THE CLAIMING (The Chosen Series #1)

TRICK OR TREAT

'The cold bites sharply, but beneath it, there's a numbing stillness that almost soothes. I'm lying here in the snow, my mind foggy and disconnected from my unfeeling legs. As exhaustion creeps in, my breaths come harder, and the sharp pain begins to dull, tempting me to just stop resisting and relax into the cold.

A sad whine breaks through the quiet, accompanied by a wet nudge against my cheek. I want to ignore it, to just sink into the numbness, but there's a persistent warmth calling out, gently pulling at the edges of my consciousness.

The nudges keep coming, more insistent now. Alongside the physical sensation, the warmth turns into a luminous glow, pulling me towards a vision of my mother, her image beckoning me towards her.

I try to shut it out, but curiosity wins. I barely open my eyes, and through the haze, I see a pair of bright yellow eyes looking down at me, set in a furry, black face with a tongue lolling out in concern.

Recognition dawns slowly, warmth spreading through the chill. I know you. You're my wolf.

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Pine, spiced musk.

Teeth on my neck.

"My Doe eyes."

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I awaken, finding myself alone.

"My Wolf."

Thoughts of him had long faded, vanished throughout the years. After my parents' accident, he was a constant presence, an imaginary companion accompanying me through the night when I closed my eyes. In those lonely moments, he became my family. But with time, as I began to heal, his visits grew less frequent, until they ceased altogether.

Why would I dream of him again? Why now?

The memory of last night's dream lingers as I make my way to Brady's.

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Stepping into the bar, I pause to let my eyes adjust to the dim lighting. The shadow of my hood doesn't stop the admiring glances and compliments that follow as I navigate through the crowd. Adjusting the ruffles of my skirt and straightening the leather corset, I'm still pleasantly surprised by the costume that awaited me at my doorstep earlier.

"Damn, Red, you look amazing," Liam calls out from his perch on a stool as I approach.

Flashing him a coy smile, confidence boosted, I take in his 1920s gangster attire. He looks as though he's walked straight out of a Peaky Blinders scene, perfectly embodying the style with a grey tailored frock coat and a matching flat cap, a nod to his Irish roots. His hair is slicked back, and he leans casually on an old-fashioned brass cane.

"Well, if I knew you'd come dressed like that, love, I might've picked a woodcutter or the big bad wolf," Liam purrs, giving me a thorough once-over.

"Wasn't it your pick?" I ask, having thought he chose the costumes.

Liam chuckles sheepishly. "Actually, no, lass. I just sent over your measurements to a family friend who picked it out."

Grinning, I curtsy playfully, lifting the edge of my Red Riding Hood skirt slightly.

Tipping his hat, Liam steps down from his stool and strides over to me, extending his arm. I link mine through his, feeling a rush of familiarity as our skin touches.