Chapter 1

The muffler of the ‘68 Camaro was rusted through, a jagged wound of oxidized metal that promised nothing but headaches. To Kade, it was beautiful. It was a problem he could fix with a wrench and a blowtorch, unlike the rest of his life.

He lay on the creeper, staring up at the undercarriage, letting the smell of 10W-30 motor oil and stale rubber fill his lungs. It was a good smell. It was a grounding smell. It blocked out the distant, thumping bass of the pep rally happening in the gymnasium across the courtyard.

*Go Bulldogs. Fight, fight, fight.*

Kade snorted, wiping a smear of grease across his forehead. They didn't know what a fight was. They thought fighting was shoulder pads and whistles. They didn't know about mud, and silver-laced collars, and the sound a ribcage makes when it snaps under the pressure of a shifting jaw.

He rolled out from under the car, grabbing a rag to wipe his hands. He was eighteen, but his eyes looked thirty. He kept his hair long and messy to hide the scars on his neck, and he wore flannel shirts two sizes too big to hide the muscle density that marked him as something other than human.

He was Blackridge High’s resident ghost. The delinquent who fixed the teachers' cars in exchange for passing grades in English. The grump who sat alone at lunch and growled if you got too close.

He liked it that way. Silence was safe.

Then, the wind shifted.

The garage door was cracked open to let out the exhaust fumes. A draft blew in, carrying the relentless Pacific Northwest drizzle. But beneath the rain, beneath the pine of the surrounding national forest, there was a scent that made Kade’s blood freeze in his veins.

*Ash. Iron. Unwashed bodies.*

It was the smell of the Camp.

Kade dropped the wrench. It clattered loudly on the concrete floor.

His wolf, usually a dormant, depressed lump in his chest, surged upright, bristling. *Enemy.*

Kade moved before he processed the decision. He vaulted over the tool bench and shoved through the side door into the main hallway of the school.

The halls were mostly empty, the student body contained in the gym for the rally. But near the trophy case, three guys were circling a girl.

Kade recognized the guys. Varsity linebackers. Or at least, that’s what they pretended to be. Kade had smelled the wrongness on them since freshman year—scouts. Low-level enforcers for a pack he didn't recognize, planted to watch the student population for "talent."

And the girl.

She was backed against the glass of the trophy case. She was small, wearing a generic gray hoodie and jeans that looked thrifted. Her backpack was clutched to her chest like a shield. She had dark, curly hair that was frizzed from the humidity.

"New girl," one of the jocks, a blond giant named Tyler, sneered. He planted a hand on the glass by her head. "You missed the turn for the gym. Let us show you the way."

"I'm fine," the girl said. Her voice was steady, but her heart rate was spiking. Kade could hear it from thirty feet away. *Thump-thump-thump.*

"We insist," Tyler said, leaning in. He inhaled deeply, smelling her. "You smell... interesting. Like trouble."

Kade didn't shout. He didn't posture. He just walked up behind Tyler and grabbed the back of the jock's varsity jacket.

With a yank that relied more on torque than visible effort, Kade slammed Tyler backward into the lockers.

*CLANG.*

The sound echoed like a gunshot.

Tyler slumped to the floor, winded. The other two jocks spun around, eyes flashing with a hint of gold. They saw Kade—grease-stained, snarling, radiating an aura of pure, unadulterated hostility.

"Back off," Kade growled. It wasn't a suggestion.

Tyler scrambled up, his face red. "This isn't your business, grease monkey."

"It's my hallway," Kade lied. "You're blocking the flow of traffic. Beat it."

Tyler hesitated. He looked at his friends. They were predators, but predators knew when they were outmatched. And Kade, despite his lack of pack, smelled like a graveyard.

"Freak," Tyler spat. He shoved past Kade, signaling his goons to follow. They retreated toward the gym, casting dark looks over their shoulders.

Kade watched them go, his muscles coiled tight. Only when they turned the corner did he let out a breath.

He turned to the girl. "Stay away from them. They aren't what they look like."

He expected her to cry. Or thank him. Or ask for directions.

Instead, she looked up at him with eyes that were a startling, familiar shade of amber. She looked at the grease on his face, the scar peeking out of his collar, the way he stood with his weight on his toes.

"You got tall, 734," she whispered.

Kade stopped breathing. The world tilted on its axis.

Nobody knew that number. That was his designation. That was the brand burned into his mind for six years of hell.

He looked at her face—really looked at her. He stripped away the high school setting, the hoodie, the age. He saw the dirt, the bruises, the hollow cheeks of a twelve-year-old girl sharing a cage with him.

"Elara?" he choked out.

She gave him a grim, humorless smile. "Hello, Kade. I heard you were hiding. You didn't pick a very good spot."

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