Chapter 1
Luna
Notebook: Female Wolf shifters looking for a mate can be the cruelest creatures. Avoid at all costs. Especially the nails. Those fuckers are sharp!
Eight years later
“That entitled, spoiled bitch just spat on my cupcake,” I mutter, storming back to my room and slamming the door behind me. It’s not the worst thing that’s happened at The Shifter Institute. It’s not even close, but it still grates on my nerves.
Each day here feels like a slow, suffocating death, all wrapped in silk gowns and plastered smiles.
The walls may shine with opulence, but beneath that surface lies a gilded cage.
A fortress of hushed whispers and hollow grandeur, its halls echo with the pomp and circumstance reserved for royalty.
But it isn’t royalty or debutantes who stroll these corridors, it’s female wolf shifters like me, each decked to the nines, their eyes sparkling with hope or desperation.
I can’t always tell the difference.
I drop into the rickety chair in front of the small mirror in my minuscule room and glare at my reflection. “Ugh, this is ridiculous.”
My prep routine is minimal: a quick brush through my silver hair and a dab of scented lotion—because I apparently smell bad.
I zip the ceremonial gown; the fabric hugging my curves. The whole process is always the same: dress up, show up, get sized up, and then… face rejection.
“Here we go.” I deadpan at my reflection. “Time to dazzle with your sparkling personality, Luna. Because that’s totally what they’re looking for.”
My fingers trace the fabric over my scars, each one a reminder of the fire that took everything from me. They accompany me silently, witnesses to every awkward moment during the swimsuit portion of the ceremony, as we’re paraded onstage and every male gaze shifts away in polite horror.
The scars are ugly, jagged lines that map out the nightmares of my past.
Each ceremony unfolds like the last: forced smiles, small talk, frowns when they catch a whiff of my scent, and the inevitable shift in their expressions once they see my scars.
I’ve been trapped in this institute for six years—a stark contrast to the usual one-year stay for most females.
Wolf shifters come from far and wide once they’ve run out of options in their packs. With some packs being very small and the pool of candidates limited, nobody wants to match with their cousin; the institute provides a much-needed solution.
While every shifter hopes for a scent match, a true love connection, most are chosen based on their looks.
A quiet and obedient female is preferred.
I am not quiet.
Maybe I was once, but years of rejection have toughened me up.
As an orphan, I lack family to “sweeten the deal.” Instead, I carry a mountain of debt.
The institute is a financial black hole, charging exorbitant fees even for the simplest things. My parents’ modest inheritance vanished during my two-year recovery after the fire.
So here I am, scarred and carrying the weight of financial burdens any potential mate would have to bear.
No family, no dowry, no wolf… just scars and debt.
It’s no surprise nobody wants me.
I pull out my latest statement, and the number makes my stomach clench: 487,000 credits.
Even if I found work the moment I left, I’d need three lifetimes to pay it off.
When I first arrived at the institute, I thought it would be straightforward. They promised: Find a mate. Live happily ever after.
The female shifter who found me at the rehab hospital said I needed to be with my kind.
That they would love and care for me.
Humans didn’t know wolf shifters existed, officially, anyway. A few high-ranking politicians did, but for the masses, our world only existed in their books and movies, disguised as fiction. Most of those who did know still clung to the old myths of full moon transformations only.
But we’ve evolved. Mature shifters can shift at will, day or night; no moon is required.
Except for me.
For now, at least.
Even though I hadn’t shifted yet, the female shifter was convinced a human hospital wasn’t the right place for a young pup. So, with no relatives left, they shipped me across the country to The Shifter Institute.
I wanted to believe them.
I thought I’d finally belong, make friends, and find a new family among these shifters. However, they neglected to mention how superficial male shifters can be. They want their females neatly packaged, not some scarred version of Freddy Krueger with an attitude.
And I certainly wasn’t ready for the pettiness of other females.
The institute’s glossy brochures also forgot to mention the real rules—I quickly learned how things work here.
I’ve been beaten, held down by those who thought I was worthless, and woken up bruised and bloody in the infirmary more times than I can count.
The fact that my wolf has never surfaced makes me heal slower, making me an even easier target.
They tried to crush my spirit.
For a while, I almost let them. That first year, the despair loop was virtually unbearable.
“Give up,” they whispered. “Just lie down and take it.”
But I didn’t. I fought back.
When the counselor handed me a notebook, I nearly laughed.
“Write your feelings,” she said, like that would magically make everything better.
Initially, I doodled stick figures, often of myself, hanging by a noose.
Then, words flowed out, messy and furious, a torrent of everything I couldn’t voice. I needed an outlet for my rage because questioning the institute’s methods or the way they molded us into perfect, obedient mates isn’t allowed, especially if you’re a bottom-feeder.
It turns out that the famous and wealthy have rules of their own.
So I wrote.
I vented.
I made sure never to forget.
I noted which females would claw your eyes out if you got too close to their preferred male during the scenting ceremony. Or why making direct eye contact with certain males could land you cornered in a dark hallway.
Now, I see this notebook as proof of how far I’ve come and how much stronger I am than that scared little girl from all those years ago.
My spirit is unbreakable.
When they shove, I shove back. When they glare, I smile.
The girl they tried to break is gone for good.
I see them for who they truly are: pitiful, pathetic little girls who need to tear others down to feel powerful.
This notebook has become more than just notes; it’s my manifesto. It’s my reminder of who I am when the world tries to tear me apart.
Thank goodness this ceremony is my last—a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. It’s the final time I’ll be paraded like a piece of meat and tossed aside as if my worth is only skin deep.
I can’t wait to escape this place, find a job, and tackle my debt.
How hard can it be? Human women are managing just fine; surely, I can too.
“Maybe this time it’ll be different,” I tell the girl in the mirror, her eyes far too wise to buy into such fairy tales.
She knows the drill; she lives it. Hope is a luxury, and mine has been spent long ago on dreams of acceptance and whispered promises of a scent match that would defy the odds.
Someone who’d see the strength in my scars, not just the damage.
Someone whose scent would mingle with mine and say, “You’re home. ”
“Sure, and maybe they’ll throw in a unicorn that farts rainbows for good measure.” I snort.
“Let’s get this over with, Luna,” I say, tugging at my sleeves. “Smile, twirl, and try not to insult too many arrogant asses. One last time.”
I practice a smile in the mirror, but it feels more like a grimace. I wipe it away and replace it with a smirk.
Who am I kidding? No Prince Charming is waiting out there.
I used to dream of strong arms to hold me and fierce eyes to see the real me.
Now… I dream of escape.
I dream of freedom.
I dream of being as far away from males as possible.
Stepping out of my room, I join the stream of hopefuls, my heart thudding—not from nerves, but from the anticipation of finally leaving this prison.
The Institute has been both shelter and cage, but cages aren’t meant to be lived in; they’re meant to be broken.
I’ve tried to escape once.
Okay, maybe more than once. More times than I can count.
But they always caught me.
Every. Single. Time.
But that won’t stop me. I’ll keep fighting. Their rules won’t define me. I’ll choose my path, and tomorrow, my freedom starts.
I’ll be me.
Unapologetically.
You see, the Institute is my legal guardian. And unfortunately for me, I won’t be free of the Institute until my 21st birthday.
Apparently, female shifters are just too fragile to handle the real world before then.
They should hide cameras in these halls.
They’d be shocked to find some of their precious protégées are demons in disguise. There’s nothing more terrifying than a young female shifter willing to do anything to get a male’s attention, especially if there’s an alpha in attendance.
The environment isn’t conducive to camaraderie when we’re all pining for a handful of males.
Some females can be downright cruel.
Take this morning, for example. I was minding my own business in the kitchen, working part-time to help pay for my room and board. Marcy, a rich and entitled shifter who has been at the institute for over a month and feels the pressure of finding a mate, decides to make a scene.
I was serving her food when she flung the plate full of chili back in my face.
“This smells terrible, reject. I’m not eating this crap. It’s as disgusting as your scars. Make me something else.”
“I don’t make the menu, Marcy,” I grit through my teeth, cleaning the chili off my face and carefully avoiding staining my favorite tee.
“I don’t care, you crippled freak,” she yells.
“It’s either chili or water,” I tell her evenly.
“Maybe you’re the one who should be on a water diet. Looks like you might have a muffin top there, freak. Another reason you’re alone,” she spits.
“Thanks for the tip,” I shoot back, eyeing her up and down. “But I’d rather be alone than… desperate.”