Aria Valderi is a day walker, a vampire that can walk in the sun. Being a descendant of the original queen of the vampires has its perks, but finding out her mate is a wolf shifter isn't one of them. He's insufferable, bossy, and too damn sexy for his own good.

Trevan Stone knows Aria is his. Unfortunately, his tough little vamp has been wreaking all kinds of havoc and now too many people want her dead. It's going to take more than Trevan can do as a shifter to protect his woman.

Trevan has a secret. One that could put an end to their future together, but it’s not nearly as big as the one her people have, which could end the future of the entire clan. If he can save her from the vampire council that wants her destroyed, there might be a chance for them to work through their issues. But saving her means giving up the reason for his existence, the drive that has pushed him for the last eighty years.

Reader Note: This book is all about a sassy plus-sized vampire who knows what she wants and a hot, smooth talking alpha wolf who can't fight his need for her. There is massive use of dirty words, so if you're a prude this is not the book for you. If you like sarcasm and hot sex with no filter, this is just your thing. Enjoy!

Chapter 1

Jax

The invisible boundary that had kept Jax from Saltwater Grove for nearly two years dissolved like morning mist as he stepped across the town line. His body tensed instinctively, anticipating the searing pain of Victor's curse—but nothing came. Just the December wind biting at his face and the familiar scent of salt and pine that defined the coastal supernatural town.

"Guess you really are dead, you bastard," Jax muttered, his voice a low rumble that matched the distant thunder rolling over the sea. The long, jagged scar along his jaw tightened as he clenched his teeth.

Saltwater Grove hadn't really changed. Holiday decorations draped the cobblestone streets, the white lights twinkling against the early evening darkness. The town square's massive pine tree stood proudly decorated, yet Jax barely noticed the festive atmosphere. His focus remained locked on the faint scent trail that had led him here—the distinct markers of Kira and Damon, two rogue wolf shifters who'd become something like family during his exile.

His nostrils flared as he caught another trace of their scent near the entrance to the Glimmering Woods. Jax followed it, moving with predatory grace despite his size, his green eyes scanning the perimeter for any sign of threat.

"Never thought I'd see your sorry ass back here."

Jax spun, instinctively dropping into a fighting stance. A lanky man with a patchy beard stood behind him, arms crossed.

"Roland." Jax straightened but kept his guard up. "Didn't think you'd still recognize me."

"Hard to forget the face of Victor's favorite enforcer." Roland's eyes narrowed. "Or the one who turned on him."

"I turned on him because he lost his damn mind." Jax's shoulders bunched under his leather jacket. "And from what I hear, I wasn't the only one who thought so."

"No." Roland's stance softened slightly. "You were just the first to do anything about it. Got yourself cursed for the trouble."

Jax approached closer, towering over the smaller man. "I'm not here for a reunion tour. Two wolves are missing. Caught their trail leading here."

"Missing wolves?" Roland's brow furrowed. "Haven't heard anything."

"You wouldn't. They're rogues, like me." Jax's gaze drifted toward the town center, memories washing over him of patrols and pack gatherings. "Victor might be gone, but something's still off here. I can feel it."

"Well, you're right about one thing. Victor is dead." Roland shoved his hands in his pockets. "Caleb took him down last year. Nasty fight."

"Good." The single word carried the weight of two years of exile.

Jax turned toward the woods again, his jaw set with determination. The wind shifted, bringing with it a complex tapestry of scents—pine, salt, magic, and beneath it all, something familiar yet wrong. A thread of danger woven through the town he once called home.

"Whatever you're chasing, be careful," Roland called after him. "Victor might be dead, but his allies aren't."

Jax didn't look back as he replied, "I wouldn't expect anything different."

Jax plunged into the Glimmering Woods, his boots crunching through the fresh layer of snow that had fallen since morning. The moon climbed steadily above the trees, bathing the forest in an ethereal silver glow that transformed the snow-laden branches into crystalline sculptures. Under different circumstances, he might have appreciated the beauty of it all. Tonight, he only registered it as useful illumination for tracking his missing friends.

Kira and Damon's scent grew stronger with each step, though something about it seemed off—tainted, somehow. Jax's muscles tightened beneath his leather jacket as he followed the trail through a dense thicket. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as the wind shifted again, carrying with it a metallic tang that instantly put him on high alert.

Blood. A lot of it.

"Damn it," he growled, quickening his pace until he was nearly running.

The trees thinned suddenly, revealing a small clearing bathed in moonlight. Jax stopped abruptly at its edge, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene before him. The pristine snow had been trampled down and stained with dark, crimson patches. At the center of the clearing stood a crude stone altar, its surface black with dried blood. Surrounding it, strange symbols had been carved into the frozen ground, their lines filled with what looked like ash and crushed herbs.

"What the hell happened here?" He circled the perimeter cautiously, his nostrils flaring as he cataloged the scents. Kira. Damon. Blood—some theirs, some not. And something else. Something that made his wolf bristle beneath his skin.

Death magic. Necromancy.

The long scar along his jaw suddenly flared with pain, burning as if freshly carved. Jax hissed, pressing his fingers against the mark that Victor and his witch friend had left when Victor cast the exile curse.

"Impossible," Jax muttered, circling closer to the altar. The curse effects should have completely ended with its caster. But the pain intensified with each step, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

He crouched beside one of the symbols, careful not to touch it as he studied the intricate pattern. It wasn't just any necromantic ritual. The design was specific—targeted. As his eyes traced the lines, recognition dawned, cold and uncomfortable.

"Nightfang," he whispered. The curved lines resembled the same markings that adorned ceremonial pack items—subtle, but unmistakable to someone who had spent years enforcing Victor's will.

His scar burned hotter, and Jax felt a strange connection forming between his blood and the residual magic saturating the clearing. Whatever ritual had been performed here, it wasn't just using death magic—it was specifically calibrated to Nightfang wolf shifter blood. To his blood. Whoever did this, they were luring him back here. But why?

A wave of dizziness hit him suddenly, forcing him to brace one hand against the frozen ground. The world tilted and swam, the moonlight fracturing into painful shards before his eyes. Something tugged at his core—not physical but deeper—as if invisible hands were reaching inside and unraveling the very essence that made him what he was.

"Son of a bitch." Jax fought to stand upright as the sensation intensified. His wolf, normally a powerful presence just beneath the surface of his consciousness, felt distant and muted.

The clearing in the Glimmering Woods spun around him, and he suddenly dropped to one knee on the frozen ground, fighting the strange draining sensation that left him gasping for breath.

"What the hell?" he snarled, digging his fingers into the bloodstained snow to anchor himself. The world tilted sideways, trees blurring into streaks of shadow and silver. His wolf—always present and always powerful—felt like it was being siphoned away, pulled thread by thread from the very fabric of his being.

Through the haze of disorientation, one thought crystallized with perfect clarity. Whoever had taken Kira and Damon hadn’t been after random rogue wolf shifters. They had been after him. This trap had his name written all over it, and he'd walked right into it like some green pup.

"Me? Or all Nightfangs?" The questions slipped through his gritted teeth as he fought to stand again, his legs trembling beneath him. His mind raced through fragmented thoughts. The Nightfang symbols. Victor's death. His own blood calling to whatever dark magic saturated this clearing.

Why lure him back to Saltwater Grove now? The exile curse had kept him away for two whole years. It made his skin feel like it was being flayed from his bones whenever he tried to cross the boundary. Until today. Until he had followed Kira and Damon's trail straight into...what? A ritual site? A slaughter ground?

"Kira," he gasped, forcing himself forward on unsteady legs. "Damon." Were they already dead, their blood feeding whatever abomination had been summoned here? Or were they bait in a larger game?

The moon above him seemed to pulse, its light drilling into his skull. His vision darkened at the edges, the world collapsing into a narrow tunnel. He needed help.

"I'm not dying in these goddamn woods," Jax growled, channeling what little strength remained into his legs.

He staggered through the trees, following the distant glow of the town lights. Each step felt like moving through cement, his muscles refusing basic commands. The wolf inside him—normally straining at its leash, eager to break free—had gone terrifyingly quiet.

Snow began to fall, delicate flakes catching in his dark brown hair and melting against his feverish skin. His breath came in harsh, visible plumes as he fought his way toward civilization. The trees thinned gradually, revealing the outskirts of town.

A building loomed ahead—multi-storied, windows illuminated against the darkness. The red emergency sign glowed like a beacon through the increasingly heavy snow.

"Hospital," he muttered, orienting himself toward it. "Just... get there."

His feet dragged through accumulating snow, leaving uneven tracks behind him. The sidewalk soon appeared beneath his boots, civilization's straight lines and cleared paths a stark contrast to the wilderness he'd left behind.

Just a few more yards. Twenty steps. Ten.

Jax's knees buckled as he reached the hospital's outer walkway. He caught himself on a decorative planter, his knuckles white as he clung to its edge.

"Not like this," he hissed, fighting the darkness crowding his vision. Whatever they had taken from him in that clearing, he refused to let it win. He was Jax Hollow. Former Nightfang enforcer. Survivor. No magic ritual was going to bleed him dry without a fight.

But his body had other ideas. His legs folded beneath him, sending him sprawling onto his back on the cold concrete. Snowflakes drifted down from the inky sky, landing on his face in gentle counterpoint to the violence raging through his system.

The last thing Jax saw before consciousness slipped away was the hospital's emergency sign above the door next to him, its red glow diffused by the thickening snow—close enough to save him, yet impossibly far away as darkness claimed him completely.