Chapter 12

Isabella

Harsh sunlight pierced through my thin curtains, announcing that noon had long arrived. I groaned, rolling over on my cheap mattress that offered almost no comfort to my aching muscles. Another half day gone.

The sounds of Silver Moon City traffic drifted through my cracked window—car horns, people shouting, and the steady hum of urban life continuing without me.

Fuck. Slept through the morning again.

Working at the Howling Night Bar was destroying any hope of maintaining a normal sleep schedule. I'd become nocturnal—sleeping through the golden daylight hours and living in artificial neon glow. My body clock had completely flipped, leaving me disoriented whenever I needed to function during normal business hours.

I stared at the water stain on my ceiling, mentally tracing its spread like some depressing Rorschach test. Tomorrow I had a shift at Twilight Café starting at 7 a.m., which meant I'd probably only get three hours of sleep. Just the thought made my head throb.

If I could save enough money this summer, maybe I wouldn't need to work so many hours during my final year of studies.

My final year of business management studies loomed ahead—the finish line so close yet seemingly unreachable. Every dollar I saved now meant one less hour I'd need to spend serving drinks to handsy werewolves instead of studying.

Being a low-ranking Omega made everything harder. We weren't supposed to rise above our station. We weren't supposed to attend university. We were supposed to serve—cooking, cleaning, taking orders from higher-ranking wolves. But here I was, surviving on my own, paying my own bills, pursuing a degree that might finally break my family's cycle of servitude.

At least I'm not lazy. No one can accuse me of that.

The memory of my recent birthday triggered another wave of discomfort. The inexplicable heat, the dampness between my thighs, the way my skin felt too tight across my bones—these reactions weren't normal for werewolves, were they?

I finally dragged myself out of bed and padded barefoot to my tiny bathroom. The cold water shocked my face as I splashed away the remnants of sleep. In the mirror, dark circles shadowed my eyes, but there was something else there too—a new awareness in my gaze, a wildness that hadn't existed before my wolf awakened.

God, I'm a mess. This is what a broke Omega student looks like.

By afternoon, hunger finally forced me into action. I pulled a frozen pizza from my mini-fridge—the cheapest brand available—and slid it into my ancient oven. Almost immediately, smoke began curling from the heating elements. I rushed to crack open the window, frantically waving beneath the smoke detector.

"Not today, Satan," I muttered, standing on tiptoes to fan the air beneath the detector.

Cold air rushed through the window, making me shiver. In winter, I had to cook wearing my thickest jacket, choosing between potential hypothermia or setting off the alarm and facing my neighbors' wrath. The joys of affordable housing.

I'll either die from freezing or from eating undercooked pizza. What a fucking choice.

My stomach protested loudly, demanding attention. Great, now even my body is rebelling against me. Since my birthday, my appetite had increased dramatically—another unexpected "gift" of coming of age. Plus the constant heat between my legs that flared unexpectedly, making concentration nearly impossible.

After arranging my meager meal on a paper plate, I opened my laptop. If I couldn't explore high-quality werewolf gatherings in person, maybe I could at least research alternatives online. Information about werewolf establishments was carefully guarded, but if you knew where to look, reviews existed.

I typed "werewolf gathering places Silver Moon City" into the search bar. Multiple underground clubs appeared, each promising authentic werewolf experiences. I clicked through several reviews, my heart sinking with each one.

"First time visiting this so-called pack meeting point. Every corner reeked of unpleasant scents, absolutely no respect for pack boundaries, and a rude werewolf acting as guard. Never going back."

"This club almost gave me a phobia of all pack gatherings. From the start, I noticed no hierarchy, no rules. The male werewolves behaved like beasts, though the females were somewhat more decent. This was more like a primitive full moon frenzy than an organized pack meeting. If you're reading this, stay away."

I jotted down a few places with slightly better reviews, but none came close to Erotic Paradise's reputation. Everything remotely decent required membership fees far beyond my student budget or Alpha invitations I'd never receive.

Of course, I had to experience the best first. Now everything else seems pathetic in comparison.

The familiar ache of not belonging squeezed my chest. My first attempt to explore my adult wolf nature had led me to the most exclusive establishment in the city, only to discover I didn't qualify to belong there. Now I was left with subpar options—the low-ranking Omega's typical fate.

This is my fucking life story. Get a taste of something beautiful, then get shoved back down where I belong.

I slammed my laptop shut, the sound echoing in my tiny apartment. I pressed my thighs tightly together, trying to ignore it. What good was having these urges if I had nowhere safe to explore them?

By evening, frustration had built to a breaking point. I needed something to take the edge off these post-birthday urges that continued to plague me. Alcohol seemed the cheapest, most accessible option.

I pulled on a pair of tight jeans that hugged my ass and thighs—one of the few items I'd splurged on—and an oversized t-shirt that did little to hide my full breasts. My long black hair fell in messy waves down my back as I grabbed my apartment keys and headed out.

Maybe I should just get drunk and masturbate until I pass out. At least I'd get some relief.

The walk to Moon Light Grocery took less than five minutes. The small corner store had been my go-to since moving to Silver Moon City. As I pushed open the door, the bell jingled, announcing my arrival.

"Isabella!" Emma's warm voice called from behind the counter. The store owner was arranging a display of fresh fruit, her graying hair pulled back in a neat bun.

"How are you, Emma?" I asked, heading toward the wine section.

"Always good, you know me." She squinted slightly, examining me with the attention of someone who missed nothing. "What about you, dear? You're looking thin. You should eat more."

I shifted uncomfortably. Emma and her husband had run this store for decades. They were among the few humans who knew about werewolves—not officially, but through years of observation and discreet conversations.

"I'm fine, just busy with work," I replied, selecting an inexpensive bottle of red wine.

"Are you eating enough?" she persisted, her hazel eyes concerned. "I can tell your aura's different. Adult werewolves need more nutrition."

"I eat plenty, really," I said, feeling awkward about her perception of my werewolf nature. Emma had become the neighborhood's unofficial grandmother, keeping an eye on everyone, especially those she deemed needed extra care.

Great, now even humans can see how desperate I am. Just perfect.

Last year, when her store window was vandalized with wolf hunter symbols, local pack members quietly helped clean up and kept watch for weeks after.

Emma never mentioned it, but started stocking more raw meat and protein options afterward.

I placed the wine bottle on the counter. "You know, people say red wine helps relieve stress," I suggested.

Emma snorted. "Fresh meat works better. I've got fresh steaks."

"Well, both together must be even better then," I quipped, earning a genuine laugh from her.

"Smart girl," she nodded, bagging my purchases. "Take care of yourself, Isabella. Growing up isn't easy for anyone, especially not for someone like you."