The Moon Chose Me Twice
Not the sickly green of the tattoo, but the familiar, stormy gray of my mate.
He shifts and stumbles slightly.
"Charlie," he rasps.
"Kaleb," I breathe, dropping the knife. My hands are shaking so hard I can barely feel them.
He takes a step toward me, and I see it.
A deep, jagged slash runs across his ribs, cutting right through the fading tattoo. Blood is pouring from it, dark and fast. Another bite mark on his arm is weeping crimson.
He doesn't seem to feel it. His eyes are frantically scanning me, checking for injuries.