“Say that again.”

“I shouldn’t,” he says. “But you already know. You’re it.”

I hold him, my anchor. His presence a salve. His scent like magic to me.

XIII

We fall asleep on the couch, and in the morning he makes coffee and eggs.

“I love your house,” I tell him, looking around. “It’s a good house.”

“Thanks,” he says. “I haven’t even shown you the best part.”

He takes my hand and opens a door tucked back near the pantry. He leads me down the stairs into the basement. When he turns on the light, I feel faint.

The vault. He mentioned it in passing the first night I was here, but I’d forgotten about it. It’s an old-fashioned bank vault, with the thick round metal door. The door is open, and inside is a small room lined with deposit boxes. I step inside.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

The door must be two feet thick. More, maybe. There’s another door, too. A set of metal bars. There’s a lock on them.

“Does it work?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“The lock? Could you lock someone inside?”

“Are you concerned I’m going to kidnap you? Because I think I’d be the first suspect. Wouldn’t take very long for someone to figure out.”

“I’m serious,” I say. “Does it lock?”

“Yeah,” he says. “It locks. But you don’t have to worry. I’m not going to put you in the vault.”

I genuinely do not know whether to laugh or cry.

Is there a more perfect place for me to be during a full moon than locked in a basement bank vault?

Probably not!

Would that mean having to tell my new boyfriend I’m a werewolf?

Yep!

“This is cool,” I say.

“I thought about maybe turning it into a bar,” he says. “Haven’t gotten around to it.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a use for it.”

When I tell Scarlett about it that afternoon, she says, “Kismet.”

I can’t tell if she means it or is only saying what she thinks I want to hear. She’s tired and swollen and distracted.

“When do you think I should tell him? How do I tell him? Do I bring it up casually, like ‘So, do you believe in ghosts? What about werewolves?’ Then, like, surprise!”

“I don’t know,” she says, shifting around, adjusting a pillow. “Sorry. I’m so uncomfortable, I want to climb out of my skin.”

She’s not interested in anything I have to say right now.

I decide against telling her about Mia. I can’t stomach the possibility that Scarlett will take some satisfaction in having her dislike of Mia validated. Despite everything Mia’s done, I feel a strange compulsion to protect her. I care about her. That’s why this sucks so much.

I want to hate her. I should hate her. But it just isn’t that simple.

I drove past her dad’s house on my way home. Her van wasn’t there.

I wouldn’t be surprised if she skipped town. If I never hear from her again.