Every Trial Day, Christopher and his childhood packmate, Emma, played the same old “I dare you” game they’d run since they were kids. “Remember the eighth grade?” Christopher leaned back in his chair with a grin. “I dared you to skip class, and you dragged me into the bathroom looking for a thrill. Then you flashed me that twenty-centimeter cock of yours.” He laughed louder. “That’s nothing. In college, I dared you to date the strongest male on campus, and you ended up snatching Grace’s boyfriend instead. You even showed me the sex tape afterward.” I stood in the doorway, my fingers curled tight around the gestation report. Five years bonded as mates, countless trips to the clinic, and today the runes on the test strip had finally bloomed gold. Emma’s eyes flicked over and caught me. She tipped her chin and said to Christopher, one word at a time, “Let’s make this year’s dare bite a little harder. Christopher, I bet you don’t have the fangs to announce our bond-pledge tonight, right here, in front of every guest.” The room burst into howls and whistles, the pack pounding on the tabletops. Christopher turned his amber eyes on me and laughed. “Why not? Wait for me.” He stood, locked his hand around my arm, and pulled me into the hallway. “Grace, the whole pack’s watching. Don’t sour the air.” His tone was easy, as if this were already some trivial little arrangement. “It’s just a Trial Day dare. Sign this contract dissolution tonight, and I’ll shred it by morning. I can’t back down in front of Emma.” I stared at the wolf in front of me. Five years. Five years of folding myself smaller, swallowing every “little game” he played with his childhood packmate. This time, I hid the report behind my back and gripped it tight. “But I’m pregnant.” “Grace, you’re unbelievable.” Christopher blinked, then threw back his head and laughed. “You’d actually make up a pregnancy just to keep me from winning? Fine. You win. That’s impressive.” Emma drew her words out, mocking. “Grace, it’s only a game. If you can’t bear losing, just say it. Using a baby as a shield is a little low, don’t you think?” “Exactly.” Christopher tightened his grip on my wrist. “Come on. The party downstairs is about to start. If we’re late, the press won’t have time to file the story.” He dragged me toward the elevator without a second of hesitation. Five years. Off the novels I’d written from inside our apartment, he’d built his media house from a single cracked desk into a publicly listed conglomerate. And every Trial Day, I’d swallowed the humiliations he staged for Emma. The ballroom downstairs was packed wall to wall. Christopher took a pre-drafted bond-dissolution from his lawyer and pressed it into my hands. “Sign. Before I declare for Emma, the press needs something to photograph.” I picked up the pen and looked at the signature line he’d already prepared. “Fine. I’ll give you what you want.” I signed it without a flicker. Five years of bonding ended like the punchline of a bad joke. The moment the ink dried, Christopher stripped off his jacket and slid into a tailored tuxedo. Emma pinned a white lace veil into the silver of her hair, the slim fox-ears at the crown of her head twitching in time with her smile. They’d even kept a full styling team on standby. I sat in the shadows and watched the two of them under the ring lights, brushes sweeping across their flushed, eager faces. Five years ago, on the day Christopher and I bonded, he wore a T-shirt and ripped jeans, his wolf-tail tucked roughly through a slit in the waistband. When I asked him to change, he said a true bond needed no ornament, that sincerity was the only ritual that mattered. Now, sheathed in a perfectly cut suit, he locked an arm around Emma’s waist and gave the cameras his brightest smile. The shutter clicked, freezing their grinning faces in light. A few minutes later, Christopher walked over to me, holding two diamond rings. “Baby, see that? I won again. Tomorrow morning we’ll get ‘rebonded.’ Don’t be angry. It’s just for the drama.” The nausea was so bad my legs barely held me. “Take me home,” I said, forcing the acid back down my throat. “I need to pack.” I reached for the passenger door. Before I could climb in, Emma slid past me. “Grace, just play along. Tonight Christopher and I are the ‘bond-pledged pair,’ so this seat belongs to me.” She yanked the door open and dropped into the seat. One sweep of her arm sent my cushion and my plush fox-doll tumbling onto the floor mat. Standing by the hood, Christopher gave me an apologetic shrug. I turned and started walking toward the curb to flag a taxi. Christopher jogged after me, threw the rear door open, and pushed me inside. “Stop sulking. Cabs don’t run this stretch. Sit down.” A cheesy bond-ceremony pop song poured from the speakers. Emma hummed along, and when the chorus hit she grabbed Christopher’s sleeve and swayed, the white tip of her fox-tail flicking against the leather seat. “I’m binding to you tonight…” Christopher sang the next line. They looked at each other and laughed. She uncapped a bottle of water, took a sip, then lifted it to his mouth. Like a freshly bonded mate, he drank from the bottle in her hand. “Your collar’s crooked.” Emma leaned closer to fix his tie, her fingers brushing the soft hair at his throat. Half her body pressed against him. Christopher didn’t move away. One hand stayed on the wheel; the other curled around her back. “Stop messing around. I’m driving.” The words said one thing. His tone said the opposite. I leaned back against the rear window. The nausea surged again. I closed my eyes and laid a hand over my stomach.
The moment we crossed the threshold, Christopher’s mother, Victoria, swept straight past me toward Emma. She caught Emma’s hand, opened a lacquered jewelry box, and slid the family heirloom onto her wrist — the silver wolf-tooth bracelet carved with their bloodline runes. It was something I had never been given in five years of bonding. I’d always told myself it was because i was a rabbit, i cannot to wear it. Now I understood. They had simply never accepted me into the pack. “Christopher told me everything. The whole thing is absolutely ridiculous,” Victoria said, her voice thick with indulgence. “Emma, darling, I always knew the two of you were marked for each other. If it weren’t for what happened back then—” I bent down to slip off my shoes, and our eyes met. She changed course mid-breath. “You were always meant to be his.” Christopher stepped between them. “Mom, it’s a prank. A Trial Day dare.” His mother gently patted Emma’s hand. “Well, personally, I hope this performance lasts forever.” Without a word, I walked straight to the bedroom and pulled out my suitcase. I’d barely folded two outfits before Christopher followed me in. “Grace, the whole pack is here. Don’t throw a fit now.” He dropped his voice. “Stay for dinner. Think of it as a warm-up celebration.” I shook off his hand and kept packing. “Tomorrow is the release for the final book in your Nightwalker trilogy. The whole team is coming. If you vanish tonight, the launch falls apart.” I paused. That trilogy had eaten three years of my life — countless sleepless nights tearing drafts apart and starting over from the first line. Before the script-rights transfer was fully sealed, a public split now would burn down everything I’d built. I closed the suitcase. “Fine. One meal.” Christopher brightened at once and walked into the living room to make his calls. I told myself this would just be a farewell dinner with the team. Not long after, Emma drifted to the kitchen doorway, leaning elegantly against the frame, swirling a glass of red wine. The tip of her white fox-tail curled lazily around her ankle. “Grace, since you’ve already signed the dissolution, the least you can do is play hostess one last time before you leave.” “Christopher runs himself ragged keeping the company afloat. You spend your days at home, scribbling away. The least you can do is help entertain the guests.” Christopher sat on the couch sipping his tea, silent. More than half of Apex Global Media’s core holdings — including the script concepts the major film studios fought to acquire — had been written line by line by me, inside this very apartment. And now, in her mouth, I had become dead weight who merely “scribbled away” at home. Victoria added her own voice. “The housekeeper has the day off. Darling, lend a hand. The guests will be at the door soon.” I didn’t want the team’s last memory of me to be a snarling match, so I rolled up my sleeves and walked into the kitchen. My stomach was still churning, and a dull ache twisted through my lower belly. I prepped the ingredients, watching the flame carefully before pouring oil into the pan. Emma hovered the whole time like a kitchen overseer. “Don’t use too much wine. Christopher can’t handle heavy tannins. Use the baby carrots for the side. Don’t make it look like some hill-country doe’s stew.” The editors began trickling in. Jamie, one of the junior editors, finally couldn’t stand it anymore. He pushed up his sleeves and started rinsing the greens, his retriever-ears flat with irritation against the back of his head. Emma stopped him with a polite, sharp little smile. “Sorry, Jamie. Touching things at someone else’s private party isn’t exactly proper etiquette for an editor. Are you trying to embarrass me in front of the guests?” The tips of Jamie’s ears flushed red, and he retreated to the living room. I set the final dessert delicately at the center of the long dining table. The doorbell rang just as I untied my apron. Emma ran for the door, and several delivery men hauled in massive insulated crates. “I figured Grace’s home cooking might not be refined enough for everyone’s taste,” Emma said, directing them to unpack. “So I went ahead and used Christopher’s card to order Michelin-star foie gras with black truffle, and caviar tarts.” The table filled quickly with extravagance. Without changing expression, Emma picked up the bowl of beef noodles I had just finished and dumped it into the trash to make room for her starred dishes. Christopher didn’t even look up. He handed her a wet wipe to clean her hands. “You’re always so thoughtful.” I took a step forward, and someone caught my sleeve. Jamie pushed his phone into my hand, his voice barely above a whisper. “Grace… look at this.” It was a cover proof sent to Jamie for review. Above my name, “Grace Quinn,” a second name had been added. “Emma Hart.”
I snatched the phone and held it up in front of Christopher. “Explain this. What is this?” Still smiling, Christopher came over, his tone so easy it was almost cruel. “Grace, my mistake. I forgot to mention it.” “I want you to share the byline with her. I already gave her my word. You love me, don’t you? You’ll grant such a small request, won’t you?” “That’s three years of my work. Why should I hand half of it to her?” My voice shook before I could lock it down. “You think you did all this alone?” Christopher raised his voice, though his tone still aimed for sincerity. “This was the whole team’s effort. Besides, Emma is a gifted writer I’ve been grooming for a long time. I’ve already poured massive resources into her. She just needs one successful book to rise overnight.” “So you’re using my work as her stepping stone?” Christopher finally lost patience. “Grace, stop being ungrateful. Every one of your books became a bestseller because I spent money pushing them to the top of every list. Without me, you’d be nothing in this industry. All I’m asking is for you to mentor a newcomer. What’s the big deal?” I stood up and looked him full in the face. “The copyright belongs to me. You have no right to put her name on it.” Emma walked over and wound herself around Christopher’s arm, her voice silk. “Darling, the food’s getting cold. Everyone’s waiting.” Christopher patted her hand, then looked at me. “Let’s eat first. We’ll deal with it tomorrow.” I ignored everyone at the table, grabbed my keys, and walked out. By the time I reached the company tower, massive banners had already been hung the length of the lobby. Eighty percent of every display featured Emma — glamour portraits, a polished biography, juicy gossip about her and Christopher. My name had been pushed into a tiny corner. Marcus, the creative director and one of Christopher’s old running mates, lounged in his chair smoking, his lynx-ears half-flattened in boredom. “Grace, nothing I can do. Christopher called personally, had us working through the night. Besides, you’re all the same pack anyway. Does it really matter whose name is on top?” A chill ran the full length of my spine. Christopher’s “we’ll deal with it tomorrow” had been a stalling tactic, nothing more. I drove back to the apartment. The dinner guests had gone. Christopher and Emma sat on the couch watching television. “You had no right.” I stormed across the room. “That belongs to me.” Christopher didn’t even turn his head. “I’ll say this one more time. We’re only borrowing your name for a while. Once Emma is established, we’ll switch it back in the next edition.” Emma’s eyes reddened on cue. “Grace, this is all my fault. I won’t write anymore. Give the book back. I only wanted to help Christopher. He works so hard…” “This has nothing to do with you.” Christopher pulled her against him, protective. He looked up at me. “Promoting Emma is the company’s strategy. I hope you can be mature about it and stop treating it like a personal slight.” “I’ll say it again. The copyright is mine.” “Since you want to talk about rights so badly, Emma is my bonded mate now.” He pointed at the door. “If you can’t learn to muzzle yourself, maybe you should leave.” I yanked the dissolution out of my bag and threw it at his face. “I was already leaving tonight. There’s nothing left to sort out.” The papers caught him squarely across the nose. “So you do have a spine after all.” He covered his nose, fuming. “Since you’re so eager to walk out with nothing, I’ll freeze every joint account and credit card under your name. Right now.” He called building security. Two guards appeared at the door, clearly uneasy, their bear-ears pinned back with discomfort. Christopher pointed at me. “My contract with this woman is already dissolved. She came here to harass my mate and me. Get her out.” They locked their hands around my arms and dragged me toward the exit. “Grace, without me, you won’t last a week.” Christopher’s voice chased me down the hall. “I’ll wait for you to come crawling back tomorrow, begging me to rebond. As for the book — consider it your bonding gift to Emma.” The door slammed behind me. I stumbled on the curb and fell hard into a puddle of muddy water, my palms and knees sinking in. I pushed myself up, one hand braced over my stomach, and started walking toward the road. A van swung around the corner at full speed. Brakes shrieked through the night. Out of control, it came hurtling straight at me.
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