There are two Adrian Crosses: the one the rest of the world sees, and the one I did. To the rest of Northwood University, Adrian was a campus legend among mortals. He was the basketball team's star forward, the guy who moved like a predator and carried himself with a confidence that walked the line between arrogance and charm, but was tempered by a charisma so potent it was a physical force. Girls and boys would trail off speechless when he entered a room, their eyes tracking him with a mixture of awe and desire. He was all hard lines and lean muscle, with black hair that was always strategically messy and stormy weather-colored eyes that seemed to bore right through you. He was loud, bold, and unapologetically himself, and loudly so about being gay, a fact that he wore as comfortably as his team jacket. That was the Adrian everyone knew. The Adrian I knew was the one who, despite his fame, would spend a Friday night in our dorm room, listening patiently as I droned on about Renaissance literature, his long legs up on my cluttered desk, a real smile playing on his lips. He was the one who knew I hated loud parties and would find a quiet corner for us to talk, and create a bubble around us where the din of the world receded. He was my anchor, my confidant, my best friend since we were kids building forts in his backyard. I was the shy, bookish nerd; he was the sun. Since I was old enough to recall, my world had been defined by his gravity, and I had never once wanted to break free.

Recently, however, that gravity had begun to feel… different. More intense. Cracks were beginning to appear in the flawless surface of our friendship, tiny discrepancies I couldn't ignore. Sometimes, at strange times of night, he'd disappear without warning. I'd wake in the middle of the night to discover his bed empty, his sheets cold. He'd turn up just before dawn, stinking of pine and wet earth, with new scratches on his arms or a bruise forming on his cheekbone. When I'd press him for an explanation, he'd flash that disarming smile and tell me he'd taken a "late-night run to clear his head." A run? In the freezing mountain air at 3 AM? It didn't add up. Then there was his strength. I'd always known he was athletic, but what I saw sometimes was on the verge of the impossible. I once watched him laughing, casually heave the rear end of a professor's car that had gotten stuck in a mud pit, something that should've taken a tow truck, and he hadn't even broken a sweat. He'd just laughed it off, telling me it was all adrenaline. I wanted to believe him. I desperately wanted to believe that the predictable, comfortable universe I shared with my best friend was still in place. But a small, insistent voice at the back of my head kept telling me that I was fooling myself. And that lie was getting steadily more difficult to maintain, especially after what had happened in the campus quad on the Tuesday.

It was a dumb, predictable fight. I was strolling back from the library, books piled in my arms, my mind full of footnotes from medieval poetry, when Marcus Hale's goons decided I was the ideal target for their afternoon sport. Marcus, a senior with a sadistic streak and the Alpha of a competing fraternity—or so I had believed—stood watching from a distance, a smile on his face. His two goons, hulking football players by the name of Kevin and Josh, cornered me by the oak tree. "Look what we've got here, Blake," Kevin sneered, punching a book out of my hands. "Still got your nose in fairy tales?" I muttered something about leaving me alone, my face burning with humiliation. I hated fights; my fight-or-flight mechanism was always flight. I crouched to retrieve my book, and that's when Josh pushed me, hard. I staggered back, my other books scattering across the grass. Laughter burst out of them, harsh and mocking. I just stood there, paralyzed, a hot ball of humiliation clenching in my stomach. And then, a shadow fell across us.

"I think he told you to leave him alone." Adrian's voice was so even to the point of unnaturalness, but it cut through the air like a blade. This wasn't his carefree swagger; this was something else, something cold and wild. Kevin, at least thirty pounds heavier than Adrian, just laughed. "Butt out, Cross. This doesn't concern you." Adrian moved slowly forward, standing between them and us. The air around him seemed to ripple, to hum with an energy that I could feel on my skin. "He's with me," Adrian said, his voice dipping into a low rumble that was almost a growl, but there was an unmistakable command in it. "So it's my business." Josh, driven by sheer stupidity, pushed Adrian's shoulder. "Or what?" It was so quick that I almost missed it. Adrian's hand flashed out, closing around the wrist of Josh. It wasn't a slap, wasn't a punch; it was a simple clasp. But Josh's face went white, his eyes wide with shock and pain. A faint cracking noise filled the sudden silence. Josh emitted a strangled wail and dropped to his knees, cradling his arm. Kevin stood, his bravado instantly lost. Adrian didn't even look at Josh. His stormy gray eyes were on Kevin, and for a brief, fleeting moment, I swear I could see them flash with an almost golden light. He didn't bellow, didn't threaten. He just… looked. And in that look was a promise of violence so absolute that Kevin took a stumbling step back, dragging his whimpering friend up with him before the two of them practically ran. Marcus Hale, who'd been observing with his smirk, no longer wore his smirk. His face was one of calculating interest, his narrowed eyes not on his defeated goons, but on Adrian. There appeared to be a silent challenge exchanged between them before Marcus turned and walked away. The moment they'd vanished, the unsettling aura surrounding Adrian vanished. He turned to me, his face softening at once to one of pure concern. "Ethan? Are you okay? Did they hurt you?" He knelt down, his hands brushing gently at the dirt on my book covers as he picked them up. His touch was warm, his voice the familiar, comforting sound I'd grown up with. But I couldn't dispel the image I'd just seen. The cold calm, the impossible strength, the flash in his eyes. He stood up and put a hand on my shoulder, his thumb rubbing a soothing circle. My heart thudded against my ribs, a wild rhythm of fear and something else, something warm and muddled that overflowed in my chest whenever he was this close. "I'm fine," I managed to whisper, my voice shaking. "Thanks." He just nodded, his eyes burning. "No one gets to touch you," he said, and the finality in his voice sent a shiver down my spine. It wasn't a promise; it was a law.

The weirdness persisted that evening. We were both in my room, the only noise my pen scratching and the occasional faint clicks of Adrian's controller. But he was not playing. He was leaning against the window, his body wound up in tension I'd never seen him exhibit before. At around eleven, his phone rang. He looked at the screen, and his jaw clenched. He stood up, taking his jacket. "I'm going out," he said, his tone curt. "Just… for a run." My blood chilled. A run. I glanced from his tense figure to the black, frost-tipped window. "Adrian, it's freezing outside. Can't it wait?" He wouldn't look at me. He just took his keys, moving quickly and purposefully. "No," he said, his hand on the door. "It can't." And then he was out the door, leaving me sitting in the still room with the shadow of his lie hanging between us. I sat there for what felt like hours, the words of my textbook bleeding into meaningless symbols. I couldn't concentrate. I couldn't rid myself of the feeling that he was running headlong into a danger I couldn't perceive. Eventually, drawn by some unaccountable impulse, I stood up and went to the window and looked out into the darkness, in the direction of the dense forest that bordered the campus. The moon rode high and bright in the sky, casting long, skeletal shadows across the snowy grounds. It was then that I heard it. A sound that cut through the night, a long, mournful cry that was both beautiful and frightening. It was a howl. Not the sound of a dog, but something wilder, deeper, full of a raw power that raised my hackles and sent every hair on my body standing on end.

It was not a sound; I'd felt it in my own body, a deep primal call that had spoken the low, commanding growl I'd heard from Adrian only hours earlier. The howl built back up to crescendo, and one impossible thought broke the silence, taking my breath. That howl did not appear to call something forth; it appeared to be commanding something, and it was from the direction that Adrian had disappeared.

The howl faded into the heavy stillness of the night, but the sound was seared into my brain. It was a chord of raw, unbridled wilderness that could have no place on a college campus. My heart pounded against the cage of my ribs, a wild captive searching for freedom. I clamped my eyes closed, informing myself it was a coyote, or some large dog from one of the farmhouses far out. Sound traveled weirdly at night. It was a crazy, thin line of reasoning, and it snapped as soon as I cracked my eyes open and looked at Adrian's neat, vacant bed. He was out there, in the direction of that noise. It was not a guess in my mind. It was a hard, cold certainty that settled in the depths of my stomach. My breath caught. The confident, charming boy who had been my best friend for more than ten years was suddenly a stranger, a puzzle whose pieces were sharp and menacing. I stepped back from the window, folding my arms over my body as a shiver that had nothing to do with room temperature spread over me. I went over the fight in the quad, the forced calm of Adrian's tones, the barely-discernible golden flicker in his eyes, the nauseating snap of Josh's wrist. I remembered all the late-night "runs," the mysterious bruises, the forest smell that lingered on him when he came back home. They were not random events; they were hints, and they were all leading to a conclusion my logical mind did not want to make.

A minute ticked by, then another. The digital clock on my nightstand glowed 1:47 AM, every second dragging on like an eternity. I attempted to read, but the letters danced before my eyes. Each groan of the old dorm building, each muffled scream from a late-night party, made me leap with fear. I was afraid he wouldn't return, and still more afraid of what it would be if he did. What could I say? How was I able to look at him and not notice the shadow of that untamed, predatory noise? My mind went wild, imagining him getting hurt in the woods, or worse, imagining him being the one who did the harming. The door to our room was left open, as it always had been. A reflection of a faith now that seemed frighteningly foolish. At last, around 2 AM, I heard it: a gentle click as the handle was turned. The door opened, and Adrian slipped in, gliding with a silent stealth that was almost creepy. He closed the door softly behind him, and for a moment, he just stood there, his back to me, his shoulders bowed as if burdened with a heavy weight.

The first thing I noticed was the smell. It was powerfully overwhelming—the clean, sharp smell of pine needles and wet ground, but beneath that something else. Something metallic and coppery. The scent of blood. "Adrian?" I breathed, my voice a mere whisper. He jumped, not knowing I was awake. Slowly, he turned, and my breath was frozen in my throat. The moonlight coming through the window lit him up, and he appeared devastated. His face was pale and smeared with dirt, his go-to grey hoodie torn at the shoulder, and a dark, wet stain spreading across the material. His eyes, once so bright and alive, were shadowed with an exhaustion so deep it seemed to age him by years. But under the tiredness, there was something else burning in their depths—a crazed, haunted glance I'd never seen before. He noticed me looking at the dark smudge on his shoulder, and he automatically attempted to conceal it, yanking the collar of his jacket further across his chest. "Ethan," he croaked, his voice hoarse. "You're still awake." It wasn't a query.

I levered myself up from my bed, my legs shaky. "You're injured," I told him, disregarding his words. My fear was giving way to a rush of protective concern. It was something I couldn't prevent. He was my Adrian, and he was injured. "What did you do? Did you fight someone?" He laughed weakly, unconvincingly. "Something like that. Tripped and fell on a branch. I'm okay, really." A branch? That wasn't a scratch from a branch. It was too big, too deep. The blood continued to well up, seeping through the thick fabric of his hoodie. I went into the shared bathroom and retrieved our small first-aid kit, my hands trembling a little. By the time I returned, he was sitting at the edge of his bed, head in hands. He glanced up as I came over to him, a combination of gratitude and something I couldn't read on his face—fear? Was he in fear of letting me see the injury? "Here," I said quietly, my voice picking up a bit of strength. "Take off your hoodie. Let me clean it." For a moment, he stalled, his tempest-grays regarding mine. It was like a test. I stood my ground, attempting to condense the years of friendship between us into this one, wordless glance, a vow of safety that he was in my care. At last, with a heavy sigh, he nodded and gingerly removed the hoodie.

My gut contracted. It was worse than I had imagined. Inscribed on the hard muscle of his shoulder and chest were three deep, parallel cuts. They were deep, furious gashes, already red at the edges. They didn't resemble anything made by a branch, or a knife. They resembled for all the world like they'd been fashioned by claws. Humongous claws. The cry still lingered in my mind. I tried to push the idea away, making myself concentrate. My hands shook as I ripped open an antiseptic wipe. As I carefully dabbed the wound edges, Adrian winced in pain, every muscle on his body tensing up. "Sorry," I whispered. "I'm sorry." His skin was scorching hot to the touch, exuding a feverish heat that was unnatural. I labored in silence, wiping away the blood as best I could, my head a storm of questions that I didn't dare ask. As I pressed a big gauze pad into place, my fingers grazed his chest. A spark, electric and startling, traveled up my arm. His head jerked up, our eyes meeting. The air between us thickened, charged with an instant, smothering intensity. His tiredness receded, replaced by that same crazy energy he'd had before. His eyes were dilated, and in the dimness, his stare was so intense it seemed he could see all the secrets I'd ever held, most especially those that I kept from myself. The moment hung, timelessness and vulnerability, until finally.he broke away, staring off with a closed face.

He murmured his thanks and sprawled back on his bed, exhausted to a finish. In a matter of minutes, he was asleep, but it was not a restful sleep. He thrashed about, saying things I couldn't catch, his fists clenching and relaxing. I sat on my own bed, observing him, the first-aid kit still open in my lap. The fragments were all there, a nightmare mosaic: the strength, the vanishings, the struggle, the claws, the howl. It was all leading up to one, single, unthinkable truth. But it was crazy. Werewolves did not exist, were fairy tales that Kevin had teased me for reading. It wasn't possible. At last, tiredness got the better of me, and I slept fitfully, visions of dark woods and eyes glowing gold in moonlight dancing in my head. I woke up early the next morning. Sunlight poured in through the windows, everything looking as normal, almost taunting the fear of the night before. Adrian was still fast asleep, on his stomach, the covers having slipped off of his hurt shoulder. I glanced over, anticipating seeing the white gauze I had put on. But it was missing. It was on the floor at his bedside, unstuck. I squinted, my own heart starting to thud a slow, heavy drumbeat. His shoulder was bare. I could see the flesh, clear and unmarked in the light of day.

There was no wound. No redness. Not even a scar. The three deep, nasty lacerations that had bled so profusely only hours before had vanished utterly, impossibly, from existence.

My head jerked back, trying to refuse the impossible vision in front of me. I stared at the unbroken, unblemished skin of Adrian's shoulder, an area where, mere hours before, I had washed and bandaged three grotesque wounds. There was nothing. No line, no scab, no even faint pinkness of new tissue. It was as if the wound had never been. A figment of a nightmare. But I knew it had been. The rumpled, blood-stiffened gauze scattered on the floor was my proof. The metallic smell of it, faint but biting in the morning air, was my proof. The memory of his fever-hot skin in my trembling fingers was my proof. Reason, science, every logical rule I had ever been taught screamed that this was impossible. But my eyes would not lie. For my entire life, I had clung to comfort in the hard, verifiable facts of books. Now, the most inescapable fact in my universe was the one that made the least sense: my best friend was not human. The floor beneath my feet seemed to shift, the comfortable familiarity of our shared dorm room twisting into something strange and terrible. I was no longer just suspicious; I was afraid.

I moved as a robot, picking up the bloody gauze from the floor. It was cold and stiff under my fingers. I curled it in my fist as I stood there waiting for him to wake, my heart a cold, heavy weight in my chest. When Adrian finally awoke, stretching with a languid ease that belied the violence of the previous night, his eyes met mine. He smiled his easy, charming smile, but it faltered when he saw my face. "Ethan? What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost." His voice was husky with sleep, warm and familiar, but it did nothing to calm the fear twisting in my belly. I didn't reply. I just held up my hand and uncurled my fingers, showing him the bloodied patch. His eyes went wide, the colour draining from his face. The rest of the sleep was forgotten, replaced with a wary, panicked look. He sat up, instinctively checking his shoulder. "I… I don't know what you're talking about," he stammered, voice losing its confident tone. "I told you, I fell. It was just a scratch."

"A scratch?" My own voice was deeper than I'd anticipated, filled with a cold mix of fear and betrayal. "Adrian, I cleaned it. I saw it. Three deep slashes, like. like claws. And now they're gone." I advanced a step, my determination growing. "Don't lie to me. No more. The midnight excursions, your increased strength, what you did to Josh, the howl I heard last night. and now this. What are you?" The question hung between us, heavy and crushing. Adrian seemed stuck, his eyes scanning the room as if searching for an exit. He raked a hand through his hair, his breathing growing ragged. He gazed at my face, then at the bloody gauze, and back again, his façade finally cracking. A look of raw pain flitted over his face—the look of a man whose carefully built world was shattering. "Ethan, you don't understand," he begged, his voice falling to a pitiful whisper. "You have to believe me, I never intended to bring you into this. I was trying to protect you."

"Protect me from what?" I insisted, taking another step closer. "Protect me from the truth?" Before he could answer, his entire body tensed. His head whirled around to face the door, a low, animal hum vibrating through his chest. It was not a human sound. It was a growl, low and threatening, the same one I'd heard in the quad, but a hundred times more ferocious. His eyes, focused on the hall beyond our room, darkened, the pupils expanding until they were almost entirely black. The nice athlete had disappeared, replaced by a predator in high gear. "Get back," he growled, his voice a killing rasp. He leapt to his feet, interposing his body between me and the door in a flash of movement, his body a physical barrier. "Adrian, what is it?" I breathed, my own fear ratcheting up to a new, unacceptable level. He didn't answer. The door to our room, which we'd left open, creaked on its hinges.

Marcus Hale was in the doorway. He did not smile this time. His face was calculating and cold, his eyes projecting a palpable hostility. Kevin and Josh stood on either side of him, their faces set and unnervingly compliant, like dogs waiting for a cue. The room grew thick, charged with a unspoken violence that was raw and animal. This was not a visit from a fraternity adversary; this was an invasion, an invasion of space. "Cross," Marcus said, his voice smooth but threaded with steel. He let his gaze sweep the room before it came to rest on me, hiding behind Adrian. A flicker of something predatory and possessive flashed in his eyes. "You look awful. Bad night?

"Get out of my room, Hale," Adrian snarled, his shoulders hunched, his muscles contracted like a bunched rubber band. He was bigger than Marcus, but for a moment they were two forces of equal, horrifying magnitude. "This is my territory. You're not welcome here." Territory. The word was alien, animalistic. Marcus stepped deliberately inside, an open act of disrespect. His nostrils flared slightly. "I can smell him all over you," Marcus sneered, his eyes on me. "An Alpha who smells of a human… It's a weak smell. Makes you smell weak." Alpha? Human? The words were English, but they belonged to a language I didn't understand. I froze in place, as a quiet, primal war of wills raged between them. It was in their posture, the challenging tilt of their heads, the raw ferocity of their stares. This was a game of dominance, and I was somehow the pawn in the middle of it.

"What I do, and who I spend my time with, is pack business," Adrian growled, moving me further back behind him. "It has nothing to do with you." Pack. The word was a kick to the stomach. The howl. The claws. The impossible healing. It all fell into place, a picture so ugly and unbelievable that my mind let out a shriek of denial. Marcus gave a hard, humourless laugh. "When your vulnerability puts our entire kind in danger, it has everything to do with me. This human makes you irresponsible. The Elders are not going to be happy to hear about your fight last night. Or about how you can't even handle a few Omegas from my patrol without getting torn apart." He was referring to the wounds. The wounds he couldn't possibly know about unless he was the one who had given them to me, or paid someone to give them to me. The last piece of the puzzle clicked into place. This wasn't a rivalry. This was a war.

Marcus's cold blue eyes met mine over Adrian's shoulder, and the stark predatory hunger in them sent shivers down my spine. He wasn't looking at an individual; he was looking at a tool, a weapon to be employed against his enemy. "He has everything to do with it," Marcus reproved Adrian, his voice a deadly whisper. "You should have kept your pet on a shorter leash." And with that final, venomous warning hanging in the air, Marcus nodded again, the barest movement. He and his two silent enforcers turned and left, leaving behind a vacuum of cold fear. I stood there, shaking, back to the wall. The world had spun on its axis and broken into a million pieces. My best friend, the boy I'd grown up with, the boy I might even love, wasn't human. He was an Alpha. And his enemy, a man who now looked at me as prey, was another. I wasn't standing on the sidelines any longer, watching Adrian's secret life.

I was standing right in the middle of the hunting grounds, and I had just been marked.