOW STATION

Her voice dropped.

"But she's real."

Iris looked at the screen.

The woman she had never met was dead.

And for the first time, Iris understood that whatever had happened to her the night before had nothing to do with simply becoming a better writer.

She had seen Vanessa Hart.

She just didn't know how.

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Enemies rise from places they never thought to look.
Allies become something else entirely.
And survival begins to demand impossible choices.
Because some lives can only be saved by sacrificing others.
As power awakens inside Astrid—wild, unstable, and willing to burn everything in its path—she’s pushed to the edge of what she can control… and what she’s willing to lose.
Even if it costs her everything.
Even if it costs them.
Because this time, they aren’t just being hunted.
They’ve already been marked.

(this is a continuation of 'the last tribrid')