Chapter 1
BANG.
The sound was deafening in the forest clearing. Allen Silvermoon looked down at his chest, at the spreading crimson stain on his black hunter''s coat. Silver. He could smell it—the acrid, metallic scent of silver bullets. The one substance that could kill anything supernatural.
Including him, apparently.
His knees buckled. The world tilted. He saw Alexander''s face—his apprentice, his lover, the man he''d trained for five years—holding the still-smoking pistol. Alexander''s expression was unreadable in the moonlight.
"Why?" Allen managed to choke out.
No answer. Just another shot.
BANG.
This one hit his shoulder, spinning him around. He fell to the damp earth, leaves crunching beneath him. The pain was... interesting. Sharp. Clean. Not like the messy wounds from claws or fangs. Silver burned as it killed.
Alexander approached, boots silent on the forest floor. He knelt beside Allen, his face coming into focus. Handsome. Cold. The man Allen had loved, had shared a bed with, had taught everything he knew.
"Orders," Alexander said simply. "The Council decided you''ve gone soft. Too close to the creatures we hunt."
Allen tried to laugh, but blood bubbled from his lips. "And you... you agreed?"
"I follow orders." Alexander''s voice was flat. Empty. "Always have."
The third shot was mercy. Or cruelty. Allen couldn''t tell anymore.
BANG.
Darkness.
---
PAIN.
Different pain this time. Not the clean burn of silver, but a deep, bone-grinding ache. Like every cell in his body was being torn apart and reassembled wrong.
Allen—no, not Allen anymore—opened eyes that weren''t his.
The world exploded in sensory overload.
SMELLS: Damp earth. Human sweat. The coppery tang of blood. The sharp scent of fear. The sweet-rot smell of old straw. And beneath it all, something wild, something animal—his own scent.
SOUNDS: Chains rattling. Distant voices speaking a language that was English but not quite. The rustle of fabric. The creak of wood. The thump-thump-thump of his own heart, beating too fast.
SIGHTS: Wooden slats. Iron bars. Flickering torchlight casting dancing shadows. His own hands—pale, slender, young hands—wrapped in silver-lined manacles that burned with a dull, persistent heat.
What the hell?
He tried to sit up. The chains yanked him back. He was in a cage. A literal wooden cage on the back of a wagon. Through the slats, he saw cobblestone streets, gas lamps being lit as dusk settled over a city that looked like something from a history book.
Nineteenth century England. Maybe.
Memories flooded in. Not his memories. Someone else''s.
Aiden Silvermoon. Seventeen years old. Last of the Silver Moon werewolf clan. Captured three days ago. Sold yesterday.
Sold.
The word echoed in his mind. Allen Silvermoon, legendary demon hunter who had taken down vampires, werewolves, and things that had no name, reduced to merchandise.
The irony would have been funny if it weren''t so fucking tragic.
He tested the chains. Silver-lined, designed to suppress supernatural strength. In his previous life, he''d used similar restraints on captured werewolves. Now he was the one wearing them.
The wagon hit a pothole, jolting him against the bars. Pain shot through his body—different pain now. A throbbing, pulsing ache that seemed to originate in his bones. It echoed the rhythm of... something. Something outside himself.
He looked up. Through a gap in the canvas covering the wagon, he saw the moon. Not full, but close. Waxing gibbous. Huge and silver-white in the darkening sky.
And his body responded.
A low thrum started in his blood. A primal recognition. A hunger.
No, he thought. No, no, no.
But the feeling grew. Strength flooded his limbs—real strength, not the trained, disciplined power of a hunter, but raw, untamed animal power. The silver manacles burned hotter, trying to suppress it, but the power was there, bubbling under his skin.
He flexed his fingers. The chains groaned. Not breaking, but straining.
A face appeared at the bars of his cage. The merchant—a fat man with greasy hair and eyes that held no warmth. "Awake, are we? Good. Buyers want to see the merchandise alert."
"Where am I?" His voice came out wrong. Younger. Rougher.
"London. Well, the outskirts. We''ve got a special buyer tonight. Duke of Windsor himself is looking for new staff." The merchant leered. "He pays well for... exotic specimens."
The Duke of Windsor. Alexander''s title in this life, if the fragmented memories were correct. His apprentice, his killer, now a duke.
Fate had a sick sense of humor.
The wagon rolled to a stop. Torchlight flared, illuminating a courtyard. Stone walls rose around them, topped with battlements. Windsor Castle. It looked exactly as he remembered from history books, but seeing it in person, smelling the damp stone and ancient mortar, was different.
The cage door opened. Rough hands dragged him out. He stumbled, his new body uncoordinated, weak from whatever drugs they''d given him. But the moon-power was still there, simmering just beneath the surface.
"Stand up straight," the merchant hissed, shoving him. "The Duke likes them pretty, but he also likes them strong. Show him the Silver Moon eyes."
Aiden—he had to start thinking of himself as Aiden—forced himself upright. He focused, reaching for the power. His eyes heated, and he knew without seeing that they were glowing with the distinctive silver flecks of his bloodline.
A door opened at the top of stone steps. Light spilled out, and a figure appeared in the doorway.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in dark clothing that spoke of wealth and power. Even from this distance, Aiden would know that silhouette anywhere.
Alexander.
No, not Alexander. The Duke of Windsor. A different man in a different life.
But when their eyes met across the courtyard, something happened.
A jolt. Like lightning striking his spine. A flash of memory—not Aiden''s memory, not the werewolf boy''s memory, but Allen''s memory. Training in another forest. Laughter by a fire. Lips meeting in the dark. And then betrayal. Silver bullets. Blood on leaves.
The Duke went still. His hand went to his temple, as if struck by a sudden headache.
The merchant didn''t notice. "Your Grace! As promised, the Silver Moon werewolf. Prime specimen. Last of his line."
The Duke descended the steps, his movements precise, controlled. Up close, he was exactly as Aiden remembered—and completely different. Same sharp jawline, same intense dark eyes. But colder. Harder. The warmth that Allen had loved was gone, buried under layers of ducal authority.
He stopped in front of Aiden. Studied him. The silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of torches.
"How old?" the Duke asked, his voice deeper than Aiden remembered.
"Seventeen, Your Grace. Young enough to train. Strong enough for any labor." The merchant was practically vibrating with eagerness.
The Duke reached out. Aiden flinched, expecting violence. But the touch was... gentle. Fingers under his chin, tilting his face up to the torchlight. Studying his eyes.
The contact sent another jolt through him. Heat. Recognition. And something else—the wolf within him stirred, not in fear, but in... interest.
"Silver Moon," the Duke murmured, almost to himself. "I thought the line was extinct."
"Last one, Your Grace! A rare opportunity."
The Duke''s eyes met Aiden''s again. Held. "Do you have a name?"
"Aiden," he whispered. "Aiden Silvermoon."
A flicker in the Duke''s eyes. Something like recognition, quickly suppressed. "Aiden." He tested the name. "You''ll serve in my household. You''ll obey without question. Do you understand?"
Aiden nodded. What else could he do?
The Duke released his chin. Turned to the merchant. "I''ll take him. Double your asking price."
The merchant''s eyes widened. "Double? Your Grace is most generous!"
"Have him cleaned and brought to my chambers in an hour. I wish to... inspect my purchase personally."
There was something in the way he said it. Something that made the wolf within Aiden growl low in his throat. Not a threat. A challenge.
The Duke turned and walked back up the steps without another glance. The door closed behind him.
The merchant grinned, counting the coins the Duke''s steward had produced. "Lucky boy. The Duke doesn''t usually take personal interest in new servants."
Aiden looked up at the castle, at the window where a light now burned. Somewhere up there was the man who had killed him in one life and bought him in another.
The moon hung heavy in the sky, calling to his blood.
He had questions. So many questions.
But first, he had to survive.
And the wolf within him was waking up.
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