Growing up in the orphan den, I spent countless days painting under the open sky, imagining a life far beyond the iron gates and stone walls that held me in. I longed for a mate or a pack elder who might recognize my potential, take me in, and help me follow my passion for art. My greatest desire was to become a renowned painter, to claim a den of my own where my creations could roam free.
Then, after I graduated from the den’s schooling, a matriarch offered me a rare opportunity. She would sponsor my studies at the Rhode Island School of Design, one of the most prestigious art academies among humans.
But there was a condition. I would have to bond with her son, Lorenz, a lone wolf five cycles older than me, still reeling from the loss of his former mate, Emily, who had left for Paris to refine her shapeshifting skills and social standing.
I hesitated. I was only eighteen, and Lorenz was twenty-three. “Does he…does he know about this?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes,” she said, softening her gaze. “He agreed.”
Grateful and burdened by duty, I accepted. Her kindness had been a beacon in my confined life, and I could not turn away.