Chapter 11
Kara
9:50 PM.
I sit on my thin foam mattress—barely two inches thick, laid directly on the concrete floor—and pull my knees to my chest.
The wall calendar stares back at me. December 1st, circled in red marker. My own handwriting.
One hour and ten minutes until midnight.
One hour and ten minutes until my body tears itself apart.
And I'm going through it alone.
Of course you are. Did you really think it would be any different?
My skin burns. The temperature under my clothes is climbing—fever-hot, wrong, like something is trying to claw its way out from the inside.
My wrist still aches where Blake grabbed me. I press my thumb against the red marks, watching them turn white under the pressure.
I stand and peel off the skirt and blouse Sophia and Emma gave me. My fingers shake as I fold them carefully, tucking them under the mattress where they'll be safe. These are the only nice clothes I have. I can't afford to ruin them.
I pull on my oldest T-shirt instead—gray, riddled with holes in the armpits, so worn the fabric is practically transparent. Then threadbare sweatpants that have been washed so many times they're more holes than fabric. Finally, my ancient sneakers, the soles held on with duct tape.
Everything is ready to be destroyed.
Just like me.
Stop it. Stop thinking like that.
I sit back down and let my thoughts drift where I've forbidden them to go for so long.
Mom. Dad.
The memories come whether I want them or not.
---
[Ten Years Ago]
The apartment smelled like smoke and something sweet and chemical I didn't have a name for yet. Later, I learned it was meth.
"My little Kara, my little baby..." Dad sang, spinning me around the living room. His eyes were glassy—pupils huge and unfocused—but his smile was real. His love was real, even when nothing else was.
His hands were gentle as he twirled me. Careful. Like I was something precious.
Mom was in the kitchen, flour in her hair, tears streaming down her face as she sang "Happy Birthday" over a lopsided, half-burned cake. I was eight. The cake was a disaster. But she'd made it for me.
She'd tried.
Later that night, they fought.
Dishes shattered against walls. Mom screamed: "We owe them two hundred and fifty thousand! They'll kill us!"
Dad pulled her close, both of them sobbing. "I'll protect you. I'll protect both of you..."
I hid in my room, hands clamped over my ears, but I heard everything.
Their love was chaotic. Broken. Fucked up in every possible way.
But real.
---
[Present]
I wipe my eyes and reach under the mattress for the snow wolf plushie. Its white fur is matted and gray now, one ear half-torn from the times I clutched it too hard, trying not to scream.
"Once I shift," I whisper to it, voice cracking, "once I have power... I'll find them. I'll ask them why they left me here."
And if the answer is that they just didn't want me?
I shove the thought away. Tuck the plushie back under the mattress.
Not now. Survive tonight first.
I stand.
11:30 PM.
Time to go.
---
I don't use the door.
Instead, I push open the storage closet window—old, broken latch, easy to jimmy—and climb through. My feet hit the snow with a soft thump.
The December night is absolute darkness. Polar night has swallowed Alaska whole—no sun for weeks, no sun for weeks more. Only the aurora borealis provides light, green ribbons dancing across the black sky like ghosts.
The temperature is twenty below zero. But my skin is so hot that sweat soaks my back, freezing instantly in the wind.
Jesus Christ, this is insane. This is fucking insane.
But I walk anyway.
Twenty minutes through the woods. My breath comes in sharp gasps. My legs tremble—fear, cold, fever, all of it mixed together.
Wolves howl in the distance. Wild ones, not shifters. The sound makes something in my chest respond, something that isn't quite me.
My wolf.
The trees thin. The ground slopes.
And then I see it: the ice river bay.
A vast expanse of frozen water, reflecting the aurora's eerie green glow. The ice is thick—feet deep—and perfectly still.
I'm alone.
Completely, utterly alone.
Good. No one to see you if you scream. No one to see you if you die.
I check my phone. 11:50 PM.
Ten minutes.
My hands shake so hard I almost drop it.
Victoria's words echo: "Take off your clothes before you shift."
Right. Because that's the important part. Not dying. Just don't ruin the fucking clothes.
I strip.
Shoes first—the duct tape rips as I yank them off. My bare feet scream in protest as ice bites into them.
Then the T-shirt. Sweatpants. Underwear.
Naked in the snow.
If I were human, I'd be dead in five minutes. But my werewolf metabolism keeps me just warm enough to survive.
Barely.
I fold everything neatly—even ruined clothes deserve respect—and set the pile on a flat rock.
Then I kneel in the snow, hands pressed to the frozen ground.
My heart pounds. One hundred and eighty beats per minute. Fast enough to kill a human.
But I'm not human.
Not anymore.
The church bell tolls in the distance.
Midnight.
December 1st. I'm eighteen.
My spine cracks.
Not a pop. A violent, bone-deep snap that echoes across the bay like a gunshot.
I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out.
The shift has begun.
---
My spine explodes.
Every vertebra from neck to tailbone breaks and reforms in rapid succession. Crack-crack-crack-crack—like fireworks made of bone and agony.
I scream. The sound tears from my throat and bounces off the ice, sending crows scattering from distant trees.
Oh God oh God oh fuck oh FUCK—
My eyes burn like someone's poured acid into them. I blink, and when I open them again, everything has changed.
Colors fade—reds and oranges wash out to gray—but details sharpen. I can see individual snowflakes in the dark. Can see the texture of tree bark half a mile away. Can count the feathers on the owl circling overhead.
My pupils elongate. Brown bleeds to amber.
And then the smells hit.
Holy shit.
Caribou five kilometers north. I can smell their fear, their sweat. Insects hibernating under tree bark. Frozen earth beneath three feet of snow. The decay of last autumn's leaves. The chemical tang of my own terror.
Sounds amplify until I want to claw my own ears off. My heartbeat thunders like drums. Blood rushing through veins. An owl's wings cutting air a mile away. The groan of ice shifting on the bay.
Too much. It's too fucking much—
And through it all—pain.
Physical agony: bones snapping, muscles tearing, skin splitting like overripe fruit.
Sensory overload: my brain can't process this much input. It feels like my skull is going to crack open from the pressure.
Identity crisis: Am I still me? Am I still Kara? Or am I becoming something else? Something that will eat who I was and leave nothing behind?
I lose time. Five minutes feels like five hours. I pass out twice—jolted awake each time by fresh waves of pain that make me want to die.
Please. Please just let it stop. I can't—I can't do this—
My teeth fall out. I taste blood. New teeth grow in—longer, sharper, made for tearing flesh.
No. NO. I will not die here. I will not fucking die here.
I bite down—on snow, on my own tongue, I don't know—and hold on.
I survived ten years in that house. I survived Blake's cruelty, Asher's coldness, Cole's fake sweetness. I survived being frozen out in the snow, locked in closets, starved, humiliated, called Carrot like my real name didn't fucking matter.
I will survive this too.
The pain peaks. Everything goes white.