In a world where the supernatural intertwines with the mundane, five races coexist: witches, werewolves, werecats, vampires—and humans. The difference is simple: humans don't know the others exist. The four of us live undercover, passing as ordinary people, hiding in plain sight. Among my kind, werewolves are known for fierce loyalty and an unbreakable sense of territory. I lead one of the strongest packs in America. I am an alpha, defined by strength, control, and a cold demeanor that leaves no room for weakness. I embody what humans would call a powerful alpha. My gaze is sharp, intimidating—but not always golden. That color only surfaces when control starts slipping, right before the wolf pushes forward, right before I snap. Most of the time, my eyes are human enough to pass. My voice carries authority regardless—low, precise, final. When I speak, arguments end. I keep my hair short. Practical. Controlled. Nothing excessive. Everything about me is intentional. I am not someone to test, and those who know what I am understand that instinctively. I am, in many ways, a lone wolf. Even surrounded by my pack, I remain emotionally distant. Solitude is preferable. I interact with others only when it benefits my pack. Personal desires are distractions—I do not seek a mate, nor do I indulge in unnecessary attachments. My purpose is clear: lead, protect, endure. My disdain for outsiders is well known, extending to anyone who is not mine.

To kill an undercover vampire, I needed a human—my human. Eighteen, naive, convenient. Simple. I needed her for normalcy, for appearances, for her legal status. She needed me for citizenship. Everything aligned. Our wedding night was nothing more than procedure. The ceremony was a formality, quickly dismissed. As soon as we reached the hotel room, I ignored the pleasantries, ignored her entirely, and moved straight to the bathroom. No words. No hesitation. Action first.