Chapter 4

His expression darkened. “Trust me. I wasn’t trying anything.”

“Oh, right,” I scoffed, flipping the switch into my mockery mode because it was the only way I could breathe at that moment. “You just accidentally beat up my ex because of me, huh? Totally unplanned.”

Milo’s jaw ticked.

“I didn’t plan to do it, I couldn't control it.” he said. “It just… happened.”

“Oh, wow!” I said sarcastically.

He sat up again, slower this time. The room fell quiet.

“It’s not easy to explain…Gal” he muttered.

“Try, I am not daft.” I challenged him.

He met my eyes at that moment.

And then, after a moment of silence for so long I thought he wasn't going to tell me anything after all , he said it.

“I’m a werewolf.”

“A were ... .what?” I laughed.

Then I stopped when I saw that he wasn’t smiling.

He wasn’t joking.

“Milo,” I said, breathless, “…what? You’re serious?”

He nodded once.

My stomach twisted.

I felt the onset of a headache instantly.

“You mean, like… claws, a howling kind of real werewolf?”

“I mean exactly that.” He nodded.

I stared. “Okay. Prove it.” I blurted out without even.

He hesitated. “It’s not something I do for fun, Gal.”

“Well I’m not going to believe you just because you said it with your broody eyes and ‘I’m tortured’ voice.”

He stared at me for a long time.

Then stood.

“Fine,” he said. “Just… don’t freak out.”

Too late.

I watched him move to the center of the room, jaw clenched, body tense.

And then it started.

His back arched. Fingers curled into claws. Bones cracked and his body twisted in ways that were not human. His eyes turned gold. His skin rippled. Fur burst through his arms and neck.

And then, there he was.

A wolf.

Massive. Sleek. Gray and black fur, golden eyes, chest heaving.

I took a step back, heart hammering. “Oh… my God…Milo.”

He growled softly; not menacing, but intense. Like he was fighting himself.

I stared, fascinated and horrified.

Then he stepped toward me.

I held my breath.

And then his teeth, his fangs, bared, not quite a snarl, but definitely not safe. He lunged too fast at me for me to move.

His mouth clamped lightly on my shoulder.

Not biting. Not really.

But close enough.

I didn’t scream. I couldn’t.

I felt the heat of his breath. The weight of his body. The animal in him.

But then he jerked back, shaking, snarling as if at himself.

A strange whine echoed from his throat, almost… apologetic.

And then he leapt backward, turned toward the window, growling low.

The human Milo returned in a flash of light and bone and collapsing limbs. He stumbled, shirtless, sweating, on the floor.

“Go,” he rasped, chest heaving. “Get out…now.”

I didn’t wait.

I bolted.

Ran straight through the living room, out the door, and down the stairs. My breath tore out of my lungs as my feet slapped the pavement.

When I reached the hallway of our building, I finally stopped, clutching my knees, panting.

My heart was thundering like it wanted to run out of my chest.

It wasn't easy to believe; Milo Landry was not what I thought.

After I got home, I sat on the edge of my bed for what felt like half an hour, just... thinking.

Staring at the wall.

No music. No scrolling. No distractions.

Just my brain, going over everything like a deranged detective stringing up red yarn.

Milo is a werewolf.

Not figuratively. Not “oh, he’s a beast on the field” or “his eyebrows are out of control.” No.

Like actual fur and fangs werewolf. With claws. And growls. And yellow glowing eyes that stared into my soul like they knew every embarrassing secret I’d ever tried to bury.

And he bit me.

‘Okay…okay,’ I told myself. ’Not a full chomp.’

But his teeth were on my shoulder, and I was not emotionally built for that kind of horror movie.

I let out a strangled noise and flopped back on my bed, covering my face with a pillow.

This was not how I expected my week to go. I thought the worst thing I’d be dealing with was getting tagged in that slap video all day.

Nope.

Werewolf.

In my neighborhood.

In my classroom.

In my kitchen, sometimes he eats my mom’s lasagna.

“God,” I muttered into the pillow. “What is going on?”

After a few more minutes, I decided I didn’t want to think about it anymore.

Thinking was exhausting.

Thinking made it real.

So I got up and forced myself out of my room.

Distraction. That was what I needed.

I remembered Mom had been gently hinting that I should help reorganize the pantry.

Fine.

I rolled up my sleeves and opened the door to our pantry-slash-chaos closet. One hour, four sneezes, and two near-death encounters with expired tomato paste later, I had it almost done. Alphabetized. Labeled. Sparkling.

Then I turned to the kitchen and attacked it like it had personally offended me. I wiped down every surface, reorganized the spice rack, cleaned out the fridge, and mopped like my soul depended on it.

By the time my arms were sore from lifting and scrubbing, I had almost convinced myself that I wasn’t spiraling. That I wasn’t worried about Milo or wolves or golden eyes or being almost-bitten.

Nope. I was only furious.

“Stupid,” I hissed as I jammed a wet towel into the bucket. “Arrogant. Smirking. Mysterious freak of nature…”

I stopped, breathless.

A strange, sour unease coiled in my chest.

How the hell could someone like that… literally a monster, live among humans?

With us?

Next door?

“How…? God.” I whined, grabbed the bucket and dumped it in the sink. “Whatever. Not my problem,” I muttered.

Just as I twisted the faucet off, I heard the rumble of my mom’s car pulling into the driveway.

Great.

Now I had to pretend I was totally normal and not suffering an identity crisis brought on by a mythical creature I grew up playing tag with.