Nighttime came and I died.
The full moon was in two days. Leo lay restless on the bed, eyes open and staring blankly at the ceiling. It wasn’t that he was scared of turning. He’d turned at sixteen, earlier than most werewolves, but then he wasn’t like most.
This was the first time he was going to turn after he clocked eighteen. He shouldn’t be so worked up about it, but he couldn’t help thinking something would go wrong.
He sighed and turned on the bed. As much as he hated to admit it, loneliness was a thing that tore hard at his chest. He’d been alone for as long as he could remember, yet he couldn’t get used to the void—the feeling of uncertainty of what he was or what he might do.
And that’s why he stayed closed off. The experience from that night still haunted him: the raw pain of
