Flora's POV
I stared at the scene before me, my mind refusing to accept the absurdity of what I was seeing.
I was sprawled atop a naked, muscular, and devastatingly handsome man?
A suffocating sense of dread gripped my chest, making my limbs tremble. All my instincts screamed one word: Alpha.
"You disgusting pig! If you dare lay a finger on me, I swear I'll kill you!"
He clutched a thin blanket against himself, disheveling his dark brown hair in frustration. His thick brows drew together, temper brimming beneath a pair of glacial blue eyes that seemed to pierce into the depths of my soul.
His features were unrelentingly captivating—those high cheekbones, that aristocratic nose, and lips that might tempt even a saint to sin. Broad shoulders emerged from beneath the threadbare fabric, biceps taut as though sculpted from marble. Despite his undeniable allure, the flush that colored his cheeks seemed oddly... misplaced. I didn’t know why, but it unsettled me.
His hawk-like gaze locked onto mine, a predator ready to strike. Even his wolf growled low in threat, its feral presence heavy in the room.
Who was this Alpha? Why was he yelling at me? And most of all, where on earth was I, and how did I get here?
My eyes roved across the rundown apartment, and an unidentifiable stench—a revolting mix of sweat and neglect—soured the air, stinging my nostrils. God, someone hadn’t cleaned this place in days.
Then I saw it: a mirror tilted against the corner wall. And the reflection within it—
My breath caught.
The figure staring back at me was not me. It couldn’t be. The round, bloated face, framed by limp, oily hair; the barrel of a waist that could rival a keg; flabby arms thick as tree trunks. A hulking mass shrouded in layers of pale, unflattering flesh. Even the wolf beside her was stocky and cumbersome, its bulk a mirror to her grotesque proportions.
Who was this... creature?
A terrible thought formed in the pit of my stomach. No. No, no, no, no—this couldn’t be real.
Could it?
“Ah!”
I stumbled forward, nearly slipping on the wine-stained floorboards, desperate to get closer to the mirror. My hands pressed against the glass, trembling violently.
Every grotesque detail I saw screamed one horrific truth:
This was me.
“Goddamn it all,” I whispered, chest tightening as my reflection didn’t waver. How could this happen? Just yesterday, I had been a respected physician on the brink of promotion to Chief of Medicine. Yet overwork had torched out my heart like a flickering candle. One breath in the break room, then darkness. I should have been gone, my soul slipping quietly into eternal rest.
And now? Now I was alive, trapped in this insolent parody of a body. Memories—foreign, unwelcome—poured in like an unrelenting tidal wave.
The owner of this abhorrent vessel was named Flora Jones, the youngest daughter of the Beta to the Moonsea Pack. Yet no trace of dignity followed her bloodline. Flora was the pack’s shame, its scourge. Gluttonous, slothful, unkempt; the weight of her body rivaled the weight of her sins. And, unfortunately, those sins were many.
Worse still, she had a dazzling older sister, Elizabeth, beloved by the world. Graceful and admired, Elizabeth was perfection incarnate. She was also the fated mate to none other than Vincent, the Alpha of the Sunset Pack.
For a time, all seemed idyllic. Until one day Elizabeth died—betrayal etched firmly into the story, with Flora as its mastermind. Driven from the Moonsea Pack by those who mourned her sister, Flora turned her schemes elsewhere, coercing Vincent into marriage and thus securing her place as his Luna.
Or so she thought.
Because Vincent despised her.
Not only was Flora grossly overweight and irreparably slovenly, but her character reeked worse than the unwashed linens she consumed her days with. Deceit, selfishness, theft—it was no wonder the Sunset Pack, every single wolf within it, treated her with nothing but disdain. Vincent refused ever to touch her. Hell, he barely wanted to look at her. Their union was a mockery, her title meaningless.
A disgraceful villainess. That’s what she was.
And now, apparently, so was I.
Panic churned within me, bile burning the back of my throat. To have awakened here—like this—was no privilege. It was divine punishment.
Flora had made a plan. Tonight, she decided, Vincent would finally consummate their marriage. She elicited a potion from an herbalist—a potent aphrodisiac known as “Bliss.” Flora crushed the tablet into soup, surreptitiously spooned it into her husband’s hand, and waited for the right moment.
That moment was now—or would have been, if not for her rank incompetence. She had crept into his bed, misplaced confidence hefting her considerable weight. Yet the aged frame of the bed could not bear her mass; it collapsed under her graceless descent, waking Vincent immediately.
And here we were.
He stared at me, blanket clutched as though defending his dignity. His eyes seethed, looking at me as if he would tear me limb from limb the moment he regained his strength. To make matters worse, he reeked of unchecked lust, the heavy scent of his arousal permeating the room like a slap across the senses.
Oh, and beneath that threadbare blanket? He was still hard.
Lovely.
"Don’t you dare," Vincent snapped, his voice hoarse, a bead of sweat tracing down the sharp line of his jaw before catching on the swell of his heaving chest.
I swallowed hard, the pulse in my throat quickened. "Vincent, listen," I started, voice trembling. "This... this is obviously bad, but the potion you ingested is dangerous. If you don’t, uh, relieve the effects, you could—"
“Relieve it?” His laugh was a whip crack of contempt. "You think I'll relieve it with *you*?! Flora, I’d rather *die*. My Luna—*my* Luna died the moment Elizabeth did. You’re nothing more than a parasite!"
A muscle in his temple ticked beneath his flushed skin, but his body betrayed him. His wolf no longer snarled. It whimpered, curling weakly on the floor, the effects of the drug spreading too far, too fast for even them to resist.
"Vincent," I implored, "this isn’t about me or you. This is about survival. If you don’t give in, the results could be—"
“Get out!” he roared, though the command lacked velocity. He was fading fast, nostrils flaring as rage warred with raw agony.
“Fine!” I snapped, outwardly defiant but inwardly shaken. Before retreating, I turned back only to mutter one final warning, "Take care of it yourself, then. Or it won’t *work*… Ever. Again."
His piercing glare was the last thing I saw before ducking out. The hall swallowed me, my body trembling—not in fear, but in fury at this absurd reality I found myself dragged into. Would Vincent heed my warning? Or would his pride doom us all? Either option could end in disaster.
I could only hold out hope that fate had a kinder twist in store for me than it did for the Flora before.
