"Before the Bite"
The town of Brimridge was the kind of place that stayed asleep even when it was awake.
Fog clung low to the ground like secrets whispered between old trees. Shadows moved a little too quickly when no one was looking. And the moon—always too big, always too close—hung heavy in the sky, like it was watching.
Lyra Hale pressed her thighs tighter around the engine of her rusted motorbike as she coasted down the dark, winding road that cut through the forest. Her black helmet reflected nothing but moonlight. Her long, ink-dark hair whipped around her jacket, and her lips curved in a wry smirk as she ignored the 30mph sign.
Tonight, she wasn't planning on playing it safe.
She could feel it again—the pull. That eerie, unexplainable itch beneath her skin. It had started a month ago and never left. Like something inside her was stretching, trying to wake up.
Her eighteenth birthday was in five hours. Not that she was counting.
But her body was. She'd been running hot for days. She couldn't sleep. Could barely think. Her skin was hypersensitive to every breeze, every brush. She'd caught herself staring at people, breathing them in like prey. Especially men.
What the hell was wrong with her?
She pulled off the road and parked behind the treeline where no one would see the bike. In the clearing beyond the woods, a bonfire was already roaring, the flames licking the air like tongues. Half the town's youth was already there, dancing, drinking, shouting—celebrating the Tri-Moon Festival. An old Brimridge tradition they barely understood.
Three moons. One night. One truth.
Lyra didn't believe in town myths, but she believed in adrenaline. And right now, every cell in her body was humming with it.
She tugged off her helmet, letting her wild waves fall over her shoulders. Her black leather jacket hugged her waist, worn jeans clinging to long, lean legs. She wore no makeup—didn't need it. Her eyes, a strange shade of molten silver, already looked supernatural under the moonlight.
As she stepped into the clearing, heads turned.
Not because she was beautiful, though she was. But because something about her tonight was... feral.
She didn't smile. Didn't speak. Just walked past the stares and went straight for the bonfire, letting the heat kiss her skin. Her pulse was racing now.
Then she felt it.
A shift in the air.
Like the forest had sucked in a breath. Every hair on her body stood up. Her spine tingled. Something—or someone—had entered the clearing.
And she could feel him before she saw him.
Power. Cold, commanding, ancient power. It crawled over her skin like smoke, like possession.
Her breath caught.
Then the crowd parted.
And he was there.
A man dressed in black, tall and broad-shouldered, with jet-black hair slicked back and eyes so dark they looked carved from night. A scar kissed the edge of his jaw. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a slash of tanned, muscular chest. He walked like he owned the land, like he was the danger.
And he was staring directly at her.
The world faded. The fire. The noise. Everything but the pounding in her chest.
Then it happened.
A heat between her legs, deep and shocking.
A snap inside her chest. Not painful. Not pleasant. Just binding.
The bond.
She didn't know what it was—had never even heard of imprinting. But her body knew. Her blood screamed it. Her soul tilted, shifting toward him like a magnet.
She stumbled back.
He advanced.
"No," she whispered, but her voice was swallowed by the fire.
And then—he was in front of her.
Not touching. Not yet.
But close.
Close enough that she could smell him—cedar and danger. Close enough to see the wolf barely restrained beneath his skin.
His lips parted. His voice was low and rough, like gravel soaked in honey.
"You shouldn't be here."
Lyra stared up at him, heart slamming in her ribs.
"Neither should you."
The edges of his mouth twitched—just slightly.
Then he leaned in.
His nose brushed the side of her neck. Not a kiss. Not quite.
But her whole body lit up like it was on fire.
Her breath hitched. Her thighs clenched. She wanted to step back—but couldn't move.
His lips ghosted against her ear.
"You're mine."
The words weren't romantic. They were primal.
Possessive. Dangerous.
And worst of all?
Her body liked it.