Page 1

Chapter 1

I’d spent twenty-three years perfecting the art of escape.

Not the dramatic, movie-worthy kind with explosions and car chases—though today might finally change that. My version was subtler: scholarships to art schools conveniently located three hours from home, apartments with multiple exits, and a carefully cultivated network of friends who had no idea werewolves existed, much less that I’d been raised by three of them.

“Earth to Finn,” Maya snapped, waving a hand in front of my face. “That’s the third time you’ve forgotten to add espresso to the milk. What’s with you today?”

I blinked, looking down at the sad, coffee-less latte I’d been about to serve. “Sorry. Just appreciating how the milk perfectly captures the Seattle summer haze—all dreamy and sun-dappled.”

“You mean you’re appreciating how that guy across the street has been standing there for twenty minutes?” She nodded toward the window.

My pulse spiked as I casually glanced outside. The street was packed with the usual Friday afternoon crowd, tourists in shorts and locals in sunglasses enjoying Seattle’s perfect July weather.No sign of broad shoulders or predatory posture or any of the other distinctly alpha characteristics that haunted both my nightmares and my more inappropriate dreams.

“Probably just waiting for someone,” I said, forcing my attention back to the espresso machine. “Or enjoying our excellent window display of locally sourced, ethically harvested coffee beans arranged in the shape of the Space Needle.”

Maya rolled her eyes. “That display is literally three bags of coffee with a postcard leaning against them.”

“It’s minimalist. Very avant-garde.” I pulled a perfect espresso shot and handed the now-completed latte to our waiting customer with my best customer service smile. “Enjoy your liquid motivation!”

The afternoon rush kept me busy enough to temporarily quiet my paranoia. I moved through the motions—steaming milk, pulling shots, creating leaf designs when I could focus long enough. My fingers itched for my brushes instead of the portafilter, but art supplies didn’t pay rent. Neither did my art degree, as Cade had so helpfully pointed out during our last spectacular argument.

“Hey, that guy’s checking you out,” Maya whispered, nodding toward a businessman at the counter. “The one in the charcoal suit. He’s been staring for like ten minutes.”

My heart stuttered as I glanced up, relief flooding through me when I saw a complete stranger—dark-haired, slim-built, definitely not one of my brothers.

“Not my type,” I muttered, turning back to the espresso machine.

“Right, because tall, rich, and handsome is just terrible.” Maya said. “What exactly is your type? Besides ‘nonexistent’?”

“I’m holding out for a coffee bean farmer with a passion for abstract expressionism and a trust fund he’s too ethical to use,” I deadpanned. “Very niche dating pool.”

The real answer—tall, powerful werewolves with impossible shoulders and territorial issues—was better left unsaid. And deeply, deeply repressed.

“Your loss.” Maya shrugged, heading to the register. “He looks like he could afford actual groceries, unlike your ramen-based food pyramid.”

“Ramen is the foundation of artistic genius,” I called after her. “It’s basically creativity in noodle form.”

As the afternoon light streamed through the windows, casting golden shadows across the café floor, my phone buzzed with a text from Drew.Video call tonight? 8 pm?

My stomach twisted with equal parts longing and wariness. Drew was the only one of my brothers I still talked to—the only one who respected my decision to leave, even if he didn’t understand it. As the only other adoptee in the family, he got the outsider feeling better than the others.

I texted back.Sure. If I’m not buried under commissions.

Liar. You’re watching anime and eating ramen.

I smiled despite myself.It’s called the artist lifestyle. Look it up.

Miss you, idiot.

I stared at those three words, my chest tight.Miss you too.

The walk home always made me feel like prey, even in the long daylight. Seattle in summer meant the sun wouldn’t set until after nine, painting the city in warm golden hues as I left work. The streets bustled with life—full outdoor cafés, parks crowded with sunbathers, the distant waters of Puget Sound glittering like scattered diamonds. Beautiful, in a bittersweet way—the kind of scene I’d normally be mentally composing on canvas.

Instead, I was hyperaware of every shadow, every alley entrance, every footstep that seemed to match my pace, thenfade away when I turned to look. The weight of unseen eyes pressed between my shoulder blades.

“You’re being ridiculous,” I muttered to myself, clutching my messenger bag tighter against my side. “Wolves don’t do cities. They hate concrete and crowds and traffic and?—”

A shadow moved wrong in the alley to my right.