Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 64392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
“I’m just wondering if they passed anything down to me.”
“Like what?”
“Like, I don’t know, diabetes, or some other sort of sickness.” Maybe a tendency to turn into a wolf if the right guy fucks me? I don’t add that, but I want to.
“You’re healthy, Channi. Always have been. Always will be. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
She sounds so confident.
I want to know what she knows. I’ve always been content to let her have her secrets before. I knew what happened to my mom, and though I used to think about my dad coming to get me, and saying he was sorry for leaving me with my cruel aunt and uncle, and used to make up all sorts of scenarios as to why he hadn’t come before… as I got older, I started to accept that he was never going to come.
“We need more beer,” she says. “Why don’t you run to the store, get me some of my magazines while you’re there.”
“Sure,” I say. “You want some of your cans too?”
She’s always had a taste for canned wine. She doesn’t like to indulge too often, though. Tries to hold herself to a higher standard than her drunk husband whose brain is so fried he barely knows where he is most days.
“Don’t try and butter me up.”
I miss Cain so much it hurts.
The dull ache that began when I first left Denholm has only increased with time. It is a physical pain that makes me feel weaker and stronger at the same time. Weaker, because it saps my energy. Stronger, because it is like an impetus to return to him. I find my steps turning toward his unseen form, many thousands of miles away.
“What are you doing!?”
My aunt’s irritated snap draws me out of what looks like my meandering in the field. I have been walking around in circles for almost an hour now, trying to decide what to do. I have to keep talking myself out of running back to him. I know he’d probably never forgive me, but I’ll only feel the way I felt with him when I’m with him again.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Trying to think.”
“What do you need to think about? That head of yours should be empty. It usually is.”
I’ve endured her barbs for years, so I really don’t know why that one hits harder than any of the others that came before it. I feel something inside me snap as I turn toward my aunt and words come out of my mouth. “I know what you are.”
Her eyes narrow at me. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
“I know what you are.” I repeat myself, this time with more intention. “I know what my mother must have been. I know.”
She pauses for a long moment, then snorts. “So that’s what you were doing off in the big city. Not getting work. Getting railed.”
I let her crude intimation slide, because it is confirmation that she knows, and that is what matters. I am not trying to get into a fight with my aunt. I am trying to find out who the hell I am. You don’t just meet the nicest, hottest man of your life—well, he was mean at first, but then he turned nice—and then sleep with him, and then find out you’re a wolf, and then a substandard wolf. And then… well. I know the rest. But I also know I need to find out so much more. My aunt, love her or hate her, has the answers I need.
“Come inside,” she says. “We need to talk.”
I follow her inside with very limited hope. I know she’s not going to just tell me what I want to know. That would be far too nice and far too helpful of her. I know she’s going to mess with me, tell me what she wants me to know, and nothing more than that. But if I’m smart, it might be possible to get more information out of her than she thinks she is giving me. My aunt is mean, but she’s also stupid sometimes, and that’s one of her best qualities.
“She finally knows what she is, Dale.”
My aunt makes the announcement with just a hint of cruel triumph.
“Is that right, Ruby?” My uncle’s response could indicate he knows what she’s talking about, or he might not have a clue. It might just be one of his rote phrases that he rotates through. He moves a shaking hand toward his beer and takes a long, slurping drink. I hate the sound, but like most disgusting things in this house, it’s hard to avoid.
Colton laughs at me. It’s not a pleasant sound. I’ve been staying clear of him since he came home. He’s probably going to end up on house arrest. Sounds like he fucked up this time. Right now, his charges are pending. He doesn’t care about that, though. He never has. Colton is a few years younger than me, and he was never a nice kid. He has too much of my aunt and uncle in him.