Chapter 1 The Morning After (Rowan POV)
The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the taste of copper in my mouth.
The second thing was that I had no idea where I was.
I blinked against the early morning light streaming through unfamiliar windows, my head pounding with the kind of headache that felt like my brain was trying to claw its way out of my skull. The room swam into focus slowly: stone walls covered in old tapestries, a ceiling with exposed wooden beams, furniture that looked like it had been salvaged from a medieval castle.
The East Wing guest rooms.
I was in the East Wing of Thornhaven Academy, which made no sense because I lived in the South dormitory with the other scholarship students, and I had never, not once in three years, had any reason to be in the East Wing where the pack heirs kept their private quarters.
I sat up too fast and immediately regretted it. The room tilted sideways, and I had to grip the edge of the four-poster bed to keep from falling. That's when I saw my hands.
Silver lines traced across my skin like someone had drawn on me with metallic ink. They weren't tattoos, the marks seemed to shimmer just beneath the surface of my skin, following the paths of my veins up my forearms and disappearing under the sleeves of my shirt. My shirt, which I also didn't recognize. An oversized Thornhaven lacrosse jersey that definitely wasn't mine.
"What the hell?" I whispered, turning my arms over. The marks were everywhere, intricate patterns that looked almost like writing in a language I didn't know. They didn't hurt, exactly, but I could feel them, a strange warmth pulsing in time with my heartbeat.
I needed to get out of here. Now.
I stumbled out of bed, my legs shaky, and that's when I realized I was barefoot. My shoes—my favorite combat boots, were nowhere to be seen. Neither was my phone, my jacket, or any of my actual belongings. Just me, this strange jersey, my jeans from yesterday, and these impossible silver marks.
The last thing I remembered clearly was the Harvest Moon party in the commons. Sage had convinced me to go, promising it would be "low-key," which should have been my first warning. Nothing involving werewolves during a full moon was ever low-key. But it was our senior year, and I'd been trying to be less of a hermit, so I'd agreed.
I remembered music, the commons packed with students from all three packs trying to pretend they could coexist for one night. I remembered Sage handing me a cup of something that tasted like cranberry and regret. I remembered seeing Declan Hale across the room, his dark eyes finding mine with that particular look of disdain he reserved just for me.
And then... nothing. A complete blank space where the rest of the night should have been.
I made it to the door and eased it open, peering into the hallway. Empty, thank god. The East Wing was quiet, most of the pack heirs probably still sleeping off whatever they'd done last night. I slipped out and started moving as quickly as I could without running, trying to look like I had a reason to be there.
"Well, well. The human's doing the walk of shame."
I froze. Of course it had to be him.
Declan Hale leaned against the wall at the end of the hallway, arms crossed over his chest, looking like he'd just stepped out of a photoshoot for "Broodingly Handsome Werewolf Monthly." His black hair was slightly messy, his gray eyes sharp and assessing as they traveled over me. He was already dressed for the day in dark jeans and a fitted black shirt, which meant he'd probably been up for hours. Werewolves didn't need as much sleep as humans, especially not the night after a full moon.
"I'm not…this isn't…" I started, then stopped. Why was I explaining myself to him? "Move, Hale."
His eyebrow quirked up, a gesture that somehow managed to convey both amusement and contempt. "That's my jersey you're wearing."
I looked down at the lacrosse jersey, at the number 7 and "HALE" printed across the back, and felt my stomach drop. "I don't know how I got it."
"Interesting." He pushed off from the wall, moving toward me with that predatory grace all werewolves had. Even in human form, they moved like they were remembering what it felt like to have four legs. "You don't remember last night at all, do you?"
"I remember enough," I lied, trying to step around him. He moved to block my path.
"Then you remember making quite the scene at the party. Dancing on tables. Challenging Meredith Kim to an arm-wrestling match, which you somehow won, by the way. Declaring loudly that pack politics were 'archaic bullshit.'" His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "That last part was actually pretty entertaining."
My face burned. That didn't sound like me. That didn't sound like anything I would ever do, not when I'd spent three years perfecting the art of being invisible at this school.
"If you're trying to embarrass me, congratulations. You've succeeded. Now let me pass."
"Show me your arms first."
The command in his voice made me freeze. That was his Alpha tone, the one that made other werewolves instinctively obey. It shouldn't have worked on me, I was human, immune to pack dynamics, but something in my chest twisted anyway, an unfamiliar urge to comply.
I shoved down the feeling and met his eyes. "No."
Declan's eyes dropped to where my hands were clenched at my sides, and I realized the sleeves of the jersey had ridden up, exposing the silver marks on my forearms.
He went completely still.
"What is that?" His voice was quiet now, dangerous.
"I don't know." The truth, for once. "I woke up with them."
He moved faster than I could track, grabbing my wrist and pulling my arm toward him. His grip was careful but unyielding, his thumb tracing the air just above one of the silver lines without quite touching it.
"Do you have any idea what this is?" he asked, his voice tight.
"A bad decision involving permanent markers?"
His eyes snapped to mine, and for once, there wasn't contempt there. There was something worse: genuine alarm.
"This is a Turning sigil, Rowan. Someone tried to Turn you."
The words didn't make sense at first. Turning, the act of transforming a human into a werewolf, was illegal. It had been outlawed by all three packs fifty years ago after a series of Turned wolves went feral and killed seventeen people. The punishment for attempting it was execution, no trial, no exceptions.
"That's not possible," I said. "I'm still human. I can't shift, I'm not…"
"The marks are incomplete." He dropped my wrist like it had burned him. "Whoever did this started the process but didn't finish it. You're caught between."
"Caught between what?"
"Human and wolf. It's not stable, Rowan. The Turning needs to complete, or..." He ran a hand through his hair, the first time I'd ever seen him look unsettled. "We need to get you to the Headmaster. Now."
"Why would anyone do this to me?" The question came out smaller than I intended. "I'm nobody. I'm not worth the risk."
Declan studied me for a long moment, and I couldn't read the expression on his face. "I don't know. But we're going to find out."
He started walking, clearly expecting me to follow. I did, because what other choice did I have? We made it down two flights of stairs before the screaming started.
It came from outside, high and terrified, cutting through the early morning quiet like a knife. Declan's head snapped toward the sound, and then he was running, moving with that supernatural speed. I chased after him, my human legs struggling to keep up.
We burst through the main doors into the courtyard, where a crowd was already gathering. Students in various states of sleepwear stood in a loose circle around something on the ground near the old fountain. I could smell blood—thick and coppery, the same taste that had been in my mouth when I woke up.
Declan pushed through the crowd, and I followed in his wake. When we reached the center, I saw what everyone was staring at.
A body. Male, young—maybe a sophomore. His throat had been torn out, the wounds unmistakably made by claws. Blood pooled on the cobblestones beneath him, so much blood that it seemed impossible one person could hold it all.
"Everyone back!" Declan commanded, his Alpha voice cutting through the panic. "Now!"
The crowd obeyed, shuffling backward, but I stood frozen. Because next to the body, written in blood, were words:
THE HUMAN KNOWS
And scattered around the corpse, like some kind of sick calling card, were strands of long dark hair.
Hair exactly like mine.
"Rowan Ashford." The voice came from behind me, cold and formal. I turned to find Professor Winters, the head of Thornhaven's security, flanked by two other teachers. His face was grim as he looked from me to the body and back again. "I need you to come with me."
"I didn't… I don't…" The words tangled in my throat.
"She was with me all morning," Declan said, stepping between us. "She couldn't have done this."
"This morning, perhaps." Professor Winters' eyes were sad but resolute. "But last night, during the full moon, multiple students reported seeing Rowan running through the woods in a feral state. And now we have a body." He gestured to the scene. "I'm sorry, but until we sort this out, you're under house arrest pending investigation."
The crowd had grown larger now, students whispering, phones out, recording. I could feel their eyes on me, feel the shift in the air. The human girl, always on the outside, now suspected of the worst crime possible at Thornhaven.
I looked down at my hands, at the silver marks still glowing beneath my skin, and felt the world tilt sideways again.
"I didn't do this," I said, but even I could hear how weak it sounded.
Because the truth was, I had no idea what I'd done last night. Eight hours of my life were just... gone. And now someone was dead, and all the evidence pointed to me.
Professor Winters stepped forward, and I saw the silver-etched handcuffs in his grip—specially designed to hold werewolves.
"I really am sorry, Rowan," he said quietly.
As he reached for my wrists, I caught Declan's eye. For once, that perpetual disdain was gone, replaced by something I couldn't quite name. Something that looked almost like fear.
Not fear of me, I realized.
Fear for me.
The cuffs clicked shut around my wrists, cold metal against the warm silver marks, and I wondered if this was how my mother felt seventeen years ago when they'd accused her of going rogue.
Right before they'd executed her for it.