Moon, Blood, and Forbidden Love

Maya's POV

I pushed through the building's front door and nearly got bowled over by a screaming child.

The kid couldn't have been more than five. Wearing pajamas covered in reindeer. Giggling so hard he could barely run straight. He slammed into my legs at full speed and bounced off like he'd hit a wall.

His mother appeared in the doorway of the first-floor apartment. Flour on her hands. Embarrassment on her face. "Oh god, I'm so sorry! Ethan, what did I tell you about running in the hallway?"

I felt my expression shift. Muscles moving into the shape of something pleasant and harmless. "It's fine. Really. Merry Christmas."

The woman smiled with visible relief. "Merry Christmas! And sorry again."

I climbed the stairs to my fourth-floor apartment. The sounds of celebration followed me up. Laughter from the second floor. Music from the third. The building was old and sound traveled through it without mercy. Every footstep. Every burst of joy. Every off-key rendition of Jingle Bells.

I unlocked my door and stepped inside. Closed it behind me and let my fake smile drop.

Merry fucking Christmas, Maya.

The silence in my apartment felt like a physical thing. Heavy. Oppressive. Made worse by the muffled happiness bleeding through the walls.

I told myself I didn't mind the noise.

What I minded was the happiness.

That ordinary, uncomplicated, human happiness that filled every corner of this building except mine.

Most wolves preferred the pack houses on the outskirts. Closer to the woods. Closer to that simple, communal life where everyone knew your name and your business. But I'd never been good at simple. Or communal. The constant togetherness, the mandatory bonding, the expectation that you'd find joy in sitting around a fire singing songs about the moon—it made my skin crawl.

So I'd rented this dump in the middle of Brooklyn under a human identity. The kind of neighborhood where people minded their own business because they were too exhausted from their own lives to care about yours. Big cities had enough weirdos that one more loner didn't register. One more strange woman who kept odd hours and never attended building meetings.

Maybe some of them knew what I was. Maybe they didn't. But they never asked.

People in New York had seen enough strange shit that a werewolf barely made the top ten. And even if they suspected, what were they going to do? Report me? They were too busy working three jobs to pay off student loans. Too tired to waste energy on fear.

Hell, some of them might welcome being bitten. At least then they wouldn't have to worry about rent anymore.

My apartment occupied the top floor of what real estate agents would call a "character building." Translation: a dump where the rent was cheap enough that no one asked questions. The slanted ceiling made the space feel like a lopsided shoebox. But it was mine.

My reflection caught in the darkened window. Amber eyes that would shift to gold if I let my control slip. Sharp angles of a face that had forgotten how to smile at anything that wasn't covered in blood. The lean muscle of someone who'd turned their body into a weapon.

Because weapons didn't need to understand concepts like joy or belonging or home.

The punching bag hung in the corner like a patient confessor.

I'd commissioned it custom from a supplier who asked no questions as long as the cash was green. Had them print a photo onto the leather surface before stretching it over the reinforced canvas. The image was crystal clear. Sharp enough to see every detail.

Victor's face stared back at me from the bag. That perfect, aristocratic face that belonged on a museum statue, not on a vampire that drank blood and killed for sport.

Except the supplier had done something to the proportions when they'd stretched the leather. His features were just slightly warped. Just enough to make that eternally smirking mouth look faintly ridiculous. Like a funhouse mirror reflection of beauty.

It should have made him less threatening. It didn't.

I stripped off my oversized hoodie. The movement was mechanical. The black sports bra underneath revealed the network of scars decorating my torso like a roadmap of every mistake I'd ever made.

The cold air raised goosebumps across my skin. I welcomed it. Cold meant alert. Meant ready. Meant the opposite of the warm contentment drifting up from below.

I didn't bother with the usual warm-up. Didn't need it. My muscles were already coiled tight.

My first punch went straight for that smirking mouth.

The leather distorted on impact. His face warped, stretching into something grotesque for half a second before snapping back to its original shape. That same condescending smile. That same knowing look in those printed red eyes.

Like he was laughing at me even now. Even as an image on a punching bag.

I hit him again. Harder this time. Right in the center of that perfect face.

Wolves and vampires had been mortal enemies since the beginning. As one of the pack's top warriors, hunting bloodsuckers was just another day at the office. But Victor was different. The strongest vampire in the region, if the rumors were true. His wanted poster had been circulated to every pack in the network.

And I'd never faced him. Not once. Not directly.

What a fucking waste.

I hit the bag harder. Elbow strike to the printed throat. Knee to where his solar plexus would be. My vision started to blur at the edges. The familiar heat built behind my eyes as my pupils elongated. My irises bleeding from amber to molten gold.

I could feel my control slipping. Feel the shift trying to take hold. My bones starting to ache with the familiar pressure of transformation.

I forced myself to stop. To step back. To count backwards from ten while my breathing slowed and my eyes faded from gold back to amber.

The bag swung gently in front of me. Victor's face stared back, warped and ridiculous and somehow still managing to look smug.

I wanted to rip it apart. Wanted to shred the leather and scatter the sand and pretend that would make the real him any less present in my head.

But that would mean getting a new bag. And I'd grown attached to this one.

Fuck.

This was the problem with peace. With silence. With nights like this when there was nothing to hunt and nowhere to run. Nothing to do but stand in an empty apartment and beat the shit out of an image while pretending it was enough to quiet the howling in my blood.

Victor Krauss, you'd better not disappoint me.

A sharp pain lanced through my skull.

I gasped. Dropped to one knee. The mental link snapped open without warning. Every wolf in Red Wood's network had this connection. A psychic thread that bound the pack together across distance.

Most of the time it was just background noise.

But when a communication wolf forced a direct link, it felt like someone had shoved a hot needle through your brain.

Maya. The voice wasn't a voice. It was pure thought. Pure urgency. West 57th and 11th Avenue. Abandoned pier warehouse. Multiple warriors engaged. Victor Krauss. Casualties unknown. Immediate support required.