Maya glances between us, uncertain. Cassie’s smile curves cruel.
And I realize—whatever comes next, this is mine to answer for.
Chapter 9
Maya
Idon’t remember moving.
One second I’m standing beneath the sharp glitter of the full moon, surrounded by a circle of strangers who suddenly seem more animal than human—and the next, I’m sitting on a worn log outside the firelight, my hands still shaking, Bolton crouched in front of me like I’m some fragile thing about to shatter.
I hate that look on his face.
I hate that this is real.
“Just breathe,” he says softly, his voice all velvet and gravel. Not a command. A lifeline.
“I am breathing,” I snap, but it’s more reflex than heat.
Inside me, something feels… cracked open. Like a box that’s been nailed shut for years just split on one side, light peeking through. I don’t know what’s in it yet, just that it’s mine and terrifying and thrilling all at once.
My hands still shake. My skin still tingles. My pulse still won’t calm.
“You’re saying I’m some kind of werewolf?” I whisper,stealing a glance toward the fire lit circle behind us. The crowd disperses slowly now, like an audience after a play’s final act, murmuring, whispering. Judging.
Bolton hesitates. “Shifter,” he says finally. “Not werewolf. We’re not monsters. We’re… more than that.”
“Cool,” I mutter, pushing my glasses up my nose with a trembling finger. “So instead of monsters, I’m just half—what? Supernatural?”
He nods once, solemn. “Your mom must’ve known. You had to come from somewhere.” His voice is gentle, but there’s something behind it—an urgency I don’t fully understand.
“She never told me anything,” I say. “I mean, I always knew she was hiding stuff. But this?” I let out a breathless laugh. “This is another universe kind of secret.”
“She never mentioned your dad?” Bolton asks carefully. His eyes are sharp now. Curious. Like he’s trying to find a thread and tug it loose.
“She said he died in a car crash,” I reply, brushing my fingers over my knees, wiping off imaginary dirt. “But that was about all I got. No grave site. No photos. Just his name—Miguel.”
That gets a reaction. Bolton stills. Not visibly, but I feel it. Like a shift in pressure before a storm.
“Miguel,” he repeats, slowly, carefully. “Your father’s name was Miguel Ortiz?”
I nod, my stomach clenching. “Yeah. Why?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He looks away, toward the fire, then back at me. His expression is suddenly unreadable—like he’s doing calculations behind his eyes. Big ones.
“There was a Miguel,” he says eventually, his voice cautious now. “He wasn’t part of our pack. But... there are stories. Old stories. About a wolf who mated with a human. About how it ended.”
Something presses against my chest, heavy and sharp.
“What kind of stories?” I ask.
He looks at me like he wants to lie. Then he doesn’t.
“Stories about a man who loved someone he wasn’t supposed to. A woman who walked away from the pack and took her child with her. Trying to keep hersafe.”
“That’s not a story,” I whisper. “That’s my mom.”
And suddenly, everything tilts.
