Elara's POV
The mark is still there when I wake up.
I spent half the night scrubbing at my chest with soap and a washcloth until my skin was raw and red. I tried makeup remover, nail polish remover, even a Magic Eraser. Nothing worked. The silver crescent moon and star are embedded in my skin like a tattoo, glowing faintly whenever the shadows get too dark.
Now, at eight in the morning, sitting on my dorm room floor with my back against the bed and my knees pulled to my chest, I'm staring at it through the neck of my shirt.
It's real.
It's actually real.
"I'm not crazy," I whisper to myself. "I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy."
But I am. I have to be. Because the alternative is that werewolves are real, that I'm descended from one, and that a two-hundred-year-old manuscript in a universi
