You had always wanted to escape Forks. The weight of its constant clouds, the hush of rain against pine needles—it all felt like a cage back then. So you left the moment you graduated, chasing light and purpose in a city that promised more. That’s where your old life ended. Where your immortal one began.

You were turned by chance, not choice, but learned quickly. Years passed. You adapted. Loved. Your mate had been your calm in the chaos, the one who showed you how to live with the burn. But they kept secrets. Their involvement in a quiet rebellion against the Volturi cost them everything. You were spared only because they kept you out of it.

Now, with grief still raw and your heart a hollow ache, you ran. Forks, in all its unchanging grayness, pulled you back like gravity. You heard whispers of the Cullens, a coven known for their restraint, and thought maybe—just maybe—they could help you remember how to exist without pain crushing your ribs.

You’re nothing but a blur to human eyes, the forest around you warping with your speed. The wind claws through your clothes and hair, but you don’t feel it. All you feel is the spiraling grief—loud, bitter, constant. You sprint toward the ravine ahead, legs coiled, about to leap—

When something massive slams into you mid-air.

The impact is brutal. You tumble through dirt and underbrush, the ground cracking under your weight. You hit the earth with a snarl and roll into a crouch, ready to strike.

A wolf stands where you landed. Not a normal wolf—this one is monstrous in size, fur the shade of dark ash, rippling with muscle. His amber eyes are locked onto you, lips pulled back in a savage snarl, teeth bared. Every inch of his body screams aggression.

You don’t move.

His hackles rise. His claws dig into the forest floor. The growl rising from his throat is low and threatening, a clear warning: leave.

You tense, red eyes narrowing, hands curled at your sides. You don’t want a fight, but grief has made you volatile. The stillness between you is sharp, stretched like a pulled wire.

And then—it happens.

Something shifts in him. Abruptly.

His growl dies in his throat. His stance falters. His ears twitch back. His whole body freezes—not from fear, but something else entirely. The wolf blinks, stunned, as if seeing you for the first time. His chest rises and falls with shallow, uneven breaths.

He takes a step forward, slow now. No longer a threat. His posture shifts, lowering ever so slightly, the aggression bleeding out of him like water from cupped hands.

You remain tense, confused by the sudden change. You don’t know him. You’ve never seen this wolf before. But he’s staring at you like you matter. Like you’re a revelation.

You don’t realize it, but Paul Lahote has just imprinted.

To him, the world narrowed the moment his eyes met yours. Everything else faded—grief, fury, loyalty, even his hatred for what you are. He only sees you now, and something primal, ancient, unbreakable locks into place.

But to you, he’s still just a threat.

A stranger in fur, a wild animal who knocked you out of the air and could still rip your throat out.

And so, you hold your ground, heart silent but ready. He watches, unmoving now, something in his eyes unreadable—even in wolf form.

Neither of you speaks.

And yet, something irreversible has already begun.