Shadow in His Dreams

Yesterday morning Max’s eyes snapped open, his breath hitched. His chest tightened like a vice. The weight of something unseen pressed down on him a force he couldn’t fight, a presence he couldn’t touch. He bolted upright, heart slamming against his ribs as he gasped for air. Sweat slicked his skin. The room was too quiet, too still. But the phantom sensation remained a whisper in his bones, an echo of something just out of reach. His heart was still pounding, an unnatural rhythm that refused to settle even though he was awake now.

That dream…

He exhaled sharply and sat up, running a hand through his platinum-dyed hair. The cool morning air from his open balcony windows brushed against his bare skin, but it did nothing to calm the lingering unease coiling in his chest. He never had a dream like that before. That girl. The details were already slipping from his mind, fading like mist in the morning light. He tried to hold on to them—tried to force the memory to stay—but all he could recall was the feeling.

That racing pulse. That strange, overwhelming sense of familiarity. And yet… Even when he had looked directly at her, her face had been blurred.

He groaned as sunlight pushed through a gap in the heavy crimson curtains. For a few seconds he laid back and remained sprawled across the center of his king-sized bed, staring up at the dark wooden beams crossing the ceiling above him. The room was warm. The stone fireplace on the far wall had long since burned down to glowing embers, but enough heat lingered to keep the tower suite comfortable despite the cold morning outside.

Max swung his legs over the bed, bracing his elbows against his knees. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to retrace the dream. The girl. The wings. The pull. But the more he tried to focus, the more it slipped away—like trying to hold onto water with bare hands. His wolf stirred, uneasy, its presence pressing against his own thoughts. But there were no words, no instincts to guide him. Just a hollow sense of something missing. Who was she? And why the hell did he dream about her? This wasn’t normal. Wolves had dreams sometimes visions, premonitions, even glimpses of a future mate if the bond was strong enough. But this… this wasn’t like that.

This wasn’t fate whispering in his ear. It felt like something was trying to break through. A shiver ran down his spine, his instincts flashing a warning he couldn’t quite interpret. Something wasn’t right. The sound of knocking on his door jolted him from his thoughts.

“Max, hurry up! You’re gonna be late,” Michael’s voice called.

Max sighed, pushing himself up and shaking off the remnants of the dream. Later. He would think about this later. Max ran a hand through his messy hair and crossed the room.

The room was more apartment than bedroom. Dark stone walls, wood paneling, silver wolf carvings. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed Bloodclaw territory and the distant New York skyline. Game controllers and a half-eaten bag of chips still littered the leather couch—Jason had promised to clean up. The monitors of his gaming rig glowed faintly above the dark TV screen.

A bookshelf held leadership guides, pack law, military history, fantasy novels. An arched doorway opened into a small study: territory maps, patrol reports, his father’s assigned reading stacked on the desk. In the bathroom, black marble and a stone tub beneath a forest-view window. The counter was cluttered with cologne and a stray watch. Max took off his clothes and stepped into the shower.

After rinsing the last sudsy stream from his hair, Max toweled off and shrugged into his crisp black trousers and a fitted charcoal shirt. He laced his boots, each loop methodical, then stepped into the dim corridor of the family wing. The heavy door to the private kitchen creaked open under his palm, and the aroma of sizzling bacon and freshly ground coffee beans rolled over him like a welcome wave.

Sunlight slanted through tall windows, tracing golden paths across the polished hardwood floor. The stone hearth in the corner crackled with a soft, comforting heat, even though the pipes hummed with central warmth. Dark oak cabinets rose to the ceiling, their brass handles catching the light, while the black granite counters shone under clusters of pendant lamps. This room, with its low chatter and scent of cinnamon biscuits, felt worlds away from the Crimson Den’s towering arches and cold marble statues.

Max paused at the threshold and surveyed the scene. On one side of the long kitchen island, his mother Luna Emily Ashton moved like a dancer in an apron dusted with flour. She arranged eggs, bacon, and thick slices of toast onto plates. Beside her, a polished porcelain teapot steamed gently. On the other side, his father Alpha Richard Ashton leaned over a neat pile of leather-bound documents, flicking through pages with a silver pen in hand. A white mug, rimmed in gold, rested near his elbow, half-filled with dark roast.

Emily stood a full head above most women Max had known growing up, broad-shouldered and unhurried in the way she moved between the stove and the island. Her black hair was cut close, a few soft waves catching the light above her ears. When she turned to hand Max his coffee, her red eyes settled on him the way they always did steady and attentive, missing nothing, but never unkind about what they found.

Richard stood where the morning light caught him fully, and it was easy to see why a room adjusted to him rather than the other way around. He was broad across the shoulders in a way that made his fitted shirt look considered, his dark brown hair threaded silver at the temples above a close-trimmed goatee. The steel-gray of his eyes had the quality of overcast sky before weather—not cold exactly, but carrying the particular weight of a man who had spent decades being the most certain person in any given room.

Michael, Max’s younger brother, was already perched on a stool, his fingers drumming against the ceramic edge of his orange-juice glass. Crumbs dotted the front of his shirt, and he was eyeing the empty stool beside Max. When Max stepped forward, Michael lifted his chin. “Morning, Max,” he said around a bite of bacon.

Max rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the tension in his shoulders. He slid onto his usual stool the one with a wolf’s head carved into its backrest. No one ever claimed it; it simply belonged to him by habit. His boot tapped against a floorboard as he nodded at Michael, then angled a sideways glance toward his father, hoping to soften whatever reproach he sensed.

Richard set down his papers with a firm thump. Steam from his coffee curled into the air. “You overslept,” he said, eyes flicking up for the briefest of moments before returning to the text.

Max pressed his lips together. He wanted to argue, but the stir of guilt in his chest made his jaw lock. Instead, he focused on the hexagonal tiles underfoot, tracing their line with his boot. “I didn’t oversleep,” he said, voice low. “I woke up late.”

His father’s lips quirked in a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He folded his arms on the countertop, leaning forward. The scent of bacon fat and pine smoke drifted between them. “You’re about to become Alpha, Max,” Richard said. “Waking up late isn’t an option.”

A bead of sweat formed at Max’s temple. He clenched his fists in his lap, fingernails cutting crescents into his palms, but he stayed silent. His mother caught his father’s gaze for a moment, then set a steaming mug of coffee in front of Max, the porcelain nearly burning his fingertips. “Give him a break, Richard,” she said quietly. “He’s been training harder than anyone.”

Richard shrugged, his broad shoulders easing. He reached for a slice of toast and buttered it with precise strokes, never taking his eyes off Max until he looked away.

Michael leaned back, balancing on one foot of his stool, and grinned. “He’s just nervous about the ceremony, right? Maybe second thoughts?”

Max’s pulse slammed against his ribs. He stared at Michael’s half-eaten plate, then, without thinking, snatched a piece of toast. The crust crunched in his hand as he brought it to his mouth. “I slept fine,” he said, muffled.

Michael’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “You’re an ass.”

“Both of you, behave,” Emily said, her tone firm but warm as she turned back to the stove. The pop and hiss of bacon echoed in the wide room.

Max tore off a corner of toast and chewed slowly, feeling the dry crumb catch between his teeth. He glanced at the windows, where the Bloodclaw forest stretched in endless green waves. The distant pines swayed gently, oblivious to the storm brewing in his chest.

Richard rose and crossed to stand beside him. The alpha’s shadow fell across the island, and Max felt smaller under that weight. “You need to be ready,” Richard said, voice low. “The pack expects their future Alpha to be in control.”

Max swallowed hard. He could taste the acrid tang of his own nerves, but he forced himself to meet his father’s gaze. Around him, the kitchen pulsed with normalcy: Emily humming as she flipped pancakes, bacon sizzling, coffee perking. For most people, this would have been an ordinary morning.

But for Max, every clatter of dishes sounded like a drumroll. Every hiss from the fireplace measured out the seconds until his life changed forever.

He straightened, set the toast down, and exhaled a slow breath. “I know,” he said, voice steadier than he felt. Then he stood, brushing crumbs from his shirt, and let the familiar warmth of the kitchen wrap around him as he prepared for everything to come.

After breakfast the cold morning air hit Max as they stepped outside, but it did little to clear his head. His mind, despite his best efforts, kept drifting back to the dream. To those wings. His heart hadn’t stopped racing since he woke up. He frowned, rubbing his chest absentmindedly as he slid into the passenger seat of Michael’s car.

Michael started the engine, but before he could shift into gear, the feeling hit him again. That same, tiny but unshakable pull. His grip tightened on the dashboard as a memory surfaced—one he hadn’t thought twice about before. Yesterday. Driving past The Plaza Hotel. He had felt it then, too. That same unnerving spike in his heartbeat. That same gut-deep instinct telling him to stop, to look, to—

But he had ignored it. He had brushed it off. And he was going to do the same thing now. Max exhaled sharply, shaking his head. It was just a dream. Nothing more. “Alright, let’s go,” he muttered, brushing off the lingering unease. Michael shrugged, throwing the car into gear. “If you say so.”

As they pulled out of the driveway, Max forced himself to focus on the day ahead. Not the dream. Not the girl with wings. Not the feeling that something was coming. It was just a dream. And that was all it would ever be.