Tangled in Moonlight: Unshifted novel Chapter 3

[WARNING: Sensitive content ahead.]

Days pass with little regard for the anxiety building in my belly every time I crawl into bed at night, watching the phases of the moon, wondering what this next

chapter of life will look like.

Aside from a brief shopping excursion with Jessa–who ignores me almost the entire time and scoffs at every dress I try on–I don’t leave the house except for school and work, trying to avoid trouble.

I spend any spare moment I can manage picking up extra shifts at Beaniverse to help pay for the atrocious bill at the mall. Who spends three hundred dollars on a dress? But Jessa insisted that it was the only one that didn’t make me look like I was wearing a silk potato sack.

Lisa’s busy, too, so our texts are few and far between, mostly complaining about work and school.

My family’s indifference weighs on me like a thick

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blanket, but beneath it, a tiny bud of hope sprouts- maybe, just maybe, I’ll make it to the gala without incident. A week remains before the event that could change my life, or just as likely, confirm my place as the outcast.

Today, like the rest of the past two weeks, appears to be yet another day of unsettling peace as I head home after class with groceries in my passenger seat.

Phoenix is stopping by for dinner, so I have his favorites on the menu–a creamy garlic and parmesan roasted chicken, paired with bacon–wrapped brussels sprouts tossed in maple syrup and balsamic vinaigrette.

It sounds fancier than it is, but it really is delicious, thanks to the internet recipes I’d found years ago.

As the appointed alpha heir to the Blackwood Pack, Mom always fawns on Phoenix. Dad was thrilled enough that he had a son with alpha potential, but when Alpha Renard’s last son was killed in a small skirmish with renegade wolves and Phoenix was named heir, he strutted more like a peacock than a wolf for at least a month afterward.

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One day he will be Alpha Phoenix Blackwood, but for now, he’s still a Grey.

I juggle the flimsy plastic grocery bags with the grace of a dying fawn as I make my way into the empty house.

The peace of these past few weeks must have rotted the self preservation sphere of my brain, because I don’t pay any attention to my surroundings as I unlock the front door and walk in.

As I step further inside, a breeze tickles my neck and the door slams with a force that can only mean trouble, bringing a familiar and unwelcome scent to my nose.

Todd Mason, my childhood bully and ever–present tormentor, is here. Inside. With me. Right now. Ready to finish what he’d started a couple weeks ago.

He stands right in the entrance of my home, his face twisted into a sneer that chills my spine. I can’t even step away as my brain struggles to catch up to the situation, watching as he reaches behind him to lock the door.

“I hear umu’ve hoon nloving princess thinki

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being sent to find some fuckwit willing to take you as a mate.” His voice drips with malice as he steps forward, slapping a hand against my chest.

My back slams against the wall with a dull thump, and Todd’s hand circles my neck, lifting me until I’m standing on the very tips of my toes.

All the bags fall to the floor, and for a moment my idiot brain focuses on the apples that thud against

hardwood. They’ll be bruised. We’ll have to eat them faster than I expected.

“What makes you think you’re good enough for the gala, huh? You think you can ever escape our pack?” His breath is hot and tuna fresh on my face, and I turn away, repulsed.

His other hand slaps against my cheek, forcing me to face him again. He growls every word, rejoicing as they stab into all my insecurities, bleeding me of all those precious hopes and dreams I’ve kept in secret. “Do you actually believe anyone would want you? A wolfless freak like you? You’d be rejected in a heartbeat.”

My heart pounds against my ribcage, a trapped bird desperate for escape. His grip tightens in response to

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my struggle, and my mouth opens as I begin to pant for air.

“Defective,” he hisses right into my ear, and I can feel his tongue flick over it. I shudder, bile rushing into my throat, making it even harder to bring air to my burning lungs. Punches, kicks, scratches–those, I’m used to. Rocks thrown at my head. Jeers and taunts. But this? This isn’t the torturous game I’m used to.

Anger flickers through my limbs as I grab onto his forearm, scratching long, angry swathes down his skin. I try to kick, but he steps in closer, pinning my legs against the wall with his weight. Sadistic prick.

“Get off me,” I hiss, jerking my entire body and trying to ignore the hard evidence pushing against my belly of exactly how much he’s enjoying this moment. “If any bruises show, Dad’s going to be furious. You really want to piss off your beta that much?”

Normally, Dad doesn’t give a shit when I come home with bruises, but now the gala is just around the corner. If his youngest daughter showed up with bruises all over, there might be questions.

Todd hesitates, his fingers flexing around the tender

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skin of my throat, and I lower my eyes. A long time ago, I would refuse to submit, taking every abuse thrown my way and plotting revenge. That was before I learned that real life is nothing like the storybooks we are raised on.

If he’s looking for submission, I can give him it all day long. Whatever lets me live to tomorrow. Whatever keeps his dick in his pants and out of mine.

“Please,” I whimper, infusing the sound with a little vibrato, as though I want to cry. I tilt my head further back, baring my neck to him.

Todd loves that. His growl of approval sends revulsion shuddering through every millimeter of my skin, and I struggle to keep my face blank as he sniffs beneath my left ear, licking the crescent–shaped scar on my neck. in a long, slow drag of saliva and mayonnaise–slathered

fish.