The Girl Who Shouldn't Have Survived...
Amelia floated in darkness. Not silence—her mind roared with fragments she didn't understand. Chants. Screams. Eyes that weren't human. Pain she should not have survived. A glowing mark on her wrist, and the pull—always the pull—toward something warm. Toward him.
The first thing she recognized when consciousness returned was the sterile, crisp scent of antiseptic. The beeping of a heart monitor. Sheets tucked too tightly around her legs. The weight of something heavy—no, someone—holding her hand.
She blinked slowly, her eyes adjusting to the soft light of the hospital room. White walls. A window open slightly to let in the cool morning air. A chair beside the bed—and in it, a man.
The man from the party.
His eyes were closed, brows drawn together in a scowl even in sleep. His hand was wrapped around hers, his grip careful but firm, like he was afraid letting go might mean losing her again.
And then it came flooding back.
The gala. The witch. The vampire. The altar. The screaming. The way her skin had glowed, healed. The way they had called her Moonblood.
She jolted upright in the bed, her heart hammering.
The monitors beeped wildly.
Andrea was on his feet in an instant. "Hi!"
Her breath caught.
He looked wrecked. His shirt was rumpled, hair tousled like he hadn't slept in days. But his eyes—gods, his eyes—were burning gold as they stared at her. Relief poured off him in waves.
"You're safe," he whispered, cupping her cheek like she might vanish again. "You're finally awake."
She shrank slightly at the touch.
He noticed.
"Don't touch me," she rasped. "Where am I?"
He stepped back, but his gaze didn't waver. "The infirmary. My pack's territory. You were found unconscious at the edge of the eastern woods."
"I don't know you," she said, her voice shaking.
"But I know you," he replied quietly. "More than you know. I'm Andrea, by the way." He said with a smile.
Amelia glanced around wildly, as if expecting one of the witches to appear from the walls. "I need to get out of here."
"You can't," he said gently. "You need rest."
"I don't belong here."
"Actually, you do."
"No," she hissed, pressing a palm to her forehead. "This is insane. All of it. You—there are wolves here. I-witches are real. Vampires. Magic—. That mad lady almost killed me or more so, eat me. You are one of them right, the people outside also-wolves??"
"They are."
"You're mad."
Andrea didn't blink. "Then so are you."
She looked at him like he'd slapped her.
"You've seen it. Felt it. You're not like other humans, Amelia. You survived things no human should."
"I don't want this," she whispered.
"It's not a choice."
Her body trembled. The world she knew was slipping away, and in its place was this surreal nightmare. Her throat burned with unspoken questions, the answers to which terrified her.
Then the door opened.
And hell walked in wearing red lipstick and a cruel smile.
---
Natasha.
Andrea stiffened immediately.
"She's awake," she said in a falsely sweet voice. "How… precious."
Amelia immediately disliked her.
"Leave," Andrea said without turning around.
Natasha tilted her head. "I just came to offer some comfort to the poor girl. Being unconscious for three days must be exhausting."
Three days?
Amelia gripped the blanket.
Natasha moved closer, her heels echoing against the tile. "You're not from here," she said, her voice honeyed and sharp. "You don't understand our world, and trust me—you don't want to."
Andrea growled low under his breath. "Natasha."
But Natasha wasn't done.
"You don't belong here, Amelia. You're a stranger. And whatever spell you put Andrea under will wear off. Eventually."
"I didn't do anything," Amelia snapped.
"No?" Natasha leaned closer, smile venomous. "Then why is it you he ran across the world for? Why did he ignore his duty for you? Why did he come back covered in blood, furious enough to kill?"
Andrea stepped between them.
"Out. Now."
Natasha's expression hardened. "She's not worth what it will cost us, Andrea. She's a Moonblood. Don't pretend you don't feel it. The others do too. The pack is whispering. Scared."
Andrea flinched.
Natasha gave Amelia one last smirk. "And when you figure out what you really are, I hope you pray it kills you before it kills us all."
Then she walked out.
Silence settled again. Thick. Drenched in tension.
Amelia was trembling. "What did she mean?"
Andrea took a slow breath. "I was going to tell you when you were stronger."
"Tell me what?" Her voice broke. "Why do they keep saying I'm… Moonblood?"
Andrea sat at the foot of her bed, as if approaching a wounded animal. His eyes were soft but guarded. "Because you are."
She blinked. "That's not an explanation."
He nodded. "Then listen."
Andrea explained everything.
The ancient war between species.
The rare bloodlines born once in centuries.
The Moonbloods—children born of human and supernatural lineage, but marked by fate, cursed and blessed. They carried dormant magic, healing faster than wolves, resisting death, feared by witches, hunted by vampires.
Moonbloods were supposed to be extinct.
"I've seen their texts," Andrea said. "Moonbloods were said to either bring salvation—or catastrophe. There's no in-between."
"And I'm one of them?" she whispered, horrified.
"You survived a ritual that should've killed a dozen men. You healed wounds that no human could. Your scent changed. And…"
He reached toward her, palm up.
She hesitated.
Then placed her hand in his.
Warmth surged.
She gasped.
"The bond," he whispered. "It's real."
She wanted to ask what the bond means but she knew she didn't want any of it.
She didn't want the drama.
Tears gathered in her eyes. "I don't want this."
He closed his fingers around hers. "I know."
She pulled away. "What if I hurt someone?"
"Then I'll stop you."
Amelia stared at him. "You barely know me."
"I feel you," he said simply. "The way the moon feels the tide. You're mine. You always were."
That night, Amelia dreamed of fire.
Of blood and claws and screams. Of a golden-eyed wolf standing guard while the world burned behind him.
And she stood in the center of it all—bathed in silver light, untouchable, alone.
Recovery was slow. The doctor, a she-wolf named Reina, monitored her closely. Despite the pain, Amelia noticed strange things—like her cuts closing in minutes. Her appetite tripled. She heard whispers from across the hall. Smelled the garden from the third floor.
She wasn't fully human anymore. Maybe she never had been.
Andrea never strayed far. He was a storm and a shield. Gentle. Careful. Overwhelming.
And the pack?
They stared.
Some with curiosity.
Some with fear.
Whispers followed her down the halls. Words like forbidden, marked, doom.
And one evening, she saw Natasha again.
This time, alone in the corridor outside the training arena.
"Run while you still can," Natasha said coolly. "Before you kill someone. Or worse—before the witches finish what they started."
Amelia stood straighter. "I'm not afraid of you."
"You should be." Natasha's eyes glowed faintly. "Because if you stay—I'll be the one to kill you."
Amelia's heart didn't race.
It burned.
And for the first time since this nightmare began, she didn't run.
She met Natasha's gaze and said, "Try."
A week later, Amelia found the scrolls in the Alpha's library, the access to which was granted by Andrea.
Old. Dusty. Written in blood-ink and lunar symbols.
She read for hours, decoding pieces with help from Reina and an ancient librarian named Thalos.
It was all there.
Moonbloods.
Marked by crescent and thorn.
Born under unnatural moons. Called the "Bridges" between realms. Most were killed at birth. Those who survived were either driven mad—or turned gods.
She traced the drawing of a girl on the page. Pale. Glowing. Alone.
A line beneath it read:
"Her blood will wake the forgotten ones. Her breath will break the sky."
And in that moment—Amelia knew.
It was true.
All of it.
She wasn't just Amelia Stones anymore.
She was Moonblood.
And the war had already begun.