╭───────   ♱ · 𓆩🤍𓆪 · ♱ ─╮
.·:*¨༺ 𝐄𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧༻¨*:·.
☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏʏs ɴɪɢʜᴛ
( 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘔𝘰𝘰𝘯 )
@LILLYOFTHEVAIIEY
╰─ ♱ · 𓆩🤍𓆪 · ♱ ──────────╯

𝓝ova stood frozen for a beat after the door slammed shut, the echo of Paul's tires peeling out down the street still lingering in the air like smoke. The tension that had filled the house only seconds before hadn't dissipated—it had simply changed shape, shifted into something heavier. Something darker.

Luna stood in the middle of the living room, her chest rising and falling in erratic, shallow breaths. Her hand—still curved from where she'd gripped Embry's arm—was drenched in red. Blood. His blood. Still warm. So fresh it had stained her skin in streaks and drips that slid slowly toward her wrist.

She stared at it as though it wasn't her own hand. As though it didn't belong to her. Her lips were parted, and for a terrifying second, Nova saw it—that flicker. That glint of temptation. The smallest, cruelest twitch of her mouth like she was going to raise it to her lips and—

"No," Nova said sharply, stepping forward. "Luna—don't—"

But Luna didn't hear her. Or maybe she did and couldn't respond, because all at once her knees gave out and she crumpled to the floor. The blanket from the recliner pooled beside her like a fallen flag. She curled around herself, her bloody hand still held in the air as if even she was afraid to touch it.

Then the sobbing started.

"Nova!" she cried, voice cracking wide open. "Get it off me! Get it off! I don't want it on me—please—please—" Her breathing hitched, broke. "I didn't want to—I didn't mean to—Nova, please!"

Nova was already on her knees in front of her, grabbing a dish towel from the end table and yanking it over Luna's hand, wiping the blood with fast, firm strokes.

"It's okay," she murmured, voice low but steady. "It's okay. I've got you. You didn't hurt him. You stopped. You stopped."

But Luna wasn't listening. She was sobbing into her knees now, her other arm wrapped tightly around her legs, shoulders shaking like she was unraveling thread by thread. The towel was soaked through, the blood smeared now across Luna's wrist and forearm like war paint. Her nails dug into her own skin like she was trying to claw the thirst out of herself.

"I almost—I almost—Nova, what's wrong with me?" Her voice cracked on the last word. "He looked at me like I was a stranger. Like I was already gone."

Nova sat back on her heels and gently reached forward, pulling Luna into her arms. "You're not gone," she whispered into her hair. "You're still you. It's just... different now. But you're still Luna Mae."

"No, I'm not," she choked out. "Not to him. Not to me."

They stayed like that for a while—tangled on the floor, surrounded by the scent of blood and sorrow. The house was too quiet. The curtains swayed slightly with the wind coming through the barely cracked window, and outside, the clouds gathered thicker.

"You didn't kill him," Nova said again after a while, her voice low. "You didn't even bite him. That means something."

Luna didn't answer.

But the truth echoed in her head, louder than any words:

She could have. She almost did. And he knew. Somehow, he knew. And now... he was gone.

Nova slowly pulled away from Luna, just enough to look her in the eyes, her hands still cradling Luna's trembling shoulders. "They're those wolves," she said softly, her voice oddly calm in contrast to the storm in Luna's chest. "The ones from the woods that night. They're not just massive freaks of nature—they're shapeshifters. Werewolves. Or, at least, something like that."

Luna blinked, her bloodshot eyes widening. "Werewolves?" she echoed, disbelieving. "Like... the stories?"

Nova nodded slowly, her expression grim. "I didn't think they were real either. I mean, I've been around for a long time, Lu. And I've seen a lot of strange shit. But never them. Not until a few weeks ago."

Luna swallowed hard, still struggling to steady her breathing. "So... they're real."

"Yeah," Nova said. She leaned back, pulling her knees up and resting her arms on them, her voice dipping low. "One of them killed my friend. Laurent. In the forest. He was hunting a human, the one Victoria wanted. He thought maybe it would end it, and she'd let you go... well let's just say he didn't get very far."

Luna's heart—or whatever echo of it remained—squeezed. Her gaze drifted down to her still-stained hand, the blood dried now and cracking against her skin like something permanent.

She whispered, "So that means... Embry... he..."

Nova hesitated. "Yeah."

Luna's breath hitched. "He killed someone."

There was a pause, thick and aching. The words echoed through the space between them.

Luna stood abruptly, her chest rose and fell too fast for someone who no longer needed to breathe, her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. The scent of blood was still in the room, but it no longer tugged at her like a lifeline—it sat like a weight on her skin, heavy and shameful.

"I need to speak to him," she said suddenly, her voice shaky but full of resolve. Her eyes flicked toward the door as if Embry might still be there, as if she could still catch him before he disappeared.

Nova rose too, instantly, her voice sharp with panic. "What? No. No, you don't."

Luna turned toward her, eyes wild. "I do. Nova, he's not—he's not some monster. He came here trying to talk. He's still Embry."

Nova stepped in front of her, blocking her path with a rare flash of authority. "No. He's dangerous. He hurt you. He bled himself on purpose, Luna. That's not something people do unless they're trying to test you or trap you."

Luna flinched, the truth of those words cutting through her like ice. "He wouldn't trap me."

"You don't know that anymore," Nova snapped. "You don't know him anymore."

Luna's bottom lip trembled, her throat tightening. "But I want to."

Nova's voice softened, but it was still firm. "And I want to keep you alive. Or undead. Or whatever the hell this is. But going after a werewolf with a vendetta? That's not smart, Lu. That's suicide."

Luna's arms wrapped tightly around herself, as if she could hold all the chaos inside by sheer force. The blood on her hands had dried into tacky smears, and every time she looked at it, she saw Embry's face—his eyes wide, his arm bleeding, the way he didn't flinch when she grabbed him. The way he just... looked at her.

"I'm not going after him," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm not trying to fight or accuse or—God, I don't even know. I just—" Her voice cracked. "I need to understand. I need to hear it from him. Why he did that. Why he wanted to see if I'd hurt him."

Nova stepped forward, her green eyes glinting sharply through the contacts. "You already know why. Because he doesn't trust you."

Luna's jaw clenched. "But he used to. With everything."

"Yeah," Nova said gently, "when you were human."

Those four words felt like a slap. Luna staggered back a step, as if the truth physically hurt. Her spine hit the counter and she braced herself there, gripping the edge until her knuckles went pale.

"Everything's different now," Nova continued, more gently, but still unwavering. "You can't go chasing ghosts from your old life. You'll get hurt. Or worse, you'll hurt someone."

Tears shimmered in Luna's eyes again, but she blinked them away. "You don't get it," she said, her voice raw. "He was everything to me. And now I don't even know if I'm... allowed to care."

Nova's voice softened to a whisper. "You are. But caring about someone doesn't always mean going to them. Especially not when it could get you—or them—killed."

There was silence between them for a long moment, broken only by the soft hum of the fridge and the sound of Luna's uneven breathing. She wiped her hands furiously on a kitchen towel, desperate to get the blood off, even though the scent had already marked her.

Then, in a quieter, more broken voice, Luna asked, "Do you think I'm a monster?"

Nova reached forward, placing a hand over Luna's. "No," she said without hesitation. "But I think you're still figuring out what you are. And you can't do that if you're chasing after someone who's scared of what you've become."

Luna didn't respond. She just stood there, eyes locked on the front door—haunted, hungry, and hopelessly torn.

Luna's breath hitched, caught in the tangled mess of her throat. Her fingers curled tighter around the dish towel, knuckles going bone white as the words built up behind her teeth—sharp and desperate and undeniable. She stared at the floor like it might swallow her whole, like maybe if she looked anywhere else, she wouldn't have to feel it all at once.

"I love him," she whispered.

────୨ৎ────

The rain had started again around sunset, tapping gently against the cracked windowpane of Paul's bedroom. The world outside was a blur of gray and pine, but inside, it was the dim, warm flicker of the old lamp in the corner, the soft glow of the TV screen, and the occasional sharp sound of pixelated gunfire echoing from the old PlayStation One system hooked up with too many frayed cords.

Paul lay on his stomach on his bed, shirtless as always, one hand clutched around a controller and the other lazily nursing a cheap beer that he stole from his dad. His legs kicked slightly in the air, feet crossed at the ankles as he concentrated on his screen with the sort of laser focus that only came with half a buzz and deep, competitive rage. "Dude, I swear, if you camp that corner one more time—"

"I'm not camping," Embry muttered, his voice flat, eyes narrowed. "It's called strategy."

"You're hiding like a little bitch," Paul shot back without missing a beat, glancing sideways to see if Embry would rise to the bait. He didn't.

Embry was curled into the lumpy old bean bag chair Paul kept swearing he'd throw out but never did. He'd made Paul Lysol the thing twice before even sitting down, grumbling the whole time about "not catching athlete's foot." He had a beer too—lukewarm now—but he hadn't complained, just sipped it slowly like someone who wasn't drinking for the taste.

He didn't say much, but he looked better. Less haunted. Less... gutted. The redness in his eyes had faded, and his face was no longer soaked in the grief he'd been drowning in hours before. It was still there—deep in the lines of his mouth, in the quiet twitch of his fingers—but for the first time in days, Paul saw a spark of the old Embry flicker through.

"So," Paul said between bites of a stale protein bar he found on his nightstand, "you gonna tell me what that whole dumbass bloodletting plan was really about? 'Cause you almost got yourself drained like a Capri Sun."

Embry sighed, pausing the game and letting the controller drop into his lap. He stared at the flickering screen, eyes a little glassy from the alcohol. "I just... I had to know, man. I couldn't live in that limbo anymore. Not knowing if it was really her. Not knowing if I was crazy for still loving her or if it was really her in there. And it was."

Paul groaned and rolled over onto his back, covering his face with the beer can. "You're so in love it's actually nauseating. I can feel myself developing a rash."

Embry smiled faintly. "You hugged me earlier."

"I blacked out from secondhand trauma. That doesn't count."

Embry snorted and tossed a popcorn kernel at him.

They fell into silence again, the comfortable kind that only came after you'd cried your eyes out in front of someone and then passed them a cheap beer.

Eventually, Paul cracked one eye open and muttered, "You gonna puke later or should I put down a bucket?"

Embry shrugged. "Depends. Got any more of these?"

Paul smirked. "Bottom shelf. Behind the expired mustard."

Embry sighed. "You're disgusting."

"And you're sleeping on the floor. Welcome to boys' night. This is like normal routine for me and Jared."

Embry shuffled barefoot across the creaky wood floor, weaving around discarded weights and old sneakers as he made his way to Paul's mini-fridge in the corner—more rust than appliance at this point. He yanked it open with a metallic groan, grabbed two more lukewarm beers, and called over his shoulder, "Yo, can I get a clean pair of pajamas or something? I'm not sleeping in jeans, I've got standards."

Paul grunted from his spot on the floor, one hand still flicking buttons on the controller. "Yeah, top drawer. The one with the duct tape on the handle."

Embry nodded, twisting off a beer cap with his teeth as he crossed over to the dresser. He pulled open the top drawer—and froze.

Right there on top of a pile of mismatched gym shorts and old high school wrestling shirts was a crumpled brown paper baggy. Light, dusty, but definitely suspicious. Embry reached in and held it up by the corner like it might explode.

"Paul..." His voice was slow, disbelieving. "Is this what I think it is?"

Behind him, Paul paused the game, craned his neck, and squinted. "Oh, shit! That's where that went! I thought it fell behind the damn porch steps!"

Embry blinked. "You forgot where you stashed weed.... In your pajama drawer."

"I have a lot of hiding spots, man. I get creative."

Embry spun around, holding the bag up like evidence at a trial. "Dude, Sam would actually murder you if he found out about this. He'd go full Alpha Voice, drop you like a sack of rocks and then drag your sorry ass to AA for wolves."

Paul rolled onto his back and covered his face with a pillow, laughing. "Okay, okay! Relax! It's not even that much—probably dried out by now anyway."

Paul tossed the pillow off his face and sat up halfway, his brows lifting with exaggerated innocence as he eyed the paper bag dangling between Embry's fingers. "Besides," he added with a smirk, "Sam's not exactly a saint. You obviously didn't know him before he got the Alpha badge and the moral superiority complex."

Embry raised a brow, but Paul was already going.

"Swear to God, dude used to sneak out with Leah and get into way more trouble than I ever did. He's just lucky he phased first and got promoted to Alpha." Paul stretched lazily, his grin devilish. "And don't even get me started on Jared. That idiot used to smoke with me all the time. Pre-beta days. What Sam doesn't know won't kill him."

Embry looked down at the bag again, hesitant. "Is it still good?"

Paul shrugged, ever the connoisseur of chaos. "Might be. Might be dust. Might turn your brain into pudding." He smirked and leaned back on his elbows. "Why, Call, you wanna try it?"

Embry looked at the crumpled bag in his hand, then at Paul—lounging like a gremlin king on his floor, beer balanced against his stomach and smirk carved into his face—and let out a long, low sigh.

"Sure," Embry said finally, his voice dry. "Why not. Not like I haven't already made a string of incredibly questionable decisions today."

Paul whooped like he'd just won the lottery. "Now we're talking!" He sat up fully, his movements surprisingly nimble for someone who had just spent the last two hours flat on his stomach. He snatched the bag from Embry's hand and dumped the contents out onto the floor, grinning like a man preparing to unleash chaos on the world.

"Welcome, my friend," Paul said dramatically, "to the Lahote experience. Population: you."

Embry gave him a deadpan look. "I already regret this."

Paul ignored him, fingers moving with practiced ease as he pulled open a weathered Altoids tin that contained a few filters and rolling papers, nestled beside a single busted Zippo and a rogue guitar pick.

"Is that from Jared's old guitar pick?" Embry asked, raising a brow.

Paul didn't even look up. "Absolutely. He whined about losing it for three days. Called it his 'lucky pick.'" He snorted. "Guess his luck ran out."

Embry flopped down into the bean bag chair again, pulling on the pajama pants he'd stolen from the drawer and rolling his eyes. "You're actually a dick."

"Guilty," Paul muttered, tongue between his teeth as he rolled. "But I'm a generous dick. Look at this—craftsmanship. Artistry. Michelangelo's jealous."

A few minutes later, Paul struck the Zippo, the flame flickering warm in the dim light of the room, and lit the joint with a flourish like he was conducting a spell. He took the first puff, exhaled slowly, and then passed it to Embry with a grin.

"Your turn, Call. Prepare to become one with the beanbag."

Embry took it, gave Paul one last skeptical glance, and brought it to his lips.

"God help me," he muttered—then inhaled. He was fine for about five seconds, then he started sputtering coughing like a mess.

After a few minutes of coughing (and Paul laughing.) Embry leaned back against the beanbag, exhaling slowly as the joint passed back to Paul. The room was already beginning to smell like skunk and pinewood paneling—and Embry blinked up at the cracked ceiling, lips curving slightly despite himself.

Then he glanced toward the door, a flicker of worry breaking through the haze. "Wait—won't your parents care about the smell?"

Paul let out a sharp, unexpected laugh—one that didn't quite match the laziness of the moment. "What parents?"

Embry blinked, confused. "Uh... your parents? Like... the people who raised you?"

Paul paused, the joint halfway to his mouth. "Oh, shit," he said with a half-smile, rubbing the back of his neck. "I forgot we weren't really friends until, like, two days ago."

Embry snorted. "Yeah, those 48 hours of forced bonding really changed everything."

Paul shrugged, then took a hit before speaking through the smoke. "Well, okay, real talk: my mom left after the divorce when I was ten. Moved to Oregon with her new husband and two white kids named Bryce and Tanner. Haven't heard from her in years."

Embry's brows lifted, lips parting, but Paul just kept going like he was reciting a grocery list.

"And my dad? Oh, he's a world-class jackass. Thinks fatherhood means handing you a six-pack when you turn fourteen and yelling at the TV every Sunday and using punching as a way to discipline your kid. Probably off at a strip bar in Seattle right now, blowing what's left of our power bill money on someone named Cinnamon."

Embry blinked. "Jesus."

Paul grinned, bitter and bright. "Right? Real Hallmark Channel shit over here."

Embry opened his mouth, probably to say something sympathetic, but Paul waved him off. "Don't go soft on me, man. I'm not telling you for pity points. Just saying—nobody's home. Nobody cares. Smoke all you want. The only person I have to answer to is Sam, and if he doesn't know, it won't kill him."

Embry nodded slowly, letting the words sink in. It was weird—he never thought he'd feel empathy for Paul Lahote of all people (the guy who once threatened to body slam him into a cafeteria table sophomore year.) But here they were. Two messed-up kids trying to process love and grief and supernatural identities while passing a joint in a room that smelled like AX body spray and cheap beer.

"Still," Embry muttered after a beat, "Cinnamon, huh?"

Paul chuckled. "She's probably real nice."

Embry tipped his head back against the beanbag, eyes half-lidded, watching the ceiling spin just slightly. The joint had burned halfway down to a nub in his fingers, and the room felt like it was wrapped in cotton. Music buzzed faintly from the ancient stereo in the corner—some scratched CD Paul had dug out labeled "Rap Shit" in sharpie—and the smell of weed and cheap beer hung thick in the air.

Embry let out a low, stoned sigh. "Bro... imagine how cool it'd be to be in wolf form right now."

Paul, sprawled on his stomach with a second beer balanced on the floor and a mouthful of Goldfish crackers, turned his head toward him slowly, his brows raised in amusement. "Are... are my impulses wearing off on you?"

Embry grinned lazily, blinking at the ceiling like it held all the answers. "Like—think about it. The breeze in your fur. Running through the trees. Everything smells like a thousand times stronger. I bet we'd be able to smell a goddamn pizza from like five miles away."

Paul snorted. "Man, you're high."

"I am high," Embry agreed, grinning wider. "But seriously. I wanna go full mutt and just sprint through the forest right now."

The moment Embry suggested it, Paul's grin turned mischievous.

"You know what?" he said, slowly pushing himself up from the floor. "Screw it. Let's go full mutt."

Embry blinked at him from the beanbag. "For real?"

Paul stood and stretched like a cat, cracking his neck with a dramatic groan. "Yeah, dude. No one's home, no Sam to Alpha-voice us into submission, and I need to run off these Goldfish before I combust."

The late-night air hit them like a wall—cool and crisp, smelling faintly of pine, damp earth, and distant sea salt. It was almost sobering. Almost.

They jogged to the edge of the woods behind Paul's house, each step crunching against twigs and underbrush. There, in the dark beneath the trees, with moonlight slicing through the canopy in silver beams, they stripped down and phased.

The shift, even high, was automatic. Bones cracked, muscles contorted, and their bodies reformed in a flash of pain and warmth. But this time—it was different.

Embry landed in his wolf form with a thud, a massive mottled-gray shape shaking out his fur, and then he froze. Everything was... loud. But not in a bad way. The night burst into life around him. Crickets were a full symphony. Wind whipping through leaves sounded like waves against the shore. The distant hum of a car on the road was suddenly as clear as if it were pulling into the driveway.

And the smells—God, the smells.

He turned his head and barked a laugh. Pizza was a joke. He could smell someone grilling burgers on the far side of the rez. He could smell Paul's deodorant lingering in his fur, and the distinct scent of whatever cologne the gas station cashier wore earlier that day. Everything was cranked to eleven.

Paul—now a massive grey and tan wolf—trotted over and playfully shoulder-checked him.

'This was a fantastic fucking idea,' Paul said through the mind-link, his voice echoing with giddy static.

Embry pawed at the ground, tail wagging. 'Dude, the trees are breathing.'

'Okay, you're too high.' Paul barked.

'No, I'm serious. I swear that one just whispered to me.'

They both took off running—fast, fluid, and free. The wind streamed through their fur as the forest blurred around them. Each leap felt ten feet high. Each stride like flying. It was like seeing the world through a kaleidoscope—familiar but warped, richer, deeper. Their paws skimmed over moss and stone, dodging trees like it was nothing, their senses tingling and fizzing like soda pop.

'I'm gonna climb a fucking tree,' Paul thought.

'You can't climb a tree, you dumbass, you're a wolf.'

'I'm gonna try.'

'You're gonna die.'

But even that sounded funny. Everything did. The laughter echoed between their thoughts like static-charged lightning. It wasn't just a run—it was a cosmic, wild, adrenaline-fueled joyride through their own senses.

After about ten minutes Embry was sprawled across a flat boulder, limbs hanging off every direction like a ragdoll, his thick gray tail twitching every few seconds. The stars blinked lazily above them, framed between pine branches, and the night air settled heavy over the forest like a wool blanket. His wolf chest rose and fell slowly, heart finally calm after everything—finally quiet.

Paul, meanwhile, was dramatically rolling back and forth over a patch of moss, grunting with increasing frustration.

He then reared up, slamming his back into a tree on his hind legs and rubbing it like a bear would.

'What the fuck are you doing?' Embry asked, ears twitching.

'Scratching,' Paul growled. 'There's an itch on my back and these fucking paws are useless!'

Embry let out a huff of a laugh through his snout, but his thoughts had already started drifting—soft, spiraling—back to Luna Mae. The way she'd looked at him. The blood on her hands. The way it had hurt, like getting stabbed in the chest with an icicle made of guilt.

Paul's thoughts quieted for a second, then piped up, 'You're thinking about her again, huh?'

'No shit,' Embry replied, rolling his furry body onto his side. 'I basically carved my arm open like a Thanksgiving turkey just to see if she'd go full Dracula.'

'And she almost did.'

'Yeah.' A pause. 'But she didn't. That has to mean something.'

There was a moment of silence between them—well, as silent as two wolves could get with Paul still wiggling like a worm.

Then Paul said, 'Maybe we should... I don't know. Go see them again. Tomorrow. Like, apologize or whatever. Smooth things over.'

Embry blinked. 'Since when do you care?'

A beat passed.

Then—blurted, involuntary, and absolutely golden—Paul thought of her. Of Nova.

There was dead silence in the link. A full beat of stunned, cosmic stillness.

And then Embry erupted.

His massive gray wolf body flopped off the rock and started rolling through the moss and leaves like an idiot, howling with laughter in the mind link. He kicked his paws up in the air like a toddler throwing a tantrum in reverse, absolutely losing his shit.

'YOU IMPRINTED?!' he cackled. 'YOU?! ON A COLD ONE?! THE SAME GUY WHO CALLED ME CRAZY FOR STILL WANTING LUNA?! OH MY GOD I'M GONNA PISS MYSELF—WAIT I DON'T EVEN KNOW IF I CAN DO THAT AS A WOLF—'

Paul leapt to his paws, tail bristling, 'SHUT UP, CALL! YOU TELL NO ONE! I MEAN IT! NO ONE!'

Embry was spinning in circles now, panting from laughter. 'OH my god. This is the best day of my life. This is karma, this is beautiful cosmic justice. I'm gonna carve it into a rock—'Here lies Paul Lahote: Who Shit-Talked Imprints Until He Fell for a fucking vampire.''

'I will personally rip your tail from your ass,' Paul growled. 'And feed it to you. I swear to god, I'll use your femur as a chew toy.'

Embry flopped dramatically onto his belly, still giggling like a toddler. 'You love her. You totally love her. Does she sparkle? Do you wanna write her vampire poetry? Guess who's groveling now bitch!'

'I will murder you in your sleep, Call. Don't think I won't.'

Embry snorted. 'Sleep? Good luck with that. You'll be too busy writing 'Mrs. Paul Nova Lahote' in your diary.'

Paul lunged, snapping playfully at Embry's tail, and the two of them tumbled into each other like giant, fuzzy idiots. A perfect, chaotic mess of teeth, laughter, and the weirdest damn wolf bonding the forest had ever seen.

And for a moment, just a moment—it felt normal. Even if they were two very high, teenage werewolves in love with vampires (their mortal enemy.)

But hey, normals overrated.