He’s made it abundantly clear I’m nothing to him.
I run until my lungs burn and my legs tremble, finally stopping by a small stream to catch my breath. The water reflects my face back at me, and I gasp at what I see.
My eyes have changed—the pupils have elongated into slits, and they are more silver than their usual gray. Combined with my clawed hands, the effect is startlingly inhuman.
The claws retract slowly as my heartbeat steadies, and my eyes gradually return to normal. By the time I splash cold water on my face, I look like myself again.
And underneath the physical changes lies the more disturbing question: why did seeing Damien with someone else affect me so strongly? He’s been nothing but cruel since I arrived. I should be indifferent, or maybe even glad, that he has an outlet for his aggression other than tormenting me.
Instead, I wanted to tear them apart.
To stake a claim, I have no right to make.
“I’m losing my mind,” I mutter, pushing wet hair back from my face.
28
Luna
Notebook: Home is a dangerous word when you’ve signed a three-year contract.
Istep back and survey the long wooden tables we’ve arranged on the lawn behind the main building of the tenants’compound, my hands on my hips, wondering if I’ve finally lost my mind.
Me, Luna Woods, hosting a community dinner?
The same Luna who used to eat alone in the corner of The Shifter Institute’s dining hall?
But there’s something about this place and these shifters. They have been through hell and survived. And even if life was unfair to them, they didn’t let that dull their spirits.
They are not survivors.
They are heroes.
I smooth down the checkered tablecloths one last time and take a deep breath. “It’s just dinner,” I mutter to myself.
But it’s not just dinner.
It’s the first time I’ve ever felt like I could create something… good. Something that matters.
Everyone is helping out. Some cook; others rearrange furniture and bring extra chairs from their cottages. I check the large pots of stew simmering over the outdoor fire pit, a hearty venison recipe I learned from my mom. My contribution looks pathetically small next to the dishes others have promised to bring, but it’s something.
I’ve never been much of a cook. The Institute offered mandatory culinary classes, but I was able to drop them because I tended to burn everything. Because of my “attitude,” I had to take extra courses on obedience and “How to Please Your Future Alpha” seminars.
The first to arrive is old Mrs. Finch, a tiny shifter with a bent back and cloudy eyes. I rush to help her with the covered dish she carries.
“My, don’t you look lovely tonight, dear,” she says, patting my hand. “Such a pretty thing.”
I snort. I’ve never been called pretty before.
“May I ask what happened?” I ask Mrs. Finch, nodding towards her scarred arm.
The older female pulls up her sleeve to reveal more scars. “Wolf, thirty years ago. Trying to kill me. Nearly took my hand.”
I blink in surprise. “What happened to him?”
Her smile is all teeth. “I took his head.”
Holy shit.
