Mark stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of his charcoal shirt.
Black pants.
Hair set—clean, intentional.
No scars visible.
He looked… normal.
Too normal for a night that already felt wrong.
From downstairs, his mother's voice drifted up.
"Mark? You ready?"
"Yeah," he replied, grabbing his phone and heading down.
Lucy looked him over with a soft smile. "You look good."
Ethan, on the other hand, squinted.
"Its a banquet right?" he said. "Held by the Cromvells?"
Mark nodded casually. "Yeah. Mr. Cromvell invited me. Said it's formal."
Ethan leaned back in his chair, unimpressed.
"And you're going dressed like that?"
Mark frowned. "What's wrong with this?"
Ethan stood, walked closer, and adjusted Mark's collar with practiced hands.
"Son," he said calmly, "if you're stepping into a room full of people who matter, you don't dress to be noticed. You dress to be taken seriously."
Mark hesitated. "Dad, it's fine—"
"Come with me," Ethan said, already grabbing his keys.
The showroom was quiet. Polished floors. Soft lighting. The kind of place where nothing was rushed.
Ethan moved with confidence, like a man who knew exactly what he wanted.
"No flashy cuts," he said to the attendant. "Classic. Clean."
They tried on a black coat—sharp shoulders, perfect length.
A straight-fit Korean black pant—structured, precise.
A tie, simple and dark.
With Black chelsea boots.
When Mark stepped out of the fitting room, Ethan stopped mid-sentence.
For a moment, he just stared.
Mark was taller than him now. Broader. The coat fit like it had been made for him.
Civilized.
Controlled.
Dangerously composed.
"You keeping the charcoal shirt?" Ethan asked.
Mark nodded. "Yeah."
Ethan smiled faintly. "Good choice. Shows restraint."
They paid.
No argument.
Back home, Mark dressed in silence.
The coat settled on his shoulders like armor.
Not protection—presentation.
Lucy looked up as he came downstairs and froze.
"Oh," she breathed. "Mark…"
Ethan cleared his throat, hiding his pride behind a cough.
"You represent yourself tonight," he said as they walked to the car. "Not me. Not your mother."
Mark nodded. "I know."
As the car pulled away, the city lights giving way to darker roads, Mark finally asked, "Where exactly is this banquet?"
Ethan's hands tightened slightly on the wheel.
"Old Cromvell estate," he said. "They call it a hall, but…"
He exhaled. "You'll see."
The gates appeared minutes later—iron, tall, ancient.
Beyond them, the estate rose like something untouched by time.
Not a palace.
A seat of authority.
Ethan stopped the car at the entrance.
Mark stepped out.
Before he could turn away, Ethan spoke.
"Whatever happens in there," he said quietly, "remember who you are when you walk back out."
Mark met his father's eyes.
"I will."
The doors closed behind him.
And the night began.
Mark stepped inside.
The doors closed behind him with a muted thud, and the noise of the banquet swallowed him whole—low voices, crystal glasses, polished laughter.
Then it happened.
One by one, heads turned.
Not dramatically.
Not openly.
Just enough.
Whispers rippled through the hall like a current moving through water.
"That's him…"
"The Swinton boy…"
"The one from the full moon…"
Some greeted him with polite nods. Others watched with naked curiosity. A few smiled like predators recognizing fresh blood.
Mark felt it instantly.
The air here was different.
Heavy with scent.
They weren't hiding it.
Every person in this palace was a wolf—and for the first time since he'd learned what he was, no one pretended otherwise. The musk of power, age, dominance pressed against his senses from all sides. It was overwhelming… and clarifying.
He recognized faces.
The Windsors—Anne among them, meeting his eyes with quiet relief.
A few men he'd fought a month ago—standing straighter now, avoiding his gaze.
Business leaders. Military figures. Politicians whose faces he'd seen on television.
Seattle's spine.
And every single one of them wasn't human.
Before he could process more, movement at the staircase drew his attention.
Harvy Cromvell descended with practiced authority, his presence silencing the nearby conversations without a word. His eyes locked onto Mark immediately.
A smile formed.
"Mark," Harvy said warmly, extending a hand. "You came."
Mark shook it. The grip was firm—testing, not hostile.
"Come," Harvy said, already turning. "The meeting is about to start. Upstairs."
No explanation. No option.
They moved past the banquet hall, past guarded corridors, up a staircase that felt older than the building itself.
The room upstairs was long. Narrow. Deliberate.
A single table dominated the space.
On one side sat eight individuals—men and women, all different ages, all radiating a restrained authority that made Mark's instincts tighten.
Wolves.
Not just wolves—leaders.
On the opposite side sat eight more.
Mark's skin prickled.
They weren't human.
But they weren't wolves either.
Their scent was wrong. Clean. Controlled. Like sharpened steel wrapped in skin. Their eyes tracked everything without moving their heads.
Hunters.
At the far end of the table sat a woman.
She hadn't spoken.
She hadn't moved.
Yet the room bent around her.
Power rolled off her in waves—ancient, absolute, unchallenged. Even Harvy's presence felt… smaller here.
This was the All Alpha.
The one Harvy had warned him about.
Her gaze met Mark's for a fraction of a second.
That was enough.
Harvy gestured calmly. "Your seat."
Mark followed the motion.
Next to a man already seated—broad-shouldered, composed, watching him with measured interest.
"Nicolas Windsor," the man said quietly, offering a nod. "Sit. Breathe. Don't speak unless spoken to."
Mark took the seat.
The chair felt solid. Grounded.
The doors closed.
And for the first time since stepping into this world, Mark understood one thing clearly:
This wasn't about welcoming him.
This was about deciding what to do with him.
That night, Iris lay on her bed, phone pressed to her ear. The lights were off. The house breathed around her—footsteps, doors, whispers—sounds she noticed more than usual lately.
Simon picked up.
"Okay," he said immediately, "tell me you're calling to say I'm not crazy."
"You're not crazy," Iris replied. "The principal is a werewolf."
A beat.
"…I knew this year felt off."
"And his son," she added. "Peter. I could feel it."
Simon frowned. "Feel it how?"
"I don't know," Iris said. "I just—knew. Like when you walk into a room and realize someone's been there even if it's empty."
Another pause.
"Okay," Simon said slowly. "That's… not a normal sentence."
"My driver knows too," she continued. "I tested it. He didn't deny it. He didn't even flinch."
"So," Simon said, "your school is run by wolves, your driver's in on it, and your mom—"
"I don't know about my mom," Iris cut in.
She sat up.
"But every time something like this happens… she's already prepared."
Simon hesitated. "Prepared how?"
Iris swallowed. "Like she expects it."
Outside her window, the trees swayed. She felt something stir—nothing dramatic, just awareness. As if the night itself was closer than it used to be.
Simon cleared his throat. "You know what's weird?"
"What?"
"You're not scared," he said.
Iris realized he was right.
She should have been terrified.
Instead, her heartbeat was… steady.
"I watched Mark change," she said quietly. "And I was shocked. Confused. But not afraid."
Simon exhaled slowly. "Yeah. That part still freaks me out."
"I keep thinking," Iris said, "that maybe that world doesn't feel foreign to me because…"
She stopped.
"Because what?" Simon asked.
She shook her head, even though he couldn't see it.
"Nothing," she said. "Just a stupid thought."
Simon didn't push. "You think they're hiding things from you."
"Yes."
"And you think you're connected somehow."
"…Yes."
Silence.
"Iris," Simon said carefully, "promise me something."
"What?"
"If you ever start glowing, growing claws, or hearing my thoughts—call me first."
She almost smiled.
"Don't worry," she said. "If something's wrong with me…"
Her gaze drifted to the dark window.
"…I think I would've noticed by now."
But even as she said it, she felt it again.
That quiet, waiting pressure under her skin.
Like something patient.
Like something that knew its time hadn't come yet.