The morning after tasted like ash on her tongue.
She sat at the vanity in her aunt’s room—her room now—and stared at herself in the mirror. The girl in the glass didn’t look like a girl anymore. She looked like a predator who’d been caught mid-hunt, breathless and wild-eyed, the shame clinging to her like smoke. Her lips still looked swollen, her throat dry from gasping and begging in that alley when strangers had seen too much.
And the most dangerous thing about this hunger of hers was that she doesn't care who saw her or what she does when it gets a hold on her and when she is with her prey. It was only afterwards that she remembers and is shocked at it all. But by then, the deed was already done.
She remembered seeing a movie of a man who was bitten by a werewolf and gradually turne
