Werewolf short stories
His expression was softer than usual, his intense gaze fixed on me in a way that made my heart skip a beat.
“I thought you might need some air,” he said, stepping closer.
I gave a small smile. “You read my mind.”
He nodded, his eyes flicking to the forest beyond. “A lot’s been happening. I thought you might want to talk about it.”
I hesitated, unsure of where to even begin. But there was something about the way Dante looked at me—like he truly wanted to understand—that made me feel like I could be honest with him.
“I’m scared,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “Not of Orin, or even Cole. I’m scared of what’s inside me. Of what I almost became.”
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