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LYRA

L yra Ravenshade had never seen a town blush before.

But Celestial Pines? This place flushed with life.

The cobbled streets glittered under the late morning sun, as if dusted with crushed moonstone.

Tiny sparks of magic crackled in the air like static, ticklish, almost flirtatious.

The hanging flower baskets above the shops leaned subtly toward her like they were nosy neighbors hungry for gossip.

“Alright, Lyra girl,” she murmured to herself, hands braced on her hips as she stood in front of the squat little cottage labeled ‘Visitor’s Office—Moonlit Welcome Wagon’ , “this is your fresh start. New town, new job, and no more ‘accidental’ goat summoning.” She winced at the memory, shook it off with a flip of her auburn curls, and marched up the steps with a smile stitched stubbornly to her face.

The woman inside is Calla, her cousin and only thread of familiarity in this whimsical little town, waved her over with a herbal tea in one hand and a stack of keys in the other.

“You made it,” Calla said, her voice like a warm flannel blanket.

“Barely,” Lyra replied, exhaling like she’d been holding her breath the whole drive. “The map enchanted itself halfway through and started flirting with the GPS. I had to pull over and let them work it out.”

Calla chuckled, passing her the keys. “Celestial Pines does that. Magic gets… frisky here. You'll get used to it. Your place is the green cottage two blocks down, flowers in the chimney. You’ll be living above the apothecary with me.”

“Please tell me that’s not where you keep the graveyard herbs.”

“No promises.”

Lyra grinned, the tension in her shoulders starting to melt like butter on hot toast.

Calla tapped the final key. “And this one’s for Moonfang Keep. Your new job. Think ancient estate meets command center. The pack runs most of the region’s magical enforcement outta there. Old family property. Gothic with a side of grumpy.”

Lyra raised a brow. “Grumpy?”

Calla gave her a dry look. “You’ll see.”

That didn’t help.

Moonfang Keep rose like a shadow-stitched dream at the edge of town, perched on a pine-strewn bluff.

The building looked like it had been plucked from a fantasy novel, part stone fortress, part oversized hunting lodge.

Carved wolves lined the wrought-iron gate.

A wild garden tangled itself up the front steps, and ivy clung to the outer walls like it never wanted to let go.

“Cozy,” Lyra murmured, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. She climbed the steps with cautious optimism, inhaling the scent of pine, old stone, and something smoky that clung to the place like a memory.

Inside, the scent shifted, aged wood, ink, worn leather, and the faintest thread of wild. She stepped through the main hall and was greeted by… no one. The silence was dense, like the place was holding its breath.

“Uh… hello?”

A door creaked open down the hallway, and a woman poked her head out. Mid-thirties, hair twisted into a neat braid, glasses perched on her nose like they were judging you.

“You must be the new admin.” She eyed Lyra’s outfit, a floaty skirt, charmed rings, and a sweater embroidered with smiling mushrooms—as if unsure whether to sigh or laugh.

“That’s me. Lyra Ravenshade.” She offered her hand, which was thoroughly ignored.

“I’m Delia. I handle logistics and communications. Jace isn’t in yet.”

Lyra tilted her head. “Jace?”

“Alpha Montgomery. The one who signed your paperwork. He’s… well, don’t expect a warm welcome.”

Lyra blinked. “That bad?”

Delia snorted. “He’s not bad , just... prickly. Doesn’t like interruptions. Or change. Or noise. Which is unfortunate considering your application said, and I quote, ‘I bring a little chaos wherever I go.’”

Lyra flushed. “I meant good chaos. You know, the fun kind. Like spontaneous dance breaks and glitter storms.”

Delia wasn’t smiling. “Just… try not to touch anything. Or charm the filing cabinets. Last girl did, and one of them grew legs and ran into the forest.”

Lyra raised a hand in surrender. “Message received. Zero charm. Maximum discretion. Pinkie swear.”

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of settling in—figuring out the mail ward system (the letters bit back), learning where to file reports on magical disturbances (in a cabinet labeled “Cranky Werewolf Business”), and generally trying to stay out of everyone’s way.

She met two other staffers—Amos, the shy vampire who only worked nights and referred to her as “the chaos muffin,” and Petra, a dryad who watered herself at her desk every two hours and gave amazing gossip.

“So the alpha,” Petra whispered, watering her elbow vine. “Total lone-wolf vibes. Doesn’t date. Doesn’t laugh. Basically allergic to joy. I think he likes being lonely and bitter.”

Lyra tucked a curl behind her ear, pretending not to be curious. “Sounds intense.”

“Oh, he’s hot. Like, cave-you-up-against-a-wall hot. But cold. You know what I mean?”

She didn’t. But her face was burning.

Petra smirked. “Just saying, keep your wits. He won’t know what hit him.”

By mid-afternoon, Lyra had organized the entire magical archive room by hex category and mood. Her fingers were smudged with soot from a rogue burn scroll, and her head buzzed with spells, whispers, and… the sudden, bone-deep certainty that someone was watching her.

She turned toward the hallway and froze.

A man stood at the end of it.

He was tall. Towering, really. Broad in a way that made the hallway feel narrower. Dressed in dark jeans and a black henley that stretched deliciously across his chest, he had a face like carved stone—sharp jaw, dark brows, and storm-grey eyes that fixed on her like a snare.

Lyra’s mouth went dry.

He looked as if the mountain air had forged him, wild and cold and impossible to ignore.

He looked at her the way storms looked at ships, curious about how fast they’d sink.

And when he spoke, his voice rumbled like distant thunder.

“You’re in my office.”

Oh. Oh.

Jace Montgomery.

Alpha. Boss.

Definitely hot . Definitely not smiling.

Lyra’s heart tripped over itself. She managed a small, awkward wave.

“Hi. I brought muffins.”