CHAPTER 221

CHAPTER 221
AMARA

I let the words sit there between us—“I’m a werewolf too”—quiet but final, like I’d just confessed to being an alien from the planet Fluffernutter.

Cassie blinked once.

Twice.

Her mouth fell open, snapped shut, fell open again—like a goldfish that had just been told it was actually a flamingo and needed to start practicing its one-legged yoga.

Then her eyes ballooned so wide I was genuinely worried they might roll right out of her skull and bounce across the carpet like escaped marbles.

“Shut. Up.” The words came out in a strangled, high-pitched wheeze.

“Shut the actual fuck up, Willlow. No. Nope. Nuh-uh. You’re joking. You have to be joking. This is payback. This is revenge for that time in tenth grade when I told the entire lunch table you cried during the puppy episode of Bluey. Right? RIGHT?! This is karma coming for me. You’re punking me. You’re filming this. There’s a hidden camera. Where’s Ashton Kutcher? Where’s the ‘you’ve been punk’d’ banner?”

She stared at me, frozen, waiting for the punchline, the “gotcha,” the moment I’d crack and yell “kidding!” with a laugh track playing in the background.

When I didn’t laugh, didn’t crack, didn’t say “gotcha,” her face did this slow-motion collapse—shock melting into pure, unfiltered horror.

“No. Nope. Absolutely not. This is not happening. This is not my life. I’m not living in some kind of furry university. I go to class. I study. I drink overpriced coffee and complain about finals. I do not live in Werewolf Hogwarts. I refuse. I reject this reality. Where’s the red pill? Where’s the exit button? I just want to go home. I want my normal life back. I want my Netflix and my iced lattes and my ability to not wonder if my boyfriend is going to eat me on a full moon!”

Cass,” I said, the tiniest, most exhausted smile tugging at the corner of my mouth,

I’m not joking,” I said quietly, the words landing soft but final. “I’m a werewolf.”

Cassie’s eyes squinted, narrowing into thin, suspicious slits—like she was trying to sharpen the blurry edges of reality itself and catch the exact moment the lie would flicker across my face.

Her pupils darted over me, searching, dissecting, waiting for the tell: the twitch, the hesitation, the crack in the story that would let her exhale and say “aha, gotcha, this is bullshit.”

For a heartbeat she looked almost hopeful, like if she stared hard enough the impossible would dissolve into a bad joke.

Then the hope died.

I kept going before she could spiral again.

“I'm a Werewolf...Like Matt.....Like Alaric. Like… honestly, most of the people you’ve met here on campus.”

Cassie’s eyes were already huge, but they somehow managed to widen another fraction—like her brain was physically expanding to accommodate the information and still coming up short.

“But there’s more,” I continued,

“Of course there’s more. Why wouldn’t there be more!" she wheezed.

"Hit me with the rest. Is your middle name ‘Moonbeam’? Do you photosynthesize under full moons? Do you have a secret twin who’s a vampire? Just lay it all on me. I’m already dead inside—might as well make it official.”

“No secret vampire twin,” I said, smiling despite the sting in my eyes.

“No Moonbeam. No photosynthesis.
But apparently I’m half witch too.”

Cassie blinked.

Stared.

Blinked again.

“Shit. Shit. Shit,” she whispered, voice climbing with every repetition.

“It’s contagious, isn’t it? Oh my god—it’s contagious! You caught it from them! Like werewolf mono! Like supernatural cooties! I’ve been hugging you! Sharing drinks! Sleeping over! I’m infected! I’m going to start growing fur! I’m going to start howling at delivery guys! I’m going to crave raw steak and hate silver jewelry and—and—what if I start shedding on my favorite sweater? What if I start chasing cars? What if I start chasing my own tail? I don’t even have a tail yet and I’m already stressed about shedding on my wardrobe!”

She was half-laughing, half-hyperventilating now, hands flying up to her head like she was checking for sudden ears.

I couldn’t help it—I laughed.

Because even in the middle of her full-blown existential crisis,

Cassie was still Cassie—dramatic, sarcastic, spiraling so fast she could give a tornado whiplash.

“Cass,” I managed.

“It’s not contagious. I swear.” I kept my voice soft but firm, like I was talking her down from a ledge.

“You’re not going to grow fur. Or a tail. Or start chasing cars. You have to be born with it—or born into a bloodline like mine. You’re safe. You’re still one hundred percent human. No werewolf cooties. No supernatural mono. Promise.”

“You swear?” she whispered, voice so small it cracked on the last syllable.

“On every bad rom-com we’ve ever watched together,” I said, managing a smile through the tears that were stinging my own eyes now.

“Even the ones with the terrible endings that made us throw popcorn at the TV.”

She went quiet—really quiet—for the first time since I walked in.

I kept going before she could reboot.

I swallowed hard, throat tight, and leaned forward just enough to catch her eye.

“There’s… so much I have to tell you,” I said quietly, “and I don’t even know where to start.”

I paused, licking my lips—nervous habit I’d never quite shaken.

“I was adopted.”

Her head snapped up so fast I heard her neck pop.

“What?”

I nodded once, slow.

“My mom—the woman who raised me, who made my lunches and braided my hair and cried at every school play—she’s not my birth mom. I only found out recently. My real mom… my birth mom… was a super-powerful witch. Old bloodline, moon-tied magic, the whole ancient-coven thing—"

Cassie’s mouth parted, but no sound came out.

"And my dad…” I continued, voice dropping lower,

“he was a werewolf warrior. Full-blooded, pack-born, the kind of wolf who didn’t just defend territory—He wasn’t just strong—he was legendary. And somehow… those two people—witch and warrior—found each other. Loved each other. And made me.”

I gave a small, tired shrug,

“And Willow?” I said quietly, almost apologetically.

“That’s not my real name. My birth name is Amara.”

The silence that followed felt like the room had sucked all the air out of itself.

Cassie didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Just stared straight ahead at the wall like she’d been hit with a stun spell of her own.

For a long second she was completely still—then her head turned toward me in slow motion

“Okayokayokay. Let me get this straight.”

She threw both hands up like she was directing traffic at a five-car pileup on fire.

"Your name is Amara,” she repeated slowly, enunciating each syllable like she was defusing a bomb labeled “best friend betrayal.”

"Not Willow. I’ve been calling you Willow for years. I’ve yelled ‘Willow!’ in crowded hallways and campus quads for years—‘Willow, move your ass, the good table’s taken!’ ‘Willow, did you see what she posted?!’ ‘Willow, I’m dying, bring coffee!’— I’ve written ‘Willow + Cassie BFF 4eva’ on notebooks. I have photos labeled Willow. And the whole time you were secretly Amara the Werewolf-Witch Heir Apparent?"

Her hands flew up to clutch her own hair like she was trying to physically hold her skull together before it exploded.

“And your a Witch! Like, actual spell-casting, cauldron-bubbling, ‘eye of newt and toe of frog’ witch?! And your mom was Super Witch Supreme—
And your dad… your dad was Wolf Rambo? Like John Rambo but with fur, fangs, and probably a bandolier full of chew toys? Special Forces werewolf? Delta Fur-ce? My brain just blue-screened so hard I think I can smell burning RAM! There’s smoke coming out of my ears! I’m buffering! Loading… Loading… Error: reality not found. Please insert new universe and try again!”

She collapsed backward onto the mattress with a dramatic groan, arms splayed out like she’d just surrendered to the cosmic joke that was now her life.

“I can’t,” she wheezed at the ceiling.

“I literally cannot process this. You’ve been my best friend since we were eating paste in kindergarten, and now I find out you’re basically the unholy lovechild of Hermione Granger and Jacob Black with a fake name? Amara the ‘I could probably turn you into a toad if you eat my leftovers again’?”

"Cassie calm down...

She cut me off with another strangled laugh, then pointed one trembling finger at me.

"Calm down!  You’ve been lying about your name? To me? Your ride-or-die, your ‘let’s split the last slice of pizza and fight over the corner piece’ best friend? You let me call you Willow for years while you were secretly Amara..

What kind of friendship betrayal is this? I told you everything!

I told you when I got my period in math class! I told you when I kissed Jake Thompson behind the bleachers and immediately regretted it. And you’re sitting here like ‘oh by the way my name’s actually Amara and I turn into a wolf and also cast spells sometimes’ like it’s casual Friday small talk?!

So… what now? Do I call you Amara? Do I bow? Do I offer you my firstborn? Because I’m pretty sure that’s how witch deals work in the movies. Also, important question: can you turn my ex into a frog? Asking for a friend. The friend is me. I want him ribbiting in a pond somewhere.”

“No, Cass,” I said, brows furrowing as I actually considered it for a second.

“I can’t turn anybody into a frog. Well… at least I don’t think I can.” I paused, tilting my head like I was genuinely weighing the possibility.

“I mean… I’ve only just found out about the witch part. I haven’t exactly had time to test the ‘turn asshole exes into amphibians’ feature yet. But if I ever figure it out, he’s first on the list. Promise."

“I need to sit down,” she whispered, even though she was already sitting.

“No—wait—I’m already sitting. I need to lie down. No—wait—I’m on a bed. I need… I need a new reality. I need to speak to the manager. I need a refund. I need—”

She stared up at the ceiling for a long second, then rolled her head toward me, eyes still glassy but now glittering with that particular Cassie mix of betrayal and morbid curiosity.

“Okay, hold up,” she said, propping herself up on her elbows.

“If you were a werewolf this whole time, why haven’t I ever seen you shift? We’ve known each other forever. Forever, Willow.... Amara. We’ve slept in the same bed—multiple times—after sleepovers and that one disastrous camping trip we swore we’d never speak of again. We’ve partied together until sunrise. We’ve snuck out at 2 a.m. to sit on the roof and stare at the stars. We’ve shared hotel rooms, Airbnb couches, drunk Uber rides home. Not once did I see fangs. Not once did I see fur. Not once did you wake up in the middle of the night howling or scratching at the door like a golden retriever who really needed to pee. You never even shed! I’ve seen you lose an earring in my bed and spend twenty minutes looking for it, but no fur? No random claw marks on my favorite throw blanket? Explain. Now.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, tipping from accusation into something rawer—hurt, confusion, the kind of betrayal that only comes from realizing the person you trusted most kept the biggest secret of their life from you.

I sighed—long and slow—shoulders dropping.

This was going to be a long night.

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