Evelyn
Ryland drives us to a motel, having nowhere else to go. All we knew was I couldn’t go back, so that didn’t leave many options. The motel was one of those you find on the highway in the middle of nowhere that looks like something a serial killer used to stalk their victims. The man behind the counter looked like he didn’t get much human interaction; he was awkward and made me feel uncomfortable.
Even after we were inside, I checked the locks and the windows, Ryland shook his head at my paranoia.
“What are you doing?” he asked as I checked the door once again.
“Checking the door, he gave me the creeps,” I say. Ryland shakes his head again, chuckling to himself.
“You’re in a motel room with a wolf, and that puny human gives you the creeps?” he scoffs.
“You don’t scare me. You’re
