KADE
I was allergic to apples. Not because it was some mystical werewolf thing or ancient curse. It was trauma, plain and simple. Trauma that affected my wolf so deeply we could barely function around the fruit.
When I was eight years old, I watched my mother choke to death on an apple slice. I was sitting at the kitchen table doing homework when I heard her gasping, saw her hands clawing at her throat. My father tried everything—the Heimlich, his fingers down her throat, screaming for help—but nothing worked. She died on that kitchen floor with that piece of fruit lodged in her windpipe, her eyes wide and terrified, staring right at me.
Ever since then, my wolf couldn't handle apples. The sight, the smell, the taste—it sent us spiraling into panic. Memories of blood on linoleum, my mot
