Bloodmoon – Riverfall

Sunday Morning Ambush

I woke up later than I normally do on a Sunday, and only because Mother Nature wasn’t giving me a choice. I had to pee like you wouldn’t believe, and my stomach was roaring loud enough to scare wildlife. Sun was already too bright, house way too quiet — which meant everyone else was either gone or pretending not to exist. After taking care of the most pressing issue in my ensuite bathroom, I dragged on a pair of pajama pants and stumbled out to the kitchen, half‑asleep, brain barely online, expecting nothing but coffee, food and maybe the will to live would return in due tim.

I should probably explain our house. It started as a simple two‑story log cabin decades ago — the kind of place you only buy because it’s cheap and you’re stubborn enough to fix it yourself. That was my grandpa, Michael Shaw. Handy, broke, and already half in love with Esmee even though it took them forever to actually get married.

Back then he was splitting his time between here and Windenburg, where Ezzy’s from. And then the whole mess with Luke — Grandpa’s former best friend who went and married my biological grandmother, Nicolette — finally blew up.

She was the one raising my dad at the time. Grandpa Mike and Nicolette only ever had one night together; they were friends, not partners. But Luke wanted the Alpha rank, and he used my dad — who was just a little kid — to pressure Grandpa into stepping aside.

Let me add something here, because people always get this wrong: among werewolves, stepkids are stepkids just like for normies… unless the stepkid happens to be the child of the Alpha you’re trying to overthrow. Then suddenly the rules get “flexible.”

If the Alpha you want gone has a kid in the picture, it doesn’t matter if you win the fight today — that kid grows up. And once they’re of age, they’ll challenge you. Bloodline always circles back. So the easiest way to keep your reign quiet, stable, and unchallenged is to make sure the heir never reaches adulthood.

It’s brutal, but that’s the logic. Remove the heir, remove the future threat.

Alpha rank is inherited and earned. Bloodline gives you the right to compete, but you still have to prove you’re worthy. Inheritance only takes precedence if you’ve already shown you’re strong enough to hold it.

Luke didn’t care about any of that. He wanted the title, and he wanted it fast. Things got bad enough that Grandpa and Connell — the vampire who eventually became his real best friend, and later my other grandpa when Dad fell for Connell’s daughter Jaymie — had to come to Moonwood Mill to pull my dad out of that situation.

For a while they all hid out in Windenburg, but pressure on occults got too heavy. Connell packed up his family and moved to Forgotten Hollow, Grandpa convinced Ezzy to move here, and Dad and Jaymie kept finding ways to stay in touch until eventually I happened. Mom married Dad on her eighteenth birthday, and the rest is family chaos.

Over the years, the cabin grew with us. Two additions, both connected to the main lodge. One side is Grandpa Mike and Ezzy’s wing — river view, their own terrace, rocking chairs, the whole cozy‑elder‑wolf setup. The other side is my “kingdom”: a big covered porch, my workbench, my workout gear, all the stuff I need to keep from going feral.

We’re not rich. We never will be. But somehow we ended up with the largest cabin in the area — a handmade, all‑wood, three‑generation lodge that’s more estate than cabin now.

Exactly what an Alpha’s home should be.

My bedroom door opens straight into the main room — no hallway, no buffer, just me stepping straight into the living room, dining area, and kitchen. If someone’s out there, they see you the second you exist.

So I walked out the way I always do — shirtless, half‑asleep, not a single thought in my head except coffee and food — and for a second I honestly thought I was still dreaming.

Because Sloane was sitting at my kitchen table.

I blinked. Still there.

That woke me up faster than a bucket of ice water.

My parents. And Sloane. Talking. In my house. First thing in the morning.

WTH.

“Morning,” I muttered, already wishing I could reverse back into my room and pretend none of this was happening — but instead I walked past the table into the kitchen, praying the coffee was strong enough to resurrect me.

Sloane’s eyes flicked up — and tracked from my chest to my back as I passed. Not subtle. Not even close.

I didn’t comment, but I felt it. And yeah, I smirked into the coffee pot as I poured myself a mug.

“Come sit,” my dad said.

“I’m good,” I said, leaning against the counter at what I considered a safe distance.

“Sit,” he repeated — and that tone meant I didn’t have a choice.

So I sat. And of course Sloane had that little satisfied smile waiting for me. I ignored it.

Mom was already up, moving around the stove. “You sure you don’t want anything, sweetheart?” she asked Sloane.

Sweetheart?! Since when was she sweetheart to my mom? How long was I asleep — months?

“I’m fine, thank you, Mrs. Shaw.”

Dad cleared his throat. “So. Sloane came by this morning with a question. She needs some furniture built for her apartment. Says she can’t find anything she likes and that fits the space and liked what she saw here when she came to dinner the other night. She was surprised to learn we built everything ourselves.”

I believed it, her story tracked. I’d seen her shoebox in that high‑rise, you’d have to shop the toy section for furniture for that place — but I was smart enough to keep that to myself.

“It’s true,” she said. “The craftsmanship in your home is incredible. I was honestly stunned by the detail.”

I hid a grin behind my coffee. Oh, this was going to be good. Dad was finally going to get his own taste of Sloane in her natural habitat — the demanding, impossible, “I want it perfect yesterday” version. The one he kept insisting I was exaggerating about every time he sent me to babysit her and her team of clueless city slickers.

He had no idea what she was like when she wasn’t being polite. Finally — finally — he was going to learn.

“I told her,” Dad went on, “that this cabin was built by your grandfather, and later by me. We’ve added furniture and décor over the years.”

“It’s amazing,” Sloane said. “Truly.”

I waited for her to ask him to take the job — and for him to politely accept. I was already picturing Dad trying to survive her “particular” standards. It was going to be the highlight of my week.

“I’d love to hire you, Mr. Shaw,” she said. “I’ll pay a very fair price.”

I shot my dad a gleeful smirk: Go on. Say yes. Say yes and suffer.

Dad smiled, first at me, then at Sloane. “I’m sure something can be arranged.”

I nearly choked on my coffee from sheer joy, already imagining him eating crow by the spadeful. This was it. This was the moment Dad’s peaceful life ended. I was already picturing him coming home each night complaining about her worse than I did and then apologizing to me. Oh, I was living for that very fictional moment.

But then he kept talking.

“But since it would take at least a full weekend of morning‑to‑evening work in San Myshuno, and I can’t be away from my duties here for that long, I just thought of a perfect alternative.”

He smiled at her again, then looked at me.

My smile died. Just… flatlined. No. NO. Oh Dad, please no.

He looked back at Sloane.

“My son has learned from the best,” Dad said proudly. “He’s done all the stairs and railings himself, and some of the woodwork upstairs, as well as several pieces at the Pack Lodge. I’d be happy to show you so you can inspect the detail, but I assure you — he is excellent at woodworking.”

Two identical looks of horror — mine and hers — shot across the table. At my dad, then at each other.

Mom set a heaping plate of breakfast in front of me and kissed my cheek. “What a wonderful idea, baby. Vince needs to get out more anyway. He’s not doing anything. It works out perfect!”

I stared at her. Betrayal. Absolute betrayal. I knew Mom wanted me to find a girl and get started on grandbabies for her — she’d been patient, but she’d made it very clear she was tired of my BS and wanted me to settle down. I guess in her desperation even an unreasonable chick like Sloane seemed reasonable now.

Sloane folded her hands primly. “Umm… well… yeah. Sure. If that works for you… Vincent.”

She couldn’t backpedal out of it, so I guess this was her putting the ball in my court. But what was I supposed to say? My parents knew my schedule — I couldn’t pretend to be super busy when they knew better. And we needed any buck any of us could make. Sloane was offering a lot of bucks, so I had no choice but to take one for the team.

No way out.

The Verbal Bloodbath

After the anticlimactic breakfast, we headed toward the job site in that tight, buzzing silence that only ever happens with her — the kind that makes my blood pressure climb for no reason except her existence.

She broke first. Of course she did.

“Are you feeling okay?” she asked, all innocent. “You barely touched your breakfast trough. Without the usual five metric tons of food, are you even going to be strong enough to make it the seventy yards to the jobsite buffet without passing out from starvation?”

I stopped walking for half a second. “Are you serious, woman?” I snapped. “What gives you the right to criticize a man’s appetite? And you’re not exactly skin and bones yourself, sweetheart.”

She shrugged. “I’m just saying, the volume your mom put on your plate was… impressive. Looked pretty routine. And when I came to dinner that one night, you loaded yourself up several times, so I assume that’s your standard fare. And yet every morning you show up at the jobsite buffet and load up again on pastries. You must have a hollow leg.”

“Yeah, well, some of us actually burn calories doing real work. Like real men.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Real men? Interesting choice of words.”

I glared at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said lightly. “Just funny hearing a lecture about ‘real men’ and ‘real work’ from someone who still lives with his parents and grandparents. In his thirties.”

My anger meter hit the top so fast it should’ve shattered. And great — now the hunger was kicking in again. Wolves are always hungry, but actual hunger? That’s one of the things that makes us lose control if we’re not careful. Perfect timing.

Heat shot up my neck. My ears were ringing. Smoke — actual smoke — had to be coming out of my ears.

I said nothing, because if I opened my mouth, I’d start a real fight right there on the gravel.

“Where I come from,” she added, “real men don’t live at home at our age.”

I stopped walking again, jaw tight enough to crack a tooth. “Where I come from,” I said, “real men take care of their family. They don’t run off to some overpriced shoebox in the city to pretend they’re better than everyone. We stick together and make even the hard times work. I’ve seen your apartment. I had a hard time turning around in it without hitting something.”

She blinked — surprised, maybe — but recovered fast.

“Well,” she said, “maybe if you didn’t eat a full supermarket’s inventory at every meal, you wouldn’t have that problem, you wild boar.”

“Are you calling me fat?” I roared.

“Well, you’re not exactly standard‑sized. Are you going to argue that with me too?”

“That’s muscle!”

“Great. Hopefully you can bring your muscle this weekend to build my furniture. I’ll bring printouts of what I want over to your house later today. I showed your dad on my phone and he said it was no problem. I’ll bring them anyway just to make sure junior here isn’t overselling himself.”

“I’m not overselling anything. I’m damn good at what I do!” I barked loud enough that a few of the crew turned to look.

“Hopefully you remember that,” she said sweetly, “and don’t screw up on purpose just to get back at me. If I don’t like it, I’ll make you tear it down and you won’t see a dime.”

“I take pride in my work,” I shot back. “A real man knows any job he does is his calling card.”

She gave me a look that could peel paint. “Oh? Did your daddy say so?”

I saw red. I cannot even express how much I wanted to pick her up and chuck her off a ravine.

This woman was going to be the death of me.

The Weekend from Hell

The rest of the week crawled by like molasses in winter. Every day felt twice as long, and every time I thought about the upcoming weekend, my stomach twisted. I knew it was going to be bad. I just didn’t know how bad.

Turns out, I underestimated the universe.

Friday after work, I drove Sloane out to San Myshuno in my truck to measure her apartment. That part was fine. Quick. Professional. No bloodshed.

Then we went to Home Depot together.

That was… less fine.

She had Opinions. Capital O. On everything. Wood type, grain direction, paint undertones, screw length, the “vibe” of brackets. I didn’t even know brackets had vibes. Apparently hers needed to be “minimalist but assertive.” Whatever that meant.

By the time we loaded everything into the truck, I was already exhausted. I went upstairs to drop off the last bag of supplies, came back down ready to head home for the night and return in the morning to start building…

…but my truck was gone.

Just gone.

I buzzed her doorbell until she finally came down.

“What did you do?” I demanded.

“I didn’t do anything,” she said, already dialing. “The city probably towed it. You were parked too long.”

Too long. Too long. I was gone for eight minutes — hauling materials up to her shoebox and arranging them exactly the way Her Majesty Queen Sloane wouldn’t whine about.

Four hundred dollar fine. Plus impound fee. And the impound was closed until Monday at ten.

I stared at her. “You have got to be kidding me. You’ll have to take me home.”

She winced. She actually winced.

“Umm… I would, but my SUV is at the jobsite…remember, you drove both of us out here.”

Of course it was.

I called home. Grandpa and Ezzy were with family in Windenburg. Dad’s truck was in the shop. Mom’s car was out of gas — and the nearest gas station didn’t open until tomorrow morning. Moonwood Mill was a three‑hour drive through mostly heavily wooded nothing. Scenic, sure, but not the kind of place you wanted to run out of gas in unless you were actively trying to get eaten by something. Unless, of course, you were the one doing the eating.

Perfect. Just perfect.

To make things worse, every hotel and motel in the city was booked solid because of some convention and a concert happening the same weekend.

So guess where I ended up?

Yeah.

Her place.
The downtown shoebox.

The first argument started before we even got inside.

“You can take the bedroom,” she said.

“No,” I said immediately. “I’m not making you sleep on a couch.”

“You won’t fit on the couch,” she shot back. “You’re too big.”

“I’ll manage.”

“You won’t.”

“I’m not taking your bed.”

“Well, I’m not letting you sleep on the floor like some stray. And you can’t fit on the couch! You’ll throw your back out!”

It went on. And on. And on. I don’t know how long it took, but eventually we landed on me taking the couch and her taking the bed — mostly because I threatened to leave the apartment entirely if she didn’t stop arguing. She wanted that furniture bad enough to shut up for five minutes.

I slept on the couch. Or tried to.

By morning, my spine felt like it had been folded in half. I hate to admit she was right about this and wished I would have accepted the bed, but I would bite off and swallow my own tongue before EVER admitting that to her.
I woke up to the sound of my own stomach growling loud enough to rattle the windows while she made coffee.

She looked over at me. “Was that your stomach? Holy crap. Sounded like a rabid grizzly bear. Do you have gut rot or do you need food?”

“The latter. Desperately.”

She opened her fridge. “I don’t usually eat breakfast. I have fat‑free soy yogurt and quinoa.”

I stared at her. She stared at me. We both knew that wasn’t happening.

She sighed. “Fine. Let’s get dressed and go get breakfast.”

We walked over to a well‑known breakfast chain. I ordered half the menu. She watched in horrified fascination while slurping a latte like she was witnessing a nature documentary. She paid before I could even protest.

Back at her place, she tried to work on some reports while I started cutting wood in her tiny living room. She was in the little kitchen nook — which was basically still the living room — pretending to focus.

I took my shirt off because I was hot from hauling heavy equipment and wood. Sawdust sticks to fabric. Practical. Normal.

She froze. Absolutely froze. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t type. Just stared at me like her brain had blue‑screened. Wasn’t even attempting to hide it.

I pretended not to notice for a while. Then I realized I enjoyed her staring. Then I leaned into it.

A stretch here. A reach there. A very normal, very innocent adjustment of posture — even though similar movements were more customary at bodybuilding competitions.

When I bent over and my jeans got tight in all the right places, she made a noise like she’d swallowed her own tongue.

It was the highlight of my morning. I couldn’t stop grinning, so I made sure to keep my back turned to her.

When she finally found her composure and voice again, there wasn’t much peace. We argued about everything — measurements, angles, paint colors, whether her tape measure was “lying,” whether I was “eyeballing” things (I wasn’t), whether her apartment was too small (it was), or I was just too oversized (no comment), whether I was too loud (I wasn’t), and whether she was too picky (she was).

It was hilarious and sad and exhausting all at once.

Then there was a knock on the door. She answered, and one of her friends walked in — bright, loud, typical late‑twenties city girl — and immediately stared at me like I’d just descended from the heavens.

She turned to Sloane. “WOW. Is all that for me? Oh, you shouldn’t have, but I’m glad you did. Yes please! Seriously, when did that happen? I need details.” She kept pointing at me while talking.

“Nothing is happening, Kaley, reel those weird thoughts back in please.” Sloane said quickly. “He’s from the town my job site is in and offered to help with my furniture problem.”

I glared at her.
Offered.
Sure.
Yeah, like someone offers things at gunpoint.
Let’s go with that.

Her friend looked me up and down again — slowly, blatantly — like she was appraising a luxury item in a store window.

“You’re telling me you’re not interested in all that?” she said. “Well, Sloane, I am very interested in the full menu of Bob‑the‑Builder deluxe edition over there. Does he have a name?” She didn’t even try to hide the way her eyes traveled. It was a miracle she didn’t lick her lips. Or maybe she did. I couldn’t exactly let on that I heard and saw everything, so I pretended to be too busy building.

“Keep your voice down!” Sloane hissed. “He might hear you, and I have to work with him. His name is Vincent.”

Oh, he heard her alright. Every word.

Her friend waved a hand dismissively whispered back. “And I don’t. Which means I am absolutely free to—”

That’s when Sloane lunged.

She grabbed her friend by the arm so fast the girl actually stumbled, heels skidding on the floor. One second she was mid‑flirt, the next she was being hauled toward the bedroom like a misbehaving cat.

Their voices exploded behind the door — sharp, frantic, overlapping — the kind of argument where you can’t hear the words but you know someone is whisper‑screaming, “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

I grinned.

This weekend was a disaster. A complete, unmitigated disaster.

And somehow… I wasn’t sure I hated it as much as I thought I would.

Some parts were kinda fun.

Out of the Frying Pan …

The weekend passed. She actually paid me — for the work, for my ticket, for the impound fee. She ordered food or dragged me out to restaurants and insisted on paying. And when we finally rolled into Moonwood Mill way too late on Monday, everyone saw us climb out of my truck together. Everyone knew I’d been gone all weekend, and now they saw me come back with her.

Perfect. Just perfect.

The original plan had been simple: finish the job, drive home Sunday night, drop her at her trailer, go our separate ways. Resume business as usual on Monday morning.
But thanks to my truck getting thrown into parking‑violation jail, that didn’t happen.

And in case anyone’s imagination is running wild — no. Nothing happened.
Nothing was supposed to happen, and nothing did.
Just furniture.
Beige, boring furniture.

The only surprising part was how much she loved my work. I expected her to nitpick every screw, every angle, every grain of wood. Even on the off-chance that she didn’t hate my work, I never expected her to admit it. But she did.
Once everything was installed, she stepped back, smiled like a kid on Christmas morning, and clapped her hands, did a spasi dance and started decorating it like I gave her the best Christmas present ever.
She only interrupted to admire her work again, then hug me so tight she almost squeezed the beer I was drinking back out.

My brain short‑circuited. One minute she’s biting my head off over nonsense, the next she’s acting like I handed her the winning lottery ticket.

Anyway, her crew and my fellow citizens didn’t care about what really happened. They preferred their own version — the smuttier, the better. The stares and jokes lasted two days. Then people mercifully moved on.

So when she told me later that week we had to go back out to one of the remote sites we already completed last week because the architect “forgot required measurements and photos,” I already knew it was going to go sideways. The crew was off. The assistant was sick. The weather was turning. Everything in me said don’t go.

I told her we should wait. She told me I had no spine.

I don’t know why that got under my skin the way it did. Maybe because she said it like she believed it. Maybe because I didn’t want her going out there alone. And she would’ve — absolutely.

So I went with her because… hell, I don’t even have a good excuse. Maybe because I’m an idiot.

Either way, I went. Just us.

Her and me.

The trail was slick, the air heavy. She kept talking — about measurements, deadlines, how she could’ve done the architect’s job better — and I let her. It kept her from noticing how fast the clouds were rolling in.

We got what we needed. We should’ve turned back sooner.

The rain hit like a fist. One second it was a drizzle, the next it was a downpour so loud I could barely hear her swear. The river beside the trail swelled fast — too fast. I told her to move back. She didn’t hear me or didn’t care.

She slipped.

I didn’t think. I just grabbed her — and then the ground gave out under both of us, and we went straight into the river, which had turned into whitewater from hell.

Cold water slammed into me, knocking the breath out of my lungs. The current dragged us down the bank, over rocks, through branches, spinning us like we were nothing. I held onto her because letting go wasn’t an option. Phones gone. Packs soaked. No sense of direction except downstream.

By the time we crawled out onto a muddy bank, she was shaking and trying to pretend she wasn’t. My shoulder felt like someone had taken a hammer to it. The sky was getting darker. We were nowhere near the trail.

She looked at me like she was waiting for me to fix it. I didn’t know how. But I wasn’t going to let her see that.

We found a cave — shallow, but dry. I got a fire going with hands that didn’t want to work. She sat close enough to the flames that I could see the fear she was trying to swallow.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t some movie moment. It was two people who didn’t trust each other, stuck in the dark with no way out until morning.

She kept glancing at me like she expected me to yell at her. I didn’t. I just watched her breathe, watched her try to hold herself together, watched the moment she realized how bad it could’ve been.

And for the first time since I met her, she didn’t look like she wanted to fight me. She just looked… human. Cold. Tired. Scared. Trying really hard not to show it.

I didn’t know what to do with that. So I poked the fire and pretended that was the only thing keeping us alive.

Then the clouds shifted.

Just a sliver at first — a pale edge of moonlight cutting across the cave floor like a blade.

Full. Bright. Too early. Too soon.

“Oh fuck.”

It slipped out before I could stop it.

She looked up. “What? What’s wrong?”

She wouldn’t know why I cursed, but I did.

I was cold. Famished. Worried. Maybe even a little scared — not of the storm, not of the dark, but of myself.

And my shoulder… my shoulder was definitely impaired and throbbed like hell.

Normally I could control it. The urge. The drive to turn. Newer werewolves couldn’t — it just happened. The more seasoned you get, the more you learn, the more you can contain the urges and the transformation. Eventually, you learn to control if you turn and when, and you can even do it at will. Normally I could bury the pull of the moon under discipline and routine.

But tonight… I wasn’t sure. Too much working against me.

The hum under my skin was already starting — that low, electric vibration that meant my body was listening to something older and stronger than reason.

I pushed myself to my feet too fast, pain shooting down my arm and making the world tilt for a second. She startled.

“Vincent? Are you okay? You look—”

“Don’t. Just shut up for once.”

It came out harsher than I meant. Sharp enough that she froze.

Good. I needed her to freeze.

I couldn’t stay here. Not with her. Not like this.

“I need to… check the perimeter,” I said, voice tight. “Make sure the storm didn’t wash out the trail completely.”

She frowned. “Now? In the dark? You’re injured — and… don’t leave me alone. You can’t just leave. I’ll help with that perimeter thing, whatever that means.”

“No!” It came out too loud. “I said I’ll handle it. Just fucking stay here. Just listen to me for once in your life.”

Too sharp again. But I needed her to stop arguing. I was losing control, and I needed her far out of sight if that really happened.

If she followed me… If she saw me lose control… If she saw what I really was…

No. I couldn’t let that happen.

She crossed her arms. “You don’t have to snap at me. I’m just trying to—”

“I need space,” I cut in, forcing the words out before the moonlight hit me again. “Just stay by the fire. Don’t follow me. I mean it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you serious? What kind of machismo BS is that now? You can’t just up and leave me here by myself! We have to stay together for safety — isn’t that what you always say?!”

“Well, you never listen to me then, so why start now? And now I’m saying something else anyway! How about you start listening to that?!”

“What the hell is your problem?”

Everything. Everything is my problem.

But I couldn’t tell her that. Couldn’t tell her the truth. Couldn’t tell her she was safer if I wasn’t near her.

So I gave her the one excuse she’d never question.

“You are my problem. And I have to take a beast of a shit,” I muttered. “Unless you want to supervise me giving birth through my anus too.”

She recoiled instantly. “Ew! Gross! Oh my God — go. Go! You could have just led with that.”

If I’d thought of it sooner, I would have.
Either way — perfect. Let her be disgusted. Let her stay put.

I stepped out into the trees, into the dark, into the cold air that felt like needles against my skin. I braced a hand against a trunk, breathing hard as the moon broke through the clouds again.

The pull hit me like a punch.

My fingers curled. My jaw locked. My vision blurred at the edges.

“Not now,” I whispered to myself. “Not here. Not with her. Please not now.”

I dug my nails into my palms, grounding myself in pain, in cold, in anything that wasn’t the instinct clawing up my spine.

I just had to make it until morning. Just a few more hours. Just hold the line.

But for the first time in years… I wasn’t sure I could.