Chapter 4

I shower and stand in front of my closet for an embarrassingly long time. What do you wear to meet a guy who makes your skin feel too tight and claims to know what you are?

"This is stupid," I mutter to myself, grabbing a simple sundress that Laura always says brings out my eyes. "It's not even a real date."

Mom raises her eyebrows when I come downstairs. "You look nice. Going somewhere?"

"Just meeting Laura for ice cream," I lie, and immediately feel guilty. I never lie to my parents. But how do I explain this... whatever this is?

"Have fun," Mom says, but there's something in her expression I can't quite read. Worry? Or something else?

The walk to Main Street gives me too much time to think. What if Clint was just messing with me? What if he doesn't show up? Worse, what if he does?

The ice cream shop is busy when I arrive, full of families and teenagers, but that feeling of being watched had gotten even stronger. I couldn’t shake that feeling.

I close my eyes and try to calm my racing mind and heart. The door chimes as someone enters, and I instinctively know it's him before I even turn around. It's like my body has developed some kind of Clint-radar overnight. When I open my eyes, he's standing there, scanning the shop until his gaze locks onto mine.

My breath catches. In the daylight, he looks even more striking, those green eyes somehow both warmer and more intense than I remembered. He's wearing a simple grey t-shirt that fits him perfectly and dark jeans. He looks normal, but also... not. There's something in the way he moves, fluid and purposeful, that sets him apart from everyone else in the room.

"You came," he says, sliding into the seat across from me. His voice sounds relieved, like he half-expected me to stand him up.

"I said I would," I reply, suddenly feeling defensive. "Though I'm not entirely sure why."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "I think you do know why. The same reason I knew I had to talk to you last night."

I fidget with my napkin, folding and unfolding it. "Look, can we just... start normal? Like, what's your last name? Do you go to school around here? Basic stuff before we get into whatever weird connection you think we have?"

"Harrison," he says. "Clint Harrison. And I graduated last year from Riverdale High." He studies my face. "You're Tiffany Annabelle Moore. You go to Westlake. You'll be eighteen in two weeks, on the 27th."

I freeze. "How do you know when my birthday is?"

"I know a lot of things about you, Tiffany." He leans forward, his voice dropping. "I know you've been having strange dreams. I know you feel restless when the moon is full. I know you've always felt like something was missing."

A chill runs down my spine. "Have you been stalking me?"

"No." He shakes his head firmly. "I promise you, it's not like that. It's..." He runs a hand through his hair, looking frustrated. "This would be so much easier if you'd been raised with your own kind."

"My own kind?" I repeat, my voice rising slightly. A couple at the next table glances over. I lower my voice. "What does that even mean?"

Clint looks around the crowded ice cream shop, then sighs. "Not here. This isn't a conversation we should have surrounded by people."

Part of me wants to get up and leave. This is too weird, too intense. But that same inexplicable pull I felt last night keeps me rooted to my seat.

"Then where?" I ask.

"There's a park two blocks from here. It's public enough that you'll feel safe, but quiet enough that we can talk privately." His eyes hold mine. "Please, Tiffany. Give me thirty minutes to explain. After that, if you want to walk away, I…I’ll understand.”

“Sure, why not? This place is making me feel on edge. Like I’m being watched for some reason.”

Clint's eyes dart to the window, and I follow his gaze. For a split second, I swear I see someone duck out of sight.

"You noticed it too?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, jaw tightening. "We need to go. Now."

The urgency in his voice sends a jolt of adrenaline through me. Without thinking, I stand and follow him toward the door. He doesn't touch me, but I can feel his presence close behind me, like a shield.

Outside, the summer air hits my face, but it does nothing to cool the strange heat building under my skin. Clint scans the street, his movements precise and alert, reminding me of a predator.

"This way," he says, guiding me with a gesture rather than a touch.

We walk briskly toward the park, neither of us speaking. The silence should be awkward, but it isn't. It's charged, electric, like the air before a storm.

The park is mercifully quiet, just a few people walking dogs or pushing strollers, none paying us any attention. Clint leads me to a bench partially shielded by a large oak tree.

"I feel ridiculous," I say as we sit down, leaving careful space between us. "Like I'm in some spy movie or something."

"I know this seems crazy," he says, his voice gentler than before. "But those people watching you, watching us, they're dangerous."

"Who are they?" I ask, hugging my arms around myself despite the warmth of the day.

"Rival packs," he says, then pauses, studying my face. "You really don't know anything about this, do you?"

"About what?" My frustration bubbles over. "You keep talking in riddles. Just tell me what's going on!"

He takes a deep breath. "Tiffany, you're not human. Not entirely. You're like me, a werewolf."

I stare at him for a long moment, then burst out laughing. I can't help it. Of all the things I expected him to say, this wasn't even on the list.