Page 2 of Fated to the Lone Shifter (Curse of the Lunaris Alpha #1)

Chapter one

Baptism by Fire

SERA

The air reeks of sweat and engine grease, with cedar-scented cleaner failing to mask the lingering smoke. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. My boots thud against the concrete as I try to blend in, even though I know I stand out. Fresh meat. Too polished. Too late.

A voice like a bullhorn cuts through the room.

"Are you Serafina Knowles?"

My stomach lurches. Way to keep under the radar, Sera! Already they know who I am. I school my face into a neutral smile and turn toward the fireman addressing me. He's tall, all wiry limbs and cocky grin, with a black eye just barely healed and an eyebrow ring that somehow works with the uniform.

"Sera," I correct, stepping forward.

He smirks like he’s won something. "You’re the last one here, so join the line and let’s get started. We have a special test for all our probies before we begin training today."

A few chuckles ripple from the seasoned firefighters gathered in a loose semicircle behind him. Five of us stand in a row—rookies. My instincts buzz. Something's off.

The cocky one—I’ll learn later his name is Marcus Sloane—pulls out a box of matches.

"These," he says, holding them up like a magician presenting his final trick, "are special firehouse matches. Let's see who can light one of these babies!"

Laughter. Nervous shuffling. I plaster on a grin I don’t feel. I could light the match from here, but letting them see that? Not an option.

One by one, the others try. The first rookie, a guy with a buzzcut and nervous hands, strikes twice.

Nothing. The next, a tall redhead, shakes her head before even trying.

After some additional pressure, she strikes the match twice to no avail.

Third strike, still no flame. The third probie vigorously scratches the match alongside the matchbox.

Nothing but protests from the gallery. The fourth pretends to blow on his like he saw a spark.

Marcus gives him a dramatic slow clap for effort.

Then it's my turn. I don’t know what the game is, but I’d like to blend with the others.

I take the match Marcus hands me. The wood feels strangely warm.

Focus, Sera. Keep it down. Breathe. Cool. Don’t ignite.

I strike it against the box.

Flame.

Instant. Bright. Alive.

Gasps erupt. Someone yells, "We’ve found the arsonist!" Another voice shouts, "Or a witch!"

My blood turns to ice. I assess the situation.

Turns out, those matches were rigged not to ignite—a harmless prank with cold tips and faulty heads. But mine lit anyway. That flare? All me.

I flick the match to the floor, crushing it under my boot. But it’s too late. A mountain of eyes are on me. Some amused. Some suspicious. One pair, burning gold from across the room, watches me like I’m prey.

The man belonging to the gold eyes steps forward.

He’s massive. Broad shoulders. Smoke-smudged shirt. Scarred forearms. Wolf eyes. He moves like something caged and coiled, and when he speaks, his voice is low and commanding.

"That’s enough. This is serious business."

The laughter stops. The air shifts. The tension thickens.

He moves straight toward me, slow and deliberate, then—click—he cuffs one of my wrists in a cold, steel loop.

You’ve got to be kidding me. My pulse spikes. Magic hums beneath my skin.

And then—click—he cuffs the other.

Our eyes meet, challenging one another. What the hell!? He has no right to do this! I try to keep my anger in check. Don’t want to create any more mini fires in the firehouse.

He raises an eyebrow. "You're under arrest… for violating Firehouse Code 666. Too hot to handle."

The room erupts again. My exhale is louder than intended. A joke. A prank. My brain finally catches up. I scan the matchbox on the ground—there, behind it under the table, a glint of a remote with tangled wires. A tiny igniter of sorts.

A setup.

He uncuffs me, slowly. Too slowly. The brush of his fingers sends a flicker through my chest I don’t want to analyze.

"Welcome to the team," he says gruffly.

I manage a nod, but my throat is dry.

That was too close. Way too close.

And that gorgeous hunk—Noah Benson—I know him. He’s one of the names in my classified folder.

Suspect Number One.

And he’s looking at me too intensely right now.

Finally, Noah breaks from the pack, raking a hand through his short, dark hair like he’s trying to reset the mood.

"Alright, fun’s over," he calls out. "Let’s get to work."

The firehouse crew snaps into motion. A few still chuckle under their breath, but most clear the room or fall in line behind the commanding presence of their trainer. Noah turns back toward us probies, his gaze scanning the five of us with military precision.

"I’m Noah Benson. I’ll be your training officer. You’ll follow my lead unless you want to get scorched—figuratively or otherwise. That’s Marcus Sloane," he jerks his thumb at the smirking prankster. "Resident smartass and senior firefighter."

Marcus offers a salute with two fingers and a wink.

"Captain Greene runs this house. You’ll meet him later. For now, just know he doesn’t tolerate screw-ups. If you respect the chain of command, you’ll be fine."

He moves on like he’s reading a grocery list. "Tori’s our medic—don’t let the zen vibes fool you, she’s the one you want in case of an emergency, and we count on her connections with.

..to keep us safe." He points toward the ceiling. Tori gives a little mischievous smile and a curtsy. Noah continues. “The rest of the crew’s out finishing rotation. You’ll meet them soon enough. "

I nod along, keeping my expression neutral, but my brain is cataloging every face. Every name. Every twitch of suspicion or pride or buried secrets. It’s second nature now.

Noah’s eyes land back on me for a second too long.

"Get dressed. Turnouts are labeled. Ten minutes. Truck bay in fifteen. Move."

The other rookies scatter like they’ve just been doused. I fall into step behind the two other women, who whisper about how hot our trainer is. My stomach churns, but not with nerves.

With proximity.

“That heat wasn’t just shock—it was recognition. Not the kind you name. The kind that brands you.”

Focus, I remind myself. You’re not here to fall for firemen.

You’re here to find a killer.

The women’s locker room carries the sharp tang of fresh detergent, a cloud of body spray, and the unmistakable musk of nerves.

The tile underfoot is still damp from the morning shift change, and metal lockers line both walls.

I find the one marked KNOWLES and spin the dial—someone’s already set the combo.

Tori, probably. She’s the one who pulled strings to get me placed here. My cousin, my guardian angel, my only real tie to the magical world I left behind.

I look inside and find the usual turnout gear, a helmet, protective eyewear, a few toiletries for our overnight stays and a small colorful box that could only be from my cousin.

Like most Faes, she’s a gift-giver, but you’re never quite sure whether you should open what they give you.

So far today, I’ve been batting zero. I open it anyway.

It’s a protective talisman necklace with what smells like lavender, rosemary and sage in its compartment. All of the herbs we use to keep other supernaturals off our magic trails. I say a silent thank you. She doesn’t know the half of why I’m here, but I’m going to need all the help I can get.

The two other probie women—Nicole and Jamie, if I caught the names right—are already down to their sports bras, chatting as they peel off their civvies. "Did you see the way Noah cuffed her?" Nicole laughs. "I would’ve faked lightning if I’d known he’d put me in handcuffs!”

Jamie giggles. "I know. He could arrest me any day. And did you notice his hands? Big. Like, big-big." They giggle.

I keep my back turned as I change, smirking despite myself. The firehouse-issued uniform feels stiff and a little too crisp, like a costume I’m wearing over the truth. I button the top slowly, eyes narrowed at the reflection in the dented metal of my locker door.

“Think he’s single?” Nicole whispers.

“Who cares? He’s dangerous. That makes it hotter,” Jamie says.

I roll my eyes silently.

They’re not wrong. There is something dangerous about Noah Benson. But it’s not just the muscles or the brooding stare. It’s what I felt when he touched me. That crackle of energy, raw and untamed, that didn’t come from me.

Or maybe it did.

I shove that thought down as I lace up my boots.

If only I’d finished my damn awakening before I left L.A. Tori warned me it wouldn’t be safe to go half-bonded to my magic. But the Bureau was not going to wait. The mission was urgent.

My fingers pause at the last button. I glance over at the other women, who are now braiding each other’s hair and debating lip balm flavors like we’re at a summer camp and not one step away from firestorms and death.

Getting close to Noah may be a little more competitive than I thought.

But it’s also non-negotiable.

Chances are there is an arsonist on the loose, and he...or she...may not be acting alone.

Everyone is a suspect.

I tap the side of my burner phone as I sit in the back row of the common room, the others still bustling around prepping gear.

My thumb hovers over the single contact in the encrypted app.

EMBER . The codename of my Bureau handler, and the only person who knows my true identity.

..or at least my real name and purpose for being here.

A message pings in:

EMBER: You in?

I type back: Affirmative.

EMBER: Good. Keep your eyes on S1. Don’t make contact unless he initiates. And stay alive.

I stare at the last line. Stay alive.

As if that’s ever guaranteed when magic burns through you like a wildfire. Of course, Ember doesn’t know that about me.

My thoughts flash back to the bureau briefing. Beige conference room. A manila folder with my name on it, slid across the table like a death sentence.

“These arsons have crossed multiple states,” the Director had said, voice low and clipped. “We’ve got several dead bodies, and there's not enough of them or their DNA left to identify anybody. But that’s not the main reason we’re involved.”

He let that hang in the air.

Then he dropped the real bombshell: “One of the burned victims was FBI Agent Leighton. One of our best.”

That had been all I needed to hear.

Agent Leighton trained me, and I always suspected he knew more about my family than he let on, but regardless, he always had my back.

Now he was ash, and I had no one in the bureau who I could completely trust like that.

The mission was clear: Infiltrate the firehouse closest to the most recent incident. Identify the source of the fires, and possibly the motive. And don’t get caught.

I exhale through my nose and lock the phone.

A shadow crosses the doorway—Noah.

He doesn’t look at me, but the tension in my spine ratchets up anyway.

If he is what I think he is…

If he felt that spark too…

Then this whole assignment just got a hell of a lot more complicated.

Later that evening, after the last hose has been coiled and the rookies sent back to their dorms to sleep off their first-day jitters, I slip out the back of the station house and head toward the tree line.

My day is not yet over. The forest behind Firehouse 333 is dense, shadowed even under the light of the waxing moon, the trees too tall and close together, like they’ve learned to lean on each other for survival.

The scent of burned bark and damp pine hits me as soon as I step past the last floodlight.

My boots crunch over ash and needles. A couple hundred yards in, I find it—the blackened stretch of earth that wasn’t here a week ago.

A recent fire, already buried in the official logs. No one talks about it.

Which means it matters.

I crouch low beside a twisted, half-melted helmet. The ground is soft, churned in places. Something burned here. Something… someone . My fingers brush through the ash, and I shiver. Not from the cold.

From the pull.

There’s something in this place. Not just soot and smoke, but residue. Energy. I close my eyes and press my palm against the earth.

Magic. Not mine. Not my kind. But close. Familiar in a way that makes my stomach twist.

And then I see it—a stone, half-buried in the dirt, slick with soot and pulsing faintly with heat. The police would never view it as evidence, but I do. I dig it out and hold it in my palm. The same energy I felt when Noah touched me slithers through my skin. On its underbelly, a rune.

A crack echoes through the woods. A branch snapping?

I freeze. Straighten slowly. My spine tingles.

Someone’s watching me.

I scan the trees without turning my head. Nothing moves. No wind. No animals. Just that presence.

I pocket the stone, force a yawn, and stretch like I’m just out here clearing my head.

Then I turn casually, keeping my heartbeat steady, and walk back toward the firehouse. Inside every instinct I have is screaming.

Whatever lit that fire didn’t leave..

And now, it’s watching me.