Less than a second, and I’m at her side, staring in horror at the deep cut on the back of her forearm. My knife drips a delicate crimson stream, seeming to enjoy what it stole from her.

“What happened?” I press my bare hand against the wound, desperate to keep any more of her from leaking out.

Zoey stares up at me with wild, confused eyes. “Why can’t I wake up?”

The desperate words are their own kind of blade stabbing deep into my chest.

“This isn’t a dream, Zoey.”

Moving slow, so as not to scare her, I ease the knife out of her grip. I toss it into the woods, not able to look at the weapon a moment longer. With careful hands, I extend her arm and examine the wound. The slash is long, but not as deep as I first thought. Quickly, I strip my shirt off again and wind the fabric tightly around the wound, hoping to staunch any further bleeding.

“You keep stripping,” she mutters, gaze still distracted.

A tiny flare of hope streaks through my chest. Maybe she isn’t completely terrified of me. Maybe I can save this.

But the second I’m done tying off my shirt, Zoey steps away from me, heading farther down the dark road. I follow.

Guilt tears at my insides. She cut herself because of me. I should’ve done more to prepare her for the change. Or done a better job of convincing her to leave me to deal with the mountain lion. Instead, I gave in to my secret desire to share every part of myself, and now, she won’t look at me.

It’s hard for me to fully comprehend how outlandish this is for her. The existence of werewolves has always been a truth in my life. The supernatural is my norm.

I glance over and clench my jaw at the sight of her walking with her arms wrapped around herself protectively, head bowed, a slight limp to her walk. What I wouldn’t give to go back in time, reverse the clock fifteen minutes, when I had her body against mine, her laughter in my ear, her lips on my neck.

Zoey probably wants to reverse the clock for a whole different reason.

She just learned the world she’d thought she knew has more hidden bits to it. Dangerous, frightening secrets.

“You can ask me questions,” I offer, “if you want.”

Anything to get her talking again. But she seems uninterested in my olive branch as time and silence stretch between us. Just as I’m contemplating tearing out my hair by the roots, she speaks.

“How long have you …” She waves a hand, taking in the whole of me while keeping her eyes resolutely on the ground.

“Born this way. Although I didn’t turn for the first time until I was thirteen. A whole other level of puberty.”