ENZO
THE CIGARETTE BURNED low between my fingers, the ember eating the paper to nothing. Two nights of running from a boy’s eyes—two nights of pretending his fear didn’t carve me open—had me lighting one after another until my tongue was ash and my chest was smoke.
The night air cut cold against my skin, but it didn’t touch the fire under it. My wolf paced, restless and hungry, tearing at the edges of my control, always circling back to the same thing. Tate.
The way he’d looked at me that night—not spitting fire, not trying to cut me down. Just fear. Like he’d finally seen the thing under my skin and understood monsters didn’t live under the bed. They lived here. They lived in me. They wanted him.
I should’ve let him go. Should’ve cut him loose the second his father’s debts were paid.
