Chapter 3 The Truth Hurts

Rachel woke to feel of silk sheets and the smell of pine.

Her eyes opened slowly, unfocused, taking in an unfamiliar ceiling painted in soft gray. Crown molding traced elegant lines toward walls covered in what looked like actual wallpaper, the expensive kind, textured and subtle. A chandelier hung overhead, crystal catching morning light and scattering it across the room in prismatic fragments.

This was not her shitty studio apartment in Queens.

Memory crashed back like a tidal wave. The club. The pain. Her hands changing. The thing with the gray skin and too many teeth. Rowan tearing its head off. His golden eyes. The explosion of power when their fingers touched.

Rachel sat up so fast her vision swam. The room tilted sideways before righting itself, and she had to grip the mattress to keep from falling over. Her shoulder throbbed, the one the creature had clawed; but when she looked down, she was wearing an oversized gray t-shirt she didn't recognize, and there was no blood. No wound. Just smooth, unmarked skin where she should have had four deep gashes.

"What the hell," she whispered.

Her voice sounded wrong. Stronger. Deeper than it should be.

She looked at her hands. Normal hands. Normal fingernails; short, unpainted, slightly ragged from biting them when she got nervous. No black claws. No rippling skin. Just her regular hands that she'd had her entire life.

Had she imagined it? Some kind of birthday breakdown? Bad drugs in her drink?

But no. The memory was too vivid, too real. And this definitely wasn't her apartment.

Rachel swung her legs out of bed and immediately regretted it. The floor was freezing hardwood against her bare feet, and standing made her head spin again. She steadied herself against the massive four-poster bed and took stock.

She was in a bedroom that was probably bigger than her entire apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall showed dense forest, actual forest, with morning mist clinging to the ground between towering pines. Not a building in sight. A door to her left presumably led to a bathroom. Another door straight ahead was closed.

And she had no idea where the hell she was.

Rachel moved toward the closed door on shaky legs. Her body felt strange, not exactly wrong, just different. Like someone had taken her apart and put her back together slightly off-center. Everything was too sharp, too clear. She could hear birds outside the window as if they were singing directly into her ear. Could smell coffee brewing somewhere distant, along with bacon and something sweet. Could feel the air moving across her skin like a physical touch.

She reached for the door handle.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Rachel spun, heart hammering. A woman stood in the bathroom doorway, tall, lean, with silver-blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun. She wore tactical pants and a tight black tank top that showed arms corded with muscle. And her eyes were the same impossible gold as Rowan's had been.

"Who the fuck are you?" Rachel demanded, backing up until her spine hit the door.

The woman raised an eyebrow. "I'm Vera. Beta female of the Manhattan pack. And you're in the Alpha's private residence, so maybe try to remember your manners."

"Manners?" Rachel's voice cracked on a laugh that held no humor. "Something attacked me at work, my boss ripped its head off, I don't know what happened to my best friend, and I woke up in a strange place wearing someone else's clothes. Manners are pretty low on my priority list right now."

Vera's expression didn't change. "You're lucky to be alive. That feral would have drained you in seconds if Alpha Blackwood hadn't intervened."

"Feral what? What the hell was that thing?"

"Vampire. Well, former vampire. The curse makes them like that eventually. Lose their minds, lose their humanity, becomes nothing but hunger." Vera crossed her arms. "You should get dressed. Alpha wants to see you."

"I'm not going anywhere until someone tells me what's happening." Rachel's hands were shaking. She shoved them behind her back. "Where's Suzy? Is she okay?"

"Your human friend is fine. Memories were adjusted. She thinks you had a medical emergency and Rowan took you to a private hospital." Vera moved toward a wardrobe Rachel hadn't noticed. "The clothes should fit. You have ten minutes."

"Adjusted? You messed with her memories?" Rachel said her eyes flashing fire.

"Would you prefer she remember watching a feral vampire attack you? Watching you sprout claws and fangs? Watching her eyes glow three different colors?" Vera pulled out jeans and a soft gray sweater. "Something's are better to be forgotten."

Rachel's stomach dropped. "My eyes... that was real?"

"Everything you remember is real." Vera set the clothes on the bed. "Get dressed. Alpha Blackwood doesn't like to be kept waiting, and trust me, you want him in a good mood for this conversation."

She left through the main door before Rachel could form another question.

For a long moment, Rachel just stood there, trembling. Then she grabbed the clothes and dressed with mechanical precision, her mind spinning in useless circles. Vampires. Werewolves, because that's what Rowan had to be with those gold eyes, right? Curses. Ferals. Adjusted memories.

This was insane. This was impossible.

But her shoulder had healed overnight from wounds that should have needed stitches. Her senses were still sharp enough to be unsettling. And she could remember with perfect clarity the way her fingernails had turned to claws.

The jeans fit perfectly, which was somehow more disturbing than anything else. Someone had known her size. Had prepared for her to be here.

Rachel pulled on the sweater, cashmere, soft enough to be criminal, and shoved her feet into the boots waiting by the bed. Then she opened the door and stepped into a hallway that belonged in an architectural magazine.

Hardwood floors gleamed. Art that looked expensive lined cream-colored walls. More windows showed that same endless forest. The ceiling soared fifteen feet up, supported by dark wooden beams. Everything screamed money, taste, and power.

Voices drifted from somewhere downstairs. Low, male, urgent.

Rachel followed the sound, her new predator hearing making it easy to track. Down a curved staircase with wrought-iron railings. Through an entryway with marble floors. Into a massive great room with a stone fireplace big enough to stand in.

Three men stood near the fireplace, deep in conversation.

Rachel recognized Rowan immediately. He still wore all black, though he'd changed into fresh clothes. His dark hair was damp, like he'd recently showered. When he turned at her approach, those gold eyes locked onto her with an intensity that made her breath catch.

"Rachel." Her name in his voice sounded like a prayer and a curse. "You're awake."

"No shit." She crossed her arms, trying to look braver than she felt. "Want to tell me what the hell is going on? Where am I? Why have you apparently been stalking me?"

A low whistle came from one of the other men-shorter than Rowan, with sandy hair and a cocky grin. "She's got fire. I like her."

"Shut up, Marcus," Rowan said without taking his eyes off Rachel.

The third man was older, maybe fifty, with gray streaking his dark hair and scars crossing his weathered face. He studied Rachel with the same intensity Rowan did, but there was something calculating in his gaze. Measuring.

"You're in my home," Rowan said finally. "About forty miles north of the city. My pack's territory."

"Pack. So you're werewolves." Rachel was proud that her voice stayed steady. "And that thing that attacked me was a vampire."

"Yes."

"And I'm... what exactly?" She held up her hands. "Because last night they grew claws. And my eyes, Vera said they glowed in three colors."

Something shifted in Rowan's expression. Softness, maybe. Or pity. "You're a hybrid, Rachel. The only one in existence. Part werewolf, part vampire, part witch."

The words should have sounded ridiculous. Should have made her laugh. Instead, they settled into her bones with the weight of truth she'd always known but never acknowledged. All those times she'd felt different. Not belonging. Like she didn't quite fit in her own skin.

"That's impossible," she said anyway.

"Your great-grandmother was a witch. Your grandfather was a vampire. Your mother was their daughter-half witch, half vampire. And your father..." Rowan's jaw tightened. "Your father was a werewolf."

"I don't have parents. I grew up in foster care."

"Because your mother died giving birth to you. Because your father tried to take you. Because your great-grandmother used the last of her power to hide you in the human world until you were old enough to survive the awakening." Rowan took a step toward her. "You were never supposed to exist, Rachel. The combination of those three bloodlines should have killed you in the womb. But somehow, you survived."

Rachel's legs felt weak. She locked her knees to keep from swaying. "Why? Why would someone want to create something that shouldn't exist?"

The older man spoke for the first time, his voice gravelly. "Because a hybrid's blood is the cure we've all been searching for."

"Thomas," Rowan warned.

"She deserves the truth." Thomas moved closer, and Rachel noticed he walked with a slight limp. "I'm Thomas, Gamma of this pack. And I'm dying, girl. We all are. Every werewolf in this city, in this country, is losing control of our shifts. Going feral. We have maybe a few weeks before we become nothing but animals."

The room felt too small suddenly. Too close. "And you think my blood can stop that?"

"We know it can." Rowan's voice was gentle. Careful. Like he was trying not to spook a wild animal. "I've been watching you for two years, Rachel. Waiting for your twenty-first birthday. Waiting for your powers to manifest. Because once they did, you'd have enough strength to survive helping us."

"Helping you." The words tasted bitter. "You mean letting you use my blood."

"Yes."

At least he was honest.

Rachel backed up until she hit the wall. Her mind was racing, trying to process everything. Hybrid. Cure. Dying werewolves. Two years of being watched.

"The club," she said suddenly. "You own The Crimson Moon. You hired me specifically, didn't you? To keep tabs on me."

Rowan didn't deny it.

"Jesus Christ." Rachel pressed her palms against her eyes. "My entire life is a lie. My job was a setup. You've been stalking me-"

"Protecting you," Rowan interrupted. "Every day for two years, making sure nothing found you before you were ready. Do you know how many supernatural creatures can sense what you are? How many would have killed you or kidnapped you or used you before you ever had a chance to understand your own power?"

"So I should be grateful?" She dropped her hands, anger cutting through the shock. "You manipulated my entire existence and I should thank you?"

"I'm not asking for thanks." Rowan moved closer, and God, he was big. She'd noticed before, from a distance, but up close he was overwhelming. Six-four, broad-shouldered, moving with predatory grace that made her prey instincts scream. "I'm asking for your help. My pack is dying, Rachel. Good people. Families. Kids who don't deserve to lose their parents to this curse."

"Why me? If I'm the cure, why not just-" She gestured vaguely. "Take what you need? Why bother waking me up at all?"

"Because you're human with real feelings, emotions and choices," Rowan said fiercely. "Because taking from you without consent would make me the monster, not the man. Because..." He stopped himself, jaw working.

"Because what?"

His eyes met hers, and something in them made her heart stutter. Heat. Hunger. Something that had nothing to do with blood and everything to do with the way he was looking at her mouth, like he felt like tasting them.

"Because the moment your power awakened, it called to mine," he said quietly. "Because when our hands touched, I felt the mate bond snap into place. Because you're not just a hybrid, Rachel. You're mine."

The word hung in the air between them.

Mine.

Possessive. Absolute. Terrifying.

"I'm not anyone's," Rachel whispered.

"Not yet." Rowan's smile was dangerous. Promising. "But you will be."

Before Rachel could respond, before she could process the absolute insanity of what he was saying, a howl split the air outside. Long, mournful, ending in a scream that was more human than wolf.

All three men tensed.

"That's Brian," Marcus said, already moving toward the door. "He's shifting. He can't stop it."

"Get the chains," Thomas barked.

Rowan was still looking at Rachel. "Stay here. Don't go outside. Don't-"

Another howl. Closer. More screams joined it.

"They're all going," Marcus said from the doorway, his voice tight with fear. "It's happening. The curse, it's accelerating."

Rowan swore viciously. He turned back to Rachel, and she saw desperation crack through his careful control. "I need your answer. Now. Will you help us or not?"

Rachel looked past him to where Marcus stood in the doorway. Looked at Thomas, who was gripping the back of a chair so hard his knuckles had gone white. Looked at Rowan, this man who'd apparently been watching her, protecting her, waiting for her for two years.

Outside, more howls. More screams. The sound of something breaking.

"If I say yes," she said slowly, "I want answers. Real answers. About my parents. About what I am. About everything."

"Done."

"And I'm not your anything. I don't care what you felt when we touched. I'm not some prize to be claimed."

Rowan's smile was sharp. "We'll see about that."

"Do we have a deal or not?"

He held out his hand. The same hand that had reached for her last night. The same hand that had killed to protect her.

Rachel stared at it for a long moment. Then she stepped forward and placed her palm against his.

Power crashed between them again; not as violent as before, but still very strong and steady. Thrumming. Like a heartbeat that belonged to both of them. Rowan's eyes flashed brighter gold, and Rachel felt something in her chest twist and pull toward him.

The mate bond, some instinct whispered. It's already started.

"Deal," she said.

Rowan's fingers closed around hers, and his smile turned predatory. Victorious.

Outside, another howl rose. But this time, there was something different in it. Not pain. Not madness.

Hope.