In the weeks—months, even—following the death of my parents, I couldn't sleep. Neither could Killian. I was in constant fear that the werewolves would come back in the middle of the night to kill me and my brother. It was as if the werewolves were still out there, lurking in the shadows, watching and waiting for the perfect moment to strike. I would sit on my bed, crossed legged and back against the headboard, clutching Mr. Teddy close to my chest as I kept my eyes on the door. The lights would always be on, of course. Sometimes, if I strained my ears hard enough and held my breath, I would hear quiet sobs coming from the next room—Killian's room.
I hated it. I hated everything about it. I hated that Killian was suffering, that he was crying. I hated that I knew he was crying and that the
