Molly
I wake up like my head has been used as a drum.
A sharp ache pulses behind my eyes, relentless and rude, and I groan as I blink against the bright light. The ceiling above me is wooden. Familiar. Too familiar.
I sit up slowly, pressing my palm to my forehead. Bad idea. The room tilts.
“What the hell,” I mutter.
I’m in the cabin. Our bedroom. The bed smells like wood and something warm and unmistakably Charles. My stomach twists.
Why does my head feel like this?
Then it hits me.
The woods. The necklace. The wolves.
My breath stutters.
The white one. The two brown ones. The black one with red eyes.
And then…
“No,” I whisper.
I shove myself off the bed, panic flooding in all at once as memories crash over me in vivid, horrifying detail.
The black wolf.
The bones cracking
