Chapter 70

[ 1,582 words ]

Iris barely remembered the journey home. She remembered the sensation of running—not just the movement, but the frantic, rhythmic drumming of her heart against her ribs, echoing the frantic strike of her sneakers on the pavement.

The cold autumn air had felt like needles against her cheeks, stealing the breath from her lungs, yet she hadn’t slowed. She had crossed the street in a blind haze, the sudden, jarring blast of a car horn snapping her back to reality just long enough to avoid a collision, but the moment she was clear, the panic reclaimed her.

By the time she reached her apartment, her coordination had deserted her. Her keys rattled violently in her shaking hand, clattering against the lock twice before she finally managed to force the door open.

She stumbled inside and slammed the door shut, the sound echoing through the small space like a gunshot.

She leaned her back against the wood, sliding down slowly until she hit the floor. Her chest rose and fell in jagged, uneven heaves. For several minutes, the only sound in the room was the whistle of her own labored breathing.

The apartment was exactly as it had been that morning. The familiar slouch of the couch, the coffee table cluttered with textbooks, the half-finished bottle of water sweating beside the television.

It was a sanctuary of normalcy, yet Iris felt as though she had stepped across an invisible border into a world where the rules of physics and biology no longer applied.

She pushed herself up, moving through the living room in a trance, her movements mechanical. When she reached the bedroom, her bag slipped from her shoulder, hitting the floor with a heavy thud. She didn’t notice. The moment she crossed the threshold, her legs finally gave out.

Iris collapsed onto the floor beside her bed, pulling her knees tightly against her chest. Her fingers drifted instinctively to the mark on her neck. It felt warm—pulsing with a low, rhythmic heat that seemed to synchronize with her heartbeat.

It was a brand, a secret written in flesh, and the realization that Alexander had known the meaning of it while she had remained in the dark felt like a physical weight pressing down on her lungs.

What had she seen? What had she actually seen?

For the past two weeks, she had been trying to convince herself that the strange things happening around her had perfectly reasonable explanations.

The mark on her neck. Her inexplicable attraction to Alexander. The way her body reacted to him. The strange dreams. The intensity she felt whenever he touched her.

She had told herself there had to be an explanation….There had to be.

But there was no rational explanation for the way a man’s skeletal structure could shift in seconds, for the golden glow of eyes that didn’t belong to a human, or for the effortless, terrifying strength required to lift a grown man off the ground with a single hand.

The click of the front door announced Zoey’s arrival.

“Hey, Iris! You will not believe the drama on the campus pulse—I have something—”

The voice cut off abruptly. Zoey appeared in the doorway, her expression shifting from excitement to sheer alarm in a heartbeat. She stared at Iris—disheveled, pale, huddled on the floor like a wounded animal.

“Iris?” Zoey hurried across the room, dropping to her knees beside her. She reached out, her hands hovering tentatively before gripping Iris’s shoulders. “What happened? My god, you’re shaking. Did someone hurt you? Tell me who it was.”

Iris looked up, her eyes wide and unfocused. She tried to speak, but her throat felt as though it were filled with glass. Zoey’s grip tightened, her voice becoming more urgent.

“Iris, you’re scaring me. Look at me. You look like you’ve seen a ghost—or a murderer. Just breathe and tell me what happened.”

Iris swallowed hard, the heat of the mark on her neck flaring. “I saw something… worse than a ghost.”

Zoey didn’t press. She simply shifted, sitting cross-legged beside her, giving Iris the silence she needed to find her voice. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, until Iris finally whispered the words that felt like a confession of madness.

“Jason is a werewolf.”

Zoey blinked. She didn’t move, didn’t gasp; she simply stared at Iris with a look of profound confusion. Slowly, she tilted her head to the side.

“I love you, Iris, I really do,” Zoey said carefully, her voice laced with a gentle, concerned irony, “but I think whatever happened at the university today has officially broken your brain. Like, completely shattered it.”

A faint, humorless laugh escaped Iris’s lips, sounding more like a sob. “I wish it had. I really wish I was just losing my mind.”

Zoey’s amusement evaporated. She sat back on her heels, her brow furrowing. “Iris, look, I know we talked about the supernatural. I know I brought up werewolves when we were obsessing over that mark on your neck, but I was trying to make you laugh. I was leaning into the fantasy of it all. I didn’t actually believe—”

“Jason, Finn, and Shawn,” Iris interrupted, her voice gaining a fragile strength. “They’re all werewolves….all of them.”

Zoey stopped mid-sentence.

Iris looked down at her hands, her voice trembling. “I saw it. I saw Jason change.”

The words began to pour out now, like a floodgate opening. She described the confrontation outside Alexander’s office, the way the air had felt charged with static, and the sudden, violent shift in Jason’s demeanor.

“The skin around his face… it didn’t just move, it tightened, like something was pushing from the inside,” Iris murmured, her gaze distant. “And his eyes… they weren’t brown anymore. They turned gold. Not a reflection of light, Zoey, but a glow. Like there was a fire burning behind his pupils.”

Zoey’s lips parted, her skepticism beginning to waver as she watched the genuine terror in Iris’s eyes.

“And then his teeth,” Iris continued, her fingers brushing her own lips. “His canines lengthened, turning into fangs. His nails… they became claws, black and sharp. Veins started standing out across his face and neck, pulsing. He didn’t look like a man wearing a mask; he looked like a predator that had finally stopped pretending to be human.”

Zoey sat very still, her breathing slowing.

“Shawn and Finn changed too,” Iris added. “Not as fully as Jason, but enough. The way they stood, the way they smelled… it was visceral. They’re werewolves, Zoey. It’s real.”

Zoey rubbed both hands over her face, a long, slow gesture of mental recalibration. “Okay.”

Iris frowned. “What do you mean, ’okay’?”

“No, no, it’s not ’okay,’” Zoey corrected, dropping her hands and staring at her friend. “I’m just trying to decide if I should be terrified, fascinated, or if I need to call a priest because my best friend has discovered that Seattle is apparently the capital of the supernatural world.”

Iris managed a small, weak smile. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Zoey shifted closer, her expression turning clinical, the researcher and hacker in her taking over.

“Okay, let’s start from the absolute beginning. I want every detail. Don’t skip anything because you think it sounds insane. At this point, if you tell me one of them grew wings and flew through the ceiling, I’ll just add it to the notes.”

Iris hesitated. There was a part of the story that made her stomach twist—not with fear, but with a confusing, lingering heat.

“It started with Alexander,” Iris began. “He showed up at the university today as the new strategic course professor.”

Zoey rolled her eyes. “I know. The Campus Pulse has been in a state of total meltdown since 9:00 AM. I’ve been tracking the threads all morning.”

“Right.” Iris nodded, her voice dropping. “He called me into his office. We… we talked for a while. He was angry that I’d run away from his penthouse, but the argument just… it turned into something else. We ended up having sex. Right there, in the office.”

As the words left her mouth, a deep blush crept up Iris’s neck, coloring her cheeks. She looked away, unable to meet Zoey’s gaze.

Zoey’s jaw practically hit the floor. “You…what? In the office? On a Monday?”

Iris closed her eyes. “Zoey, please.”

“No, hold on! You actually slept with Alexander Grant—the man who owns half the skyline—in a university office, which happens to be Professor Whitmore’s office?”

“Actually Whitmore gave the office to him, and he redecorated it to his liking. With soundproofed walls, expensive leather chairs and comfortable couches.”

Zoey stared at her speechless. “I cannot believe this. The quietest girl in the department finally loses it and decides the billionaire CEO is her kind of ’bad decision.’ Iris, you are a dark horse.”

Iris covered her face with her hands, her voice muffled. “It wasn’t supposed to happen. It just… happened.”

Zoey gave her a pointed look. “Neither are most pregnancies, honey.”

“Zoey!”

“Fine, fine! I’m listening!” Zoey raised her hands in surrender. “Continue. Please, tell me more about the billionaire’s office furniture.”

Iris rolled her eyes at Zoey’s dramatics and sighed, leaning her head back against the bed. “I fell asleep afterward. I don’t know how long—maybe five hours. When I woke up, Alexander was still there. We had agreed I’d leave separately so people wouldn’t start talking, but when I opened the door… Jason was waiting.”

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