The Luna

The smell of blood was never supposed to bring comfort.

But for Dr. Mira Lane, it grounded her. It was the smell of order, of crisis she could control, nothing like the chaos she’d left behind years ago. Nothing like the smell of scorched fur, burning pine, and betrayal that haunted her nightmares.

Here in the ER, blood meant she still had a chance to save someone. And that was all she had left to live for.

She pulled her gloves tight and pressed the back of her wrist to her forehead. It was nearly midnight. The last trauma had been a car crash. A teenager survived. Mira stitched his artery like it was nothing.

Because she was good. One of the best. And she had to be.

The doors to the trauma bay slammed open with a force that made every hair on her neck stand up.

“Male patient! Multiple stab wounds! Found unconscious near the warehouses!” a nurse shouted, pushing through the swinging doors as the gurney rolled in.

“Vitals?” Mira demanded, already moving into position.

“BP 80 over 40 and dropping. Pulse thready. GCS three.”

“Get me a unit of O-neg, start fluids wide open, and someone page the OR!”

The body on the gurney was massive, easily over six feet, thick with muscle, though most of it was obscured by torn clothing soaked in blood.

But then Mira caught the scent.

She froze.

It wasn’t just blood.

It was something ancient. Earthy. Crisp like winter air. Tinged with ash and moonlight.

Wolf.

Her stomach lurched violently.

“No,” she whispered to herself.

But she couldn’t move.

She stepped closer. Her fingers reached out almost on instinct. When they brushed his neck to find a pulse, everything stopped.

For just one breath.

And then her heart kicked.

Hard. Desperate. Linked.

Her lungs seized. Heat rushed through her spine like liquid fire. Her wolf, buried so deep for so long, surged upward like it had been waiting for this exact moment.

Mira snapped her hand back, breath hitching.

No.

This wasn’t happening.

She hadn’t shifted in over five years. She’d suppressed every instinct, every tether to the world she’d once belonged to.

He couldn’t be….

“Name?” she asked sharply.

“None,” the nurse said. “No ID. Found alone. Knife wounds and… claw marks?”

Mira flinched.

Claw marks.

She turned back to the patient and began cutting away his shirt. Her hands worked quickly, but her brain moved slower, unwilling to piece together the impossible.