Chapter 1: The Storm and the Growl at Her Door
The storm outside was a living thing—howling, clawing at the windows like a beast trying to get in. Harper had just settled into the familiar rhythm of rain against glass, the steady *drip-drip* of water from the leaky ceiling into the bucket she’d placed beneath it, when the knock came.
Not a knock. A *pound*. A fist against wood, hard enough to rattle the door in its frame.
She froze, her fingers tightening around the spine of the book she’d been reading. *The Werewolf in the Attic*. A joke, really. A fucking *joke*. Because the last thing she needed was to be reminded of—
Another pound.
Harder this time. The door shuddered, and Harper’s pulse kicked into a sprint.
“Go the fuck away,” she muttered under her breath, setting the book down with a sharp *thwack*. She didn’t need to ask who it was. The scent of damp earth, pine, and something darker—something *wild*—had already seeped under the door, curling around her like smoke.
Knox.
She should’ve known.
Harper exhaled through her nose, sharp and frustrated, and stomped toward the door. The wood was cold beneath her bare feet, the storm outside making the apartment feel like a cave. She yanked the door open just enough to glare at him through the crack.
Knox stood there, soaked through, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his amber eyes burning like coals in the dim light of the hallway. Rainwater dripped from his jawline, tracing paths down his throat and disappearing beneath the collar of his sodden black shirt, which clung to the hard planes of his chest like a second skin.
“Harper,” he growled, his voice rough and low, vibrating through her like a physical touch. The sound of it made her stomach clench.
She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared at him, her fingers tightening around the edge of the door.
She wanted to slam it. Wanted to tell him to go to hell. Wanted to scream that he didn’t get to just show up here like this—dripping, dangerous, *alive*.
And God help her, she wanted to reach out and touch him.
The rain hammered the roof, the glass, the pavement outside. The world was a blur of water and wind, but none of it so loud as the pulse of blood in her throat, the heat blooming low in her belly.
Knox didn’t wait for her to speak. He didn’t give her a chance.
His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around the doorframe with a force that made the wood groan. The scent of him—wet fur, storm-soaked earth, and something darker, something *hungry*—hit her like a punch to the gut. He leaned in, his chest brushing against the door, his breath hot against her face.
“You don’t get to run from this,” he growled, his voice a low, guttural rasp that sent a shiver down her spine. “You don’t get to run from *me*.”
Harper’s breath hitched. She should’ve slammed the door. Should’ve told him to fuck off.
Should’ve slammed the door in his face, locked it, and pretended she didn’t hear the way his voice scraped against her bones like a match striking flint.
But she didn’t.
Because the second his fingers curled around the doorframe, the second his breath ghosted over her lips—hot, wet, *hers*—her body betrayed her. A shudder ran through her, sharp and electric, and her nipples tightened against the thin fabric of her tank top.