Chapter 2
Elara's POV
I opened my eyes to white ceiling tiles and a laminated poster screaming "KEEP CALM AND BREATHE DEEPLY" in obnoxious Comic Sans.
Antiseptic smell hit my nose first, sharp enough to sting. That industrial cleaner mixed with old Band-Aids and teenage sweat. Outside the thin walls, I heard lacrosse sticks cracking and girls shrieking about drama I didn't give a shit about.
I tried to sit up. My body said fuck you.
Everything felt wrong. My arms were sticks—pale, thin sticks where I could trace every vein under skin that looked like it had never seen sun. White scars crisscrossed my forearms in thin lines.
Elara's memory flashed: Sophia stumbling in art class, X-Acto knife "slipping," blood on white paper, her sweet apology while the teacher's back was turned.
I clenched my fists. Felt how weak these hands were. No calluses. No strength. Just breakable girl hands that had never ripped out a throat.
I reached for my wolf. That familiar surge of power that could turn bones to steel.
Nothing.
I tried again. Pushed harder. Felt for the moon, the pack bonds, the Alpha command that made wolves kneel.
Empty. Like reaching for a limb that didn't exist anymore.
This body couldn't shift. Couldn't access basic wolf abilities—no healing, no night vision, no strength beyond pathetic human muscles.
The strongest soul in the north, trapped in the weakest body I'd ever seen. The universe had a sick fucking sense of humor.
I wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or punch the wall except these fists would just break.
I closed my eyes instead. Breathed slow. Controlled. The way I used to before a kill.
The memories flooded in.
Marcus Grey. My father—our father. Broad shoulders, weathered face, hands stained with engine grease. He'd smile at Elara over breakfast, ask about homework in that quiet way, never pushed when she didn't want to talk. Exiled for refusing to execute human witnesses. Chose morality over power. Chose family over everything.
Emily Grey. Our mother. Hummed while cooking, terrible off-key country songs. Worried about money, about Elara's health, about being good enough. Stayed up late sewing patches on Ethan's work jackets because new ones cost too much. Loved fiercely, completely.
Ethan Grey. Twenty-one years old. My brother. Ruffled Elara's hair until she laughed even when crying. Double shifts at the lumber yard, still helped with calculus. Step out in his way whenever Elara was taunted by her classmates.
The love Elara felt for them hit me hard. Pure. Unconditional. The bond I'd searched for twenty years in the frozen north.
This was what pulled me here. This family. This warmth.
What I knew: Elara's death wasn't an accident.
The memory surfaced sharp: storage closet door slamming, lock clicking. Sophia's voice, sugar-sweet. "Oops, didn't see you there." Blythe's laugh. "Come on, babe. Let's go. She'll be fine."
They left her to die. Locked her in knowing about the asthma, knowing no inhaler, knowing exactly what would happen.
Walked away laughing.
My hands clenched. Weak muscles trembled but the rage was pure Alpha, coiling in my chest, hot and vicious and patient.
Soon. Soon I'll show you what happens when you corner a wolf.
The door creaked. I smoothed my face neutral as the school nurse poked her head in. Middle-aged, tired eyes.
"Elara, honey? You have visitors."
Two figures stepped into the doorway, backlit by fluorescent lights.
The boy was textbook handsome—golden-brown hair catching light just right, blue eyes, toothpaste-commercial smile. Holding flowers like this was a rom-com instead of a crime scene.
The girl was magazine-perfect. Red-brown waves professionally styled, makeup looking natural but probably took an hour, expensive clothes. That confidence from never being told no.
Elara's memories supplied names: Blythe Harrison. Sophia Reign.
The murderers checking on their victim.
My body betrayed me—heart racing, breathing shallow, fingers curling into the blanket. Fear responses burned into muscle memory, Elara's body remembering every cruelty.
I hated it. Hated this weak flesh. In my old body, I'd already have Blythe's throat in my jaws.
But I needed proof beyond a fractured memory.
Sophia moved first, heels clicking. Her voice dripped perfectly calibrated worry. "Oh my God, Elara. We heard you collapsed in the storage room. Are you okay? We were so worried."
Her eyes swept the room—checking for witnesses, cameras, anything that might contradict her story. I watched her gaze linger on the heart monitor, cataloging my weakness.
Blythe stepped closer, expensive cologne covering lacrosse-field sweat. Set the flowers down with careful precision.
"You really scared us," he said, tone pitched between concern and reproach. "What were you doing in that storage room anyway? You know how dusty it is. With your asthma..." He shook his head. "You have to be more careful, Elara."
There it was. Subtle blame. Implying this was her fault for being in the wrong place, having the wrong body, being too weak to survive their game.
My wolf soul screamed for blood. Wanted to show him what "careful" meant, paint these walls red.
I smiled instead. Pulled my lips into that soft, grateful expression from Elara's memories—the smile of a girl who'd spent years begging for scraps of affection.
"I'm okay," I said, voice coming out too quiet, too apologetic. "Thank you for coming to see me."
Words tasted like ash but I forced them out. Watched Sophia's shoulders relax. Saw Blythe's smile widen, satisfied I was still playing my role.
Enjoy it while it lasts. I need to understand this world first. Figure out who has power, who has allies, what the rules are.
Then I'm breaking every single one.
Starting with you two.