Emma
I laughed.
It came out sharp and ugly, more like a bark than anything human, but I couldn’t stop it.
“A werewolf,” I repeated. “Right. Of course. That makes total sense. Next you’ll tell me I’m secretly a dragon too, just to round out the fantasy bingo card.”
“Emma—”
“No, seriously.” I threw my hands up, blankets slipping around my waist. “Do you hear yourself? I grew up in group homes. I had a broken wrist, a sprained ankle, and one really dramatic case of chicken pox. At no point did I sprout fur and terrorize the neighborhood.”
His mouth twitched, but he didn’t smile.
“Being a wolf isn’t like flipping a switch and suddenly growing fangs every time you stub your toe,” he said. “Most of us shift for the first time around childhood. Some sooner. Some later. And a few…” His gaze
