Chapter 1 The Worst Dream Ever
1. The Worst Dream Ever
The last thing I remembered before passing out was scrolling through Blood Moon Requiem at three in the morning, half-buried under my blanket burrito, eyelids doing that thing where they flicker like a dying flashlight. You know the one—where you’re basically speed-blinking Morse code for “help, I should be asleep but this drama is juicier than my entire life.”
So imagine my confusion when I woke up standing upright.
In a forest.
And not even the friendly kind of forest either. No chirping birds, no squirrels gathering nuts, no deer stepping out to ask if I’d like my hair braided. Nope. This was the kind of forest that screamed: you’re either about to get murdered, or recruited into a cult that sacrifices virgins under the full moon.
The trees were monstrous—tall, skeletal, their branches clawing at the fog like bony fingers. The ground squished beneath my slippers (yes, slippers, we’ll get to that horror in a second), damp with dew and something that smelled suspiciously like wet pennies. The air carried the unmistakable tang of blood. Fantastic. Definitely blood. Ten points to my overactive imagination.
I glanced down at myself, bracing for leather armor, chainmail, maybe a medieval gown. Nope. Oversized hoodie, plaid pajama pants, and my fluffy pink bunny slippers. My battle gear. Somewhere out there, Katniss Everdeen was laughing at me.
“Okay, Kiera, let’s do a vibe check,” I muttered, hugging myself. “Either this is the most realistic dream I’ve ever had, or I’m dead, or Netflix upgraded their horror package.”
But my stomach twisted as I looked closer. This wasn’t generic horror forest. This was specific. Familiar, even. The fog curled and rolled like spilled milk across the underbrush. A chorus of howls echoed in the distance, vibrating through my ribs. And the silence between them—the heavy, unnatural silence—felt like the forest itself was holding its breath.
I knew this setting. Word for word.
Because I had read it.
“Oh, no.” I pressed a hand to my mouth. “No, no, no.”
This was Blood Moon Requiem.
That melodramatic, angsty werewolf novel I’d devoured last night—the one with a villain so hot he could probably set a forest fire just by glaring at it, and a heroine so catastrophically stupid I wanted to throw my Kindle at her. I’d rolled my eyes, sworn I wouldn’t finish it, and then binge-read seven chapters anyway because self-control? Never met her.
Which meant—if my brain wasn’t glitching—I was inside the story.
As the heroine.
The heroine who dies before the plot even gets good.
“Moon Goddess, why?” I groaned, tugging at my hair. “I didn’t even like her! Couldn’t you at least have made me the sassy side character who lives to the sequel? Or, I don’t know, the random villager with two lines of dialogue and no chance of being mauled?”
The forest did not answer. The forest just… growled.
No, really. A low, guttural growl ripped through the trees, vibrating through my slippers into my bones.
I froze. Every horror movie PSA I’d ever ignored suddenly made sense. My bunny slippers squeaked against the wet moss as I pivoted slowly, carefully—
CRACK.
A branch snapped behind me. The growl deepened, closer.
My pulse stuttered like a dying Wi-Fi connection. I ducked behind a tree and whispered to myself like a lunatic. “Stay calm, Kiera. It’s just a dream. You’re probably drooling on your pillow right now. Totally fine. Totally—”
“Come out.”
The voice sliced through the fog. Low. Commanding. Like velvet stretched over steel.
Oh crap.
I peered around the trunk, and my jaw nearly fell off my face.
Lucian Drevane.
The Tyrant Alpha himself.
He stepped from the shadows with the kind of presence that didn’t just enter a room—it swallowed it whole. Black leather armor clung to his broad frame, a long coat trailing behind him like spilled ink. In one hand, he held a bow; in the other, an arrow already notched and aimed. At me.
And then there were his eyes.
Silver. Glowing faintly, slicing through me like scalpels. Eyes that said: I could end you, but first, let’s see how interesting you are.
Every rational part of me shrieked to run. The irrational part—the one that had read way too many fan comments about him being “daddy with fangs”—was like: okay but… hello.
I raised my hands, palms sweating. “Uh… hi?”
Smooth. Absolutely smooth. Ten out of ten survival instincts.
His gaze narrowed. “You’re not from my pack.”
I laughed nervously. “Oh, you noticed! Yeah, I’m more of a freelance dream tourist.”
He didn’t lower the bow. He stepped closer, silent as death, every move screaming predator.
“You smell wrong,” he growled.
“Rude,” I blurted. “I showered before bed, thank you very much. Lavender vanilla. Top shelf.”
His eyes raked me from head to toe—bed hair, hoodie, pajama pants, bunny slippers. I looked less like a heroine and more like a walking clearance rack. His expression didn’t change, but the sharpness in his gaze did. It was the look of a wolf dissecting prey.
“What are you?” he asked, voice low, dangerous.
Now, any smart dreamer would’ve said: human. Any clever liar might’ve tried: lost villager.
Me? My mouth has never once consulted my brain before speaking.
“Reader,” I said.
Lucian blinked. “Reader?”
“Yep. You know. Words, pages, plot twists? The thing you’re currently starring in? Hi, big fan.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. The bow lowered—slightly—but his stare sharpened, colder, as if he were peeling back my skin to read whatever lay beneath.
In three strides, he was in front of me. Towering. Heat radiating from him like wildfire. Before I could shuffle back, his hand shot out, gripping my chin and tilting my face up. His touch was rough, firm, but terrifyingly controlled.
He leaned in, nose brushing the air at my throat. My breath hitched.
“Not wolf,” he murmured. “Not mortal. Something else.”
“Um. Deodorant?” I squeaked. “Lavender vanilla?”
His grip tightened, forcing me to meet his silver stare. Sparks—actual, searing sparks—ignited where his skin touched mine. They burned down my neck, my arms, straight to my racing pulse.
Oh no. Oh no, no, no.
That wasn’t supposed to happen. That was not in the script.
“You’re mine,” he said simply.
“Excuse me?” My voice cracked like a teenager’s.
“Mine,” he repeated, tone dark and absolute, like he’d just declared gravity.
I sputtered. “I am not a Black Friday sale item!”
His lips curved. Not quite a smile—more like the shadow of one. Dangerous. Beautiful. Fatal.
“You appear in my forest, during my hunt, wearing the scent of fate itself,” he said, eyes burning brighter. “You think the Moon Goddess sends me accidents?”
“I think maybe she has a messed-up sense of humor!” I snapped.
For a second, I swore the whole forest stilled. The fog seemed to hesitate, frozen between us.
Then, he released my chin—only to seize my wrist. Sparks flared again, fire racing under my skin. His thumb pressed against the frantic thrum of my pulse.
“Run,” Lucian ordered.
I blinked. “…Run?”
“If you escape me, little rabbit, you’re free.”
And just like that, he let me go.
I didn’t think. I ran.
Branches whipped at my arms, fog stung my eyes, mud sucked at my slippers. My lungs burned, heart pounding hard enough to bruise ribs. Behind me, a sound followed—low, dark laughter.
I didn’t look back. Couldn’t. If I saw him chasing me, I’d collapse on the spot.
I stumbled into a clearing and collapsed to my knees, gasping, sweat dripping down my temples. My slippers squelched pathetically. That’s when I noticed it.
Blood.
A sharp sting burned across my arm, my sleeve torn. A branch must’ve sliced me while I sprinted. I pressed my fingers to the cut and winced.
The blood was warm. Too warm. The metallic scent hit my nose like iron nails. The pain was sharp, stinging, lingering.
Too sharp. Too real.
My breath caught.
In dreams, pain never lingered. Blood never smelled like this.
This wasn’t a dream.
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “No, no, no. I’m not… This can’t be real.”
The fog parted.
Lucian stepped into the clearing, silver eyes glowing, darkness clinging to him like a cloak. His bow was gone, but his presence was heavier than iron chains.
He reached out a hand. Not a question. A command.
“Caught you,” he said, voice low, final.
And in that moment—with blood still trickling down my arm, with sparks still sizzling on my skin where he had touched me—I knew.
I wasn’t waking up.
I wasn’t dreaming.
I was trapped inside the story.
And the Tyrant Alpha had just claimed me.