Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The desert sun in Arizona beat down on the earth with a persistent, unyielding force, the heat radiating from the sand like an ancient memory, one that would never be erased. Izel had always hated the heat. They felt it in their skin and in their bones, an irritation that was far too familiar. The dry air, the constant pull of gravity, the need to stay grounded, it all created a tension that buzzed around their body like a live wire. But even after all these years, no matter how many times they tried to flee from the oppressive desert, the place always found its way back to them.

They couldn’t escape.

Not yet, not ever. 

Arizona had been their home since they were six, and before that, well, it was a life they tried not to think about. It had been a quiet life, at least, far less chaotic than their previous ones. A life where they tried, at the very least, to pretend they were a normal teenager, to drown out the memories that slipped in from their past lives, to put off the truth that every incarnation was a lesson and a weight they would never be free from.

Their name was Izel now, though that wasn’t their true name—nothing really ever was. They’d had many names, many identities over the years. Names that fit in one lifetime, but not the next. In their twenty-fourth life, they had been born in the world of My Hero Academia, an alternate universe brimming with heroes, villains, and endless chaos. It was a life full of strange, violent battles, where quirks defined the fate of every living being. 

They had died in a way that could only be described as tragic—pathetic, really. A slip of the foot in a climactic battle, a hero's fall from grace. Their heart had stopped, and the world had gone still. It was not the kind of death that warranted a memorial or a remembrance. It was forgotten, buried under the weight of bigger, grander stories. A death that had been nothing but a blip on the radar of the universe.

They had been reborn into the Twilight universe after that, a world that had no place for their talents or their purpose. It was an awkward fit. Vampires, shape-shifters, and humans—tightly woven together in a delicate dance of tension and secrecy. The shimmering vampires and their endless thirst for blood. The Quileute shape-shifters, though Izel didn’t know them as they were, at least not yet. It was here that they first felt the stirrings of something new, something ancient, coiling in the depths of their being.

But what they didn’t know yet was that their new life—this new, quiet existence in Forks, Washington—was about to collide headfirst with the most dangerous game of all. One that would test their every instinct, their every connection, their very identity.

Izel was about to learn that no one—no matter how diluted their blood might be—could outrun their destiny forever.

Chapter Text

The world began, as all lives did, with a breath. A sharp inhale, then a cry, raw and piercing, announcing their arrival.

Isabella Marie Swan was born on a cool September morning, the gray skies above Forks, Washington, heavy with the promise of rain. The town was small, sleepy, tucked away beneath towering evergreens, a place where time moved slowly, where change came in hesitant steps rather than great strides. A place with an old heartbeat, one that had seen generations of families settle, grow, and fade like the mist that rolled over the forests each dawn.

Charlie Swan had never been good with words, but when he held his newborn daughter in his arms for the first time, he didn’t need them. The weight of her was enough—small, fragile, impossibly real. She had his dark hair but Renée’s expressive eyes, wide and full of something neither of them could yet name. It wasn’t curiosity, not exactly. It was something deeper. An awareness.

Renée Swan, neé Higginbotham, young and restless, loved fiercely but inconsistently, her heart forever searching for something she could never quite grasp. The idea of motherhood both thrilled and terrified her. In those first few weeks, she whispered dreams into her baby’s ear, of places far beyond the trees of Forks, where the sun was golden and the air warm against the skin.

But dreams and reality rarely fit together neatly.

By the time Isabella was three months old, the cracks had already formed. The weight of a quiet town, a quiet marriage, a life that felt too still for a woman like Renée—it became too much. So, in the cold grip of winter, she packed up and left, taking her baby with her.

The first stop was Downey, California.

They moved in with Renée’s mother, a woman made of sharp angles and stricter expectations. Life there was a strange mix of warmth and tension. The house was old, filled with the scent of lemon polish and faded lace curtains, and the air was thick with unspoken words. Renée’s mother had never approved of Charlie, nor of her daughter’s flighty nature. Now, with a newborn in the mix, those disapprovals only deepened.

By the time Isabella turned two, Renée had scraped together enough stability to move again, this time to Riverside, where she secured a job as a kindergarten teacher. Their lives settled into a routine. Days filled with the hum of children’s laughter, the soft scratch of chalk on blackboards, the golden glow of California sunsets spilling through open windows. It was a good life, as good as it could be for a mother and child making their way alone.

But even then, something about Isabella was different.

She was quiet in a way that unsettled people—not shy, not fearful, but observant. She watched the world with an intensity that didn’t belong to a child, eyes scanning her surroundings like she was searching for something just out of reach. She spoke little but understood much, and when she did talk, her words carried a weight beyond her years.

Then came Phoenix.

At six years old, the desert became home. The sky was endless, stretching in vast swaths of blue, and the heat pressed against their skin like a living thing. Their mother loved it. Isabella did not. There was something about the sun, the dry air, the dust that never settled—it all felt unnatural, wrong in ways they couldn’t explain. But it wasn’t just the move that unsettled them. It was the dreams. The memories.

They came in flashes, scattered like broken glass.

A name spoken in a language they shouldn’t know.
A city skyline that didn’t belong to this world.
A battle fought in the air, explosions coloring the sky.
A fall—sharp, sudden—followed by darkness.

And then the realization.

It hit them in a quiet moment, sitting cross-legged in the corner of their elementary school library, looking towards a mirror.

Recognition struck like lightning.

They had a face they knew.

An actress.

Kristen Stewart.

Twilight.

This world was fiction.

And yet, here they were.

It was too much to process at six years old. Too much to unravel. But one thing became clear in the tangled mess of memories and past lives: they were not meant to be Isabella Marie Swan.

So, they weren’t.

“Izel,” they told their mother one evening, voice steady, unshaken. “My name is Izel.”

Renée blinked at them from across the dinner table, mid-bite into a forkful of spaghetti. “What?”

“I don’t like Isabella,” they said. “Or Bella.” The name felt foreign now, like a jacket that no longer fit. “I want to be Izel Hania Swan.”

Their mother frowned, confused. “Hania?”

“It means ‘spirit warrior.’” They didn’t know how they knew that. They just did.

Renée hesitated, chewing on her bottom lip. “Is this a phase, baby?”

“No,” Izel said simply. It wasn’t. It never would be.

Their mother, to her credit, didn’t fight them on it. Maybe she saw something in their eyes, something too old, too certain for a child. Or maybe she simply didn’t have the energy to argue. Either way, Izel became their name, and no one questioned it.

Except their grandmother, who refused to call them anything but Isabella. 

And the kids at school, who still clung to “Bella” because it was what they knew, slowly began to change and refer to them as Izel.

Izel let them. It didn’t matter, not really. What mattered was that they knew who they were. That in a world they were never meant to be a part of, they had carved out something real, something that belonged to them.

The years that followed were a strange dance of blending in and standing apart. They were taller than most kids their age, their features sharp but unreadable. They kept their hair short, their clothes loose, favoring oversized hoodies and worn-out sneakers. They let people call them “she,” let their mother fuss over them like they were still her little girl, but the truth sat quietly in their chest (like a sleeping wolf) .

(This world had not yet seen what they could become.)

Forks smelled like rain and pine.

It was always damp, always green, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and salt from the nearby coast. Izel never liked it much—not because it was bad, but because it felt too heavy, too consuming. Phoenix was dry, open, filled with golden light and endless sky. Forks, by comparison, felt like being wrapped in a wool blanket while already sweating.

And yet, there was La Push.

The rain still fell, the air still clung to their skin, but it smelled wilder. The ocean roared against the cliffs, and the wind carried the scent of salt and damp wood. It felt real in a way Forks never did.

Every summer, Izel would spend a month with Charlie, packed off on a plane with a backpack full of books and a reluctant wave goodbye to Renée. The arrangement had been set since the divorce, and despite their complaints, it wasn’t all bad. Charlie was a quiet man, awkward in a way that wasn’t uncomfortable, just there. He loved them in his own way—through actions rather than words. Making sure they had enough blankets at night, cooking breakfast even though he wasn’t good at it, letting them pick the movies they watched together.

And then there were the Blacks.

Charlie’s best friend, Billy Black, had three kids—Rachel, Rebecca, and Jacob. Rachel and Rebecca were older, already teetering on the edge of adulthood by the time Izel was forming real memories of their visits. They were polite, sometimes kind, but distant. Their lives didn’t overlap in any meaningful way.

Jake was different.

From the first time they met, there was something easy about him. He was younger, but that didn’t seem to matter. Where Izel was quiet, observant, always calculating their words before speaking, Jake was loud, open, alive in a way they never quite managed to be. He called them ‘Bella’ at first, like everyone else, but the moment they corrected him—“It’s Izel. I-Z-E-L.”—he just nodded and went with it.

“Cool,” he had said, all of nine years old, grinning with a missing front tooth. “Like a wizard name or something.”

“Not really.”

“Still sounds cool.”

And that was that. He called them Izel. Eventually, ‘Iz.’ Then, ‘Zey,’ which they immediately rejected. Jake, undeterred, settled on ‘Jay’ for himself, because “I mean, we gotta match a little, right?”

Izel never admitted it, but they liked that.

(From that day on, around La Push they weren’t known just as “Izel” and “Jacob”, they were “Zey-and-Jay” or “Jay-and-Zey”.)

They didn’t like the rain. Or Forks. Or the way Charlie’s house always smelled slightly of coffee and wet dog. But they liked La Push. They liked the way the Black’s home was always noisy, the way Jake never ran out of energy, how he never seemed to treat them like they were weird.

They had always been weird.

It wasn’t something they could help.

It wasn’t that they were a loner— exactly. They could talk to people, they just never quite fit. Even as a child, there was a sense of being out of sync, like everyone else was playing a game where they hadn’t been given the rules. They understood things they shouldn’t. They carried themselves with a certainty most kids didn’t have, and it unsettled people.

Arizona didn’t change that.

California didn’t either.

Neither did the fact that they were good at things in a way that felt unnatural.

Ballet lasted six months before the movements bored them.
Piano lasted longer, almost two years, but in the end, it wasn’t enough.
Gymnastics held their attention the longest, but even that faded.

Because by the time they were nine, they remembered something else.

Their seventeenth life.

It had been a rough life, a violent one, but not a bad one. They had been a gangster—not the brutal kind, not the kind that made headlines dripping in blood, but the kind that enforced their own version of justice. They had been strong. They had fought with their hands, with their instincts. They had protected people who couldn’t protect themselves. And that?

That still felt like something they should know.

So they asked Renée for martial arts lessons.

She had been skeptical at first, but Renée was nothing if not easily distracted. The moment she convinced herself it was just a phase, she agreed. “Alright, Zey—”

“Izel.”

(Because just Jay could call them that.)

“Izel,” she corrected, ruffling their hair. “But the second you start getting into fights at school, I’m pulling you out.”

Izel never got into fights. They didn’t need to.

Judo was first, then Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. Their body was small, thin-limbed at first, but they learned fast. The movements felt familiar. The weight shifts, the takedowns, the art of using momentum against an opponent—it wasn’t new. It was muscle memory from a body they no longer had.

It felt like theirs.

And yet, even as they found something real, something theirs, the disconnect never faded.

People never understood them.

Not their classmates, who whispered about the way they never seemed normal.
Not their teachers, who looked at them with a mix of confusion and wariness.
Not even Renée, who tried, in her own absentminded way.

Renée was a storm. She was here, then gone, her interests shifting like sand in the wind. Some days, she wanted to paint. Others, she wanted to garden. Once, she decided she was going to learn to surf, despite the fact they lived nowhere near the ocean. She loved deeply, but she loved lightly, her attention flitting from one thing to the next.

Izel learned, very quickly, that if they wanted stability, they had to create it themselves.

By the time they were ten, they were the one reminding Renée to pay the bills.
By eleven, they were cooking most of their own meals.
By twelve, they had taken over nearly every household responsibility.

There were days they felt more like the adult, and Renée felt more like the child.

Not that they ever said that.

Not that it would change anything.

“Baby, you’re worrying too much,” Renée would say, flipping through some self-help book she was currently obsessed with. “You’re a kid! Go do kid things.”

“I am a kid,” Izel would reply flatly, setting the mail down on the counter, organized by importance. “That’s why you should be worrying for me.”

Renée just laughed. “Oh, Iz, you’re gonna give yourself wrinkles before you’re twenty.”

Izel wasn’t sure they’d make it to twenty.

Not in a bad way. Just… statistically speaking, their lives never lasted long.

Their hands clenched.

Not this time.

This time, they would live.

This time, they would survive.

They didn’t know what fate had in store for them, but they knew one thing for sure:

They weren’t the same Isabella Swan who had stumbled through the pages of Twilight.

They were Izel Hania Swan.

And whatever was coming next, they would be ready for it.

(And if they have to kill, so be it.)

Chapter Text

Izel had always liked books.

It wasn’t just the stories—it was the escape, the immersion, the ability to disappear into another world entirely. It was, in part, because of their 22nd life as Antares Cygnus Lestrange Black, a Ravenclaw version of Hermione Granger. Back then, reading had been both a necessity and a comfort, an endless search for knowledge. Some habits never truly died, and in this life, books remained their closest companions.

Their shelves were filled with a mix of literature—classics, fantasy, mystery, and even textbooks about subjects they had no real need for but enjoyed reading anyway. During school breaks, while their classmates spent time socializing or partying, Izel could usually be found at home, curled up on the couch with a book in one hand and a cup of tea in the other.

School itself was easy.

They were naturally responsible, something that had carried over from their past lives. Straight A’s came effortlessly—not because they loved academics, but because they knew how to play the game. The only subject that ever truly excited them was PE, mostly because their body liked to move. Muscle memory from past lives made them good at almost every physical activity they tried, especially ones that involved combat, strategy, or endurance.

It made them stand out, sometimes.

Teachers liked them, classmates respected them, but friends?

They had none.

It wasn’t that people avoided them—it was that Izel never truly clicked with anyone. They had acquaintances, people they could hold conversations with, but no one they would call a real friend. Their mind worked too differently, their perspective too distant from the typical worries of kids their age.

So they focused on their own goals.

What those goals were, exactly, was still uncertain.

Their plan was simple: get a degree in something—anything, really—then go with the flow. 

They weren’t in a rush to figure things out. 

They had already lived twenty-four lives.  

(This time, they wanted to take things slow.)

The first time Izel noticed their mother was lonely, they were thirteen.

It wasn’t obvious at first. Renée had always been scatterbrained, bouncing from one interest to the next, but something had changed. There was a certain wistfulness in the way she watched couples at the grocery store, a certain melancholy when she thought no one was looking.

It made sense.

Renée had never been someone who thrived in solitude. She needed company, needed love, needed excitement. Izel might have been enough to keep her grounded, but they were also just one person, and Renée deserved more than a life spent doting on a child who barely needed doting.

So Izel brought it up one evening, casually, over dinner.

“You should start dating again.”

Renée blinked at them over her plate of spaghetti, caught mid-bite. “What?”

Izel shrugged. “You’re lonely.”

“I am not lonely,” Renée said immediately, then hesitated. “I mean—sure, it’s been a while since I’ve dated, but I’m busy.”

“You’re not that busy,” Izel countered. “You spend half your free time picking up hobbies you never finish. At least with dating, you might actually stick with it.”

Renée scowled. “That’s rude, young lady.”

Izel raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “It’s true.”

There was a pause.

Then, Renée sighed. “Okay, fine. Maybe I have been a little lonely. But dating is hard, Iz. The last time I seriously dated someone, I was a teenager, and that didn’t exactly work out, did it?”

“You won’t know unless you try,” Izel said simply. “Besides, if you don’t like the guy, just dump him. No harm, no foul.”

Renée stared at them, then huffed a laugh. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It is easy.”

“For you, maybe,” she muttered. “You’re too logical for your own good.”

“I prefer ‘rational,’” Izel said, smirking slightly.

Renée rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.

(Two weeks later, she went on her first date in years.)

It took a few months before Renée met someone she actually liked.

His name was Phil Dwyer, a minor league baseball player with an easy smile and an even easier laugh. He was younger than Renée by a few years, but that didn’t seem to bother either of them. He was kind, patient, and—most importantly—he made Renée happy.

Izel knew it was real when their mother started humming around the house.

It was subtle at first, a small thing, but noticeable. She started wearing nicer clothes even when she wasn’t going out. She spent less time distracted by short-lived hobbies and more time on the phone, talking to Phil for hours.

It was the happiest Izel had seen her in years .

So when Renée finally sat them down, a nervous smile on her face, Izel already knew what she was going to say.

“So,” Renée started, fidgeting slightly. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Izel put down their book. “Phil Dwyer?”

Renée blinked. “How did you—”

“You’ve been acting like a lovesick teenager for months,” Izel deadpanned.

Renée groaned, covering her face. “Oh my God, don’t say that.”

Izel smirked. “It’s true.”

Renée peeked at them between her fingers. “Fine, maybe I’ve been a little… swept up in things. But it’s serious, Iz. Phil and I, we—” She exhaled. “I really, really like him.”

Izel tilted their head. “And?”

“And… I wanted to know how you feel about it.”

Izel shrugged. “He’s nice. You’re happy. That’s all that matters.”

Renée hesitated. “You sure?”

“I encouraged you to date, remember?” They raised an eyebrow. “What, you think I’m gonna get mad because you actually found someone?”

“Well… I mean, it’s just been us for so long,” Renée admitted. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m replacing you or something.”

Izel rolled their eyes. “That’s dumb.”

Renée gasped, clutching her chest. “Excuse you—”

“I’m not a baby, Mom.” They crossed their arms. “I don’t need you to take care of me. You deserve to be happy, and if Phil makes you happy, then I don’t have a problem with it.”

Renée stared at them for a long moment, then smiled softly. “You’re too mature for your own good, you know that?”

“I know.”

Renée laughed, shaking her head. “Alright, alright. I’ll stop worrying.”

“You should,” Izel said, picking up their book again. “But if he ever makes you cry, I will break his legs.”

And they knew how to do it.

Renée snorted. “I’ll be sure to warn him.”

Izel just smirked.

Their mother was happy. 

(That was all that mattered.)

Life didn’t change overnight, but it did change.

Phil became a regular presence in their lives, and while Izel didn’t see him as a father figure, they did respect him. He treated Renée well, never made her feel small or flighty, and never tried to push a relationship with Izel that they didn’t want.

It was a new dynamic, but not a bad one.

(But what happened changed their life forever.)

Arizona nights were dry and quiet.

Unlike Forks, where the rain never seemed to stop, Phoenix was bathed in heat, even when the sun dipped below the horizon. The air was still, the streets warm underfoot long after sunset. It was home—hot, sprawling, sunlit—but that night, something was wrong .

Izel felt it before they saw anything.

It was instinctual, an eerie, gut-deep wrongness that slithered up their spine like ice. A presence —foreign, predatory—lurking just out of sight. They had spent years training their body, sharpening their instincts, but this was different. This wasn’t the awareness of an opponent or the calculation of a fighter.

This was primal.

A threat.

Their entire body went rigid.

They stood in the kitchen, hands frozen over a glass of water, the world around them suddenly too still. Even the usual hum of the fridge and distant traffic seemed muted.

It started as an itch at the base of their spine, an unsettling sensation prickling across their skin like static electricity. They had gone down the stairs to drink some water, their mother and Phil sleeping, the orange glow of streetlights casting long shadows.

And then they felt it.

A presence.

Something was watching them.

A predator was near.

They didn't see anything, but their instincts screamed at them—danger, danger , DANGER —an ancient call to arms embedded in their very bones.

Their mother. Their home. Their territory.

They turned sharply down their street, eyes scanning every corner, every shadow. The unease in their chest twisted into something deeper, something primal.

It was then that they caught the scent.

Cold. Sharp. Sweet, but sickly so. A scent that didn’t belong in the dry heat of Arizona.

Izel’s vision blurred, colors sharpening and darkening in a way that made their stomach twist. Their heartbeat thundered in their ears. Every nerve in their body was on edge, screaming at them to move , to hunt, to protect .

Their grip on the glass tightened. Their heart pounded against their ribs. Danger. Their mind screamed it, their body knew it. It was a sensation they had never felt before in this life, but one that had been ingrained in them from the moment they were born.

Something was near. Something unnatural.

Something inhuman.

They turned sharply, eyes snapping toward the darkened window. The street beyond was empty, but they felt it still, lingering just beyond their sight. Watching. Waiting.

Their stomach curled in on itself.

And then—nothing.

Whatever it was, it was gone.

The tension remained, but the presence had vanished as swiftly as it had appeared. A shudder ran through them, their breath shaky as they forced themselves to move. Their pulse was racing, their muscles tight, but there was no enemy in sight. No shadow in the darkness. No red eyes gleaming through the night.

Still, their skin prickled with unease.

They had read all the books of Twilight.

(They knew what this meant.)

The headache started an hour later.

By the time they climbed into bed, their skin was burning.

At first, they thought it was a fever—too much time outside, dehydration, something normal . But the heat only grew, spreading from their chest outward, until every limb felt like it was boiling from the inside.

Then came the trembling.

Then the pain .

A sharp, unbearable snap of agony tore through their body, wrenching a strangled gasp from their throat. They barely had time to react before their bones twisted, their muscles morphed, their skin burned.

They hit the floor hard.

And then—

A shattering noise, the sound of something breaking .

The pain vanished in an instant, replaced by a new, alien sensation.

Strength. Speed. Instinct.

The world was different.

Their room was slightly smaller, their senses sharper. They could hear the whirring of the ceiling fan, the distant sound of Renée’s soft breathing down the hall, the heartbeat of a stray cat outside.

Their eyes flickered downward.

Dark fur.

Clawed paws.

A massive, sleek form reflected in the full-length mirror.

Oh.

Oh.

They were a wolf.

(Fuck—)

They didn’t change back for hours.

It wasn’t fear that kept them frozen—it was awareness.

The beast inside them wasn’t separate; it was them. The instincts, the heightened senses, the predatory knowing of the world around them—it was all them.

It should have been horrifying.

It should have sent them spiraling.

Instead, it felt right.

(Eventually, when they calmed enough, the shift reversed itself. The fur receded, the bones realigned, and with a sudden, painful jerk, they were human again—naked, sprawled on the wooden floor, heart hammering in their chest.)

By the time Izel finally managed to return to their human form, the sun was already rising, casting soft golden light through the blinds. Their body ached, their skin slick with sweat, their limbs trembling from the aftershocks of the transformation.

They lay on the cold floor of their bedroom, breathing heavily, trying to process what had just happened.

What the hell was that?

They weren’t stupid. They knew what had happened. Shape-shifters. The Quileute tribe. The legends. The wolves.

But that was impossible.

They were not even in Forks.

They were not part of the pack. 

(…Right?)

“Shit,” they muttered. And then realized.

They were not in Forks.

They were not surrounded by people who would understand.

(They were alone in this.)

The changes didn’t stop at the transformation.

Over the next few weeks, Izel’s body grew.

Dramatically.

At first, it was subtle—an inch here, an extra muscle definition there. Then it became impossible to ignore. They shot past six feet in under a month, their frame broadening, muscles layering over muscles. Their temperature spiked, hovering at a steady 108°F. Their appetite tripled, their emotions swung wildly between irritation and exhaustion.

(And yet, somehow, no one noticed.)

Their mother noticed, of course she did. But, in typical Renée fashion, she didn’t ask.

Instead, she took one look at Izel struggling to fit into their old clothes and announced, “We’re going shopping.”

That’s how they ended up in the men’s section of a department store, sifting through oversized hoodies and t-shirts while Renée hummed beside them.

“Are you… sure you’re not taking steroids?” she asked, eyeing their now-massive frame.

Izel snorted. “Yeah, Mom. I suddenly decided to become a bodybuilder overnight.”

Renée patted their bicep. “Well, whatever you’re doing, keep it up. You look great .”

“Mm.”

“You do,” she insisted, grinning. “All the teens at school are gonna be all over you .”

Izel rolled their eyes. “Not interested.”

“Oh, come on, Iz. You’re fifteen. You should be interested in someone .”

“I am interested,” they muttered, pulling a hoodie over their head, “in not talking about this.”

Renée groaned dramatically. “You are no fun.”

Izel smirked. “And yet, you love me.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

(It was miserable.)

“I swear to God, you grew another inch overnight,” she said one morning, squinting up at them. “What are they feeding you at school?”

“Air,” Izel deadpanned.

Renée huffed. “Seriously, Iz, this is unnatural. You’re fifteen! You shouldn’t be taller than Phil!”

“Not my fault,” they said, rolling their shoulders. Their joints ached —another side effect of their rapid growth.

Renée squinted at them, then sighed. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing we just bought you new clothes. Again. I swear, at this rate, I’m gonna go broke trying to keep you dressed.”

Izel smirked. “You’re the one who decided to birth a genetic anomaly.”

“I didn’t decide anything! You just happened to be a freakishly tall baby.”

“I take offense to that.”

Renée laughed, shaking her head. “Well, at least you’re taking it well.”

They were.

(Because they had to.)

The worst part wasn’t the physical changes.

It was the instincts.

Their control was slipping, emotions spiking in ways they had never struggled with before. They were used to being level-headed, composed, but now every small irritation made their skin prickle with barely-restrained tension. Their patience was thinner, their temper sharper, their reactions instinctive in ways that weren’t human .

They started growling.

Low, hair-raising snarls escaped them whenever they were annoyed, uncomfortable, or just done with someone’s bullshit. It wasn’t something they meant to do—it just happened.

The first time they let out a growl in public, they had been in class. Someone had bumped into them—just a careless shove in the hallway—and before they could stop themselves, their throat rumbled with a low, animalistic snarl.

The guy who had bumped into them bolted.

After that, they started noticing it more.

They growled when they were annoyed.
They growled when they were uncomfortable.
They growled when they were awkward.

They tried to control it, but it wasn’t easy. The wolf inside them was there, reacting, responding.

The strange part of being a shape-shifter was that they still smelled human.

No one could tell what they were. Not vampires. Not other wolves. Not anyone.

They were something new.

Something unnatural.

Something dangerous.

And no one knew.

Not their mother.
Not Phil.
Not even Jay.

It was their secret.

And they had no idea what to do with it.

It took time, but they adapted.

They figured out how to suppress the snarls. They learned to control the flickers of aggression. They kept their body covered—big hoodies, loose shirts, anything that hid the unnatural muscle gain.

But the instincts were harder to ignore.

Every time they caught a strange scent on the wind, every time their skin prickled with an unseen presence, they knew— knew —that the world they lived in wasn’t as safe as it pretended to be.

The vampire had been real.

The danger was real.

And if one ever came too close again…

They knew, without a doubt, that they would not hesitate to rip it apart.

Izel’s reflection in the mirror was no longer their own. They stared at a form that was sleek, powerful, and wild. They were a wolf—or at least, something close to it. Their fur was deep black, so rich that it almost swallowed the light, and their eyes—golden, like the eyes of a predator—held a kind of power they’d never known before.

Their shape-shifting ability wasn’t like the legends, the way most people thought of werewolves. They weren’t a cursed creature; they weren’t bound to the moon, to a specific time. No, this was something older, something embedded deep within their blood—a legacy of two lineages long since forgotten, of ancient protectors whose bloodlines had long since diluted. They weren’t a werewolf. They were something else, a shape-shifter. And yet, it seemed like their blood had been so diluted over the years that they didn’t smell as what they supposed their kind did. No vampire had ever come to try and hunt them, not yet, at least.

Izel's shape-shifter blood came from the Quileute tribe—tribes that had once had the power to shift into wolves and protect their land from the vampires who roamed it. But their blood was thin, scattered across generations, and Izel’s first transformation was both a blessing and a curse. They were powerful, but they were different. Their scent didn’t give them away like the others did; they smelled human. The vampires would never know that they were different, that they were one of the last of their kind.

But there was no mistaking the call, the instinct that whispered to them with every passing day. They needed to protect. The blood in their veins told them as much.