Eli has been dying since he was four years old.That's when Christopher Hale bit him. Christopher was ten. Just a kid. But according to every law of werewolves Eli has ever been taught, to pass on the werewolf factor, you must be a true werewolf. Which means at ten years old, Christopher had already killed his husk.No one kills their husk at ten. Most don't even see it until sixteen. Most who try, die.Eli survived the bite, but he didn't survive unchanged. He grew up different. Memories that aren't his. Dreams of a life he never lived. A girl with pure silver eyes calling his name as she dies. A love that feels older than his own body.For twenty-two years, Eli has tried to be normal. To be loyal to the Order. To control the thing inside him that scratches and howls every time he looks at his own shadow — his husk. He's the weakest of his pack, the one who flinches when others fight. The one who still hasn't become a true werewolf.Because to become true, he has to do the one thing that terrifies him more than death: kill himself.But Johannesburg is not a normal hunting ground anymore. Vampires are evolving. The Order is lying. And on a rainy night, ten miles from safety, with black vampire blood drying on his jacket and his friends bleeding beside him, Eli finally asks the one question he's been too scared to ask for eighteen years.How was Christopher a true werewolf at ten?That question will ruin his life.Because the answer isn't that Christopher was strong. The answer is that there are werewolves who were never meant to be wolves at all. There are wolves bred to be pets. There are memories that are not memories, but leaks from a past life. And there is a girl he loved and watched die, who might not be dead at all.Eli thought his biggest problem was his husk. He was wrong. His biggest problem is who he was before he was Eli Cross — and who marked him to make sure he would never remember.He was bitten at four years old for a reason. And at twenty-two, he is finally going to find out why.*Some wolves are born. Some are made by killing. And some are made by being bitten by a ten-year-old boy who shouldn't exist.*