Chapter 1: The White Dress and the Wolf

My stepbrother Julian Locke likes to see me in long hair and a white dress. He claims what he enjoys most is watching me cry—like it’s his own twisted entertainment, or maybe something deeper I don’t want to name.

Some days, I’d catch him watching me from the doorway of our Gold Coast mansion just north of downtown Chicago, his eyes shadowed and impossible to read, as if he could see through every mask I wore. The air between us would spark with an unspoken tension, especially when his gaze lingered a little too long on the hem of my American Eagle dress or the way my hair spilled down my back.

That afternoon, when the house was empty except for us, he leaned in so close I could smell his aftershave—something sharp and expensive—and whispered, "Avery, I want you all to myself in a place that’s just mine. I want to hear you play piano every morning."

His voice was soft, almost like he was embarrassed by his own words, but there was a possessive edge that made my skin prickle. For a split second, I felt like I was teetering on the edge of a cliff, but I didn’t step away.

I grinned, eyebrows raised, looped my arms around his neck, and teased, "Julian, do you want a copycat canary or a rebellious lark?"

I felt his breath catch, the tension snapping for just a second before he ducked down and kissed me, sudden and rough.

I kissed him back, my laughter bubbling out—not the quiet kind, but wild and breathless, the kind that left my cheeks streaked with tears.

That laughter wasn’t just joy. It was defiance, a dare to fate. My tears sparkled in the sunlight, but inside, I was laughing at the world for thinking it could box me in.

But I’m not a canary or a lark. I’m a stray wolf—untamable, always hungry for more.

Sometimes I think Julian knows that. Maybe that’s why he can’t look away.