The scent of damp earth and pine needles clung to Valaria as she pressed herself deeper into the shrub, her muscles coiled, ready to spring.

“Well Fuck!” she muttered, the expletive a rare visitor to her lips, but this situation? This called for an F-bomb or two.

Her mission was simple: gather intel on the new wolf pack in town. Valaria, a panther shifter and head enforcer of the Westingdale Pride, had been sent by the council to assess the threat. It sounded mundane, yet here she was, hiding inches from a colossal wolf—twice the size of any she’d ever seen—who was now, astonishingly, shifting.

Bones cracked, muscles stretched, and fur dissolved into the air. Before her stood a man, over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, and sculpted to perfection. His eyes, once gold in wolf form, were still piercing, fixed on her hiding spot.

Then, he took a step forward, and Valaria’s breath hitched. Inches from her face, was the last thing she expected to see: a thick, long, and very proportionate… well, she didn’t need to elaborate. His scent—lemongrass and a deep musk—hit her, and her panther stirred, a low growl rumbling in her mind. Lustful. "Stupid cat!" she thought, but even her human form felt a flutter. This was not going to be simple.