The third time I woke up in the forest, I woke up screaming.
I lurched upright in bed, the sound ripping itself out of my throat. Before I could swallow it, my hands clamped over my chest as if I could physically hold my heart in place.
For a moment, I couldn’t see the room.
All I saw was red.
The blood moon, swollen and obscene above the trees. The blur of teeth. The dark shape of Lucian’s wolf, massive and terrible, eyes gone black.
*You should be grateful.*
My father’s voice.
Heard over the sound of my own ribs breaking.
My breath caught on a sob.
The dim shapes of the real world slowly filtered back in—the outline of the wardrobe in the corner, the faint, pale light of pre‑dawn leaking around the curtains, the cool press of cotton sheets against my legs.
No forest.
No blood.
