“I’m tryin’ to get some fucking rest for once,” he roared, pushing her away. The girl ducked down before he could hit her. “If you can’t keep quiet— ” He stopped, realizing that something was amiss. She glanced around for a hiding spot and slipped inside the closet.

For a while, that was it. She hugged her knees and breathed through the musty scent of old clothes. When the screams started, she began counting. The people in the house always called her stupid, but she could go up to a thousand, and the numbers in her head, stacked one after the other after the other, covered the wails of pain, the snarled insults, the sounds of snapping bones. She kept silent, even as the noises grew closer and louder.

Two hundred and five. Two hundred and six. Two hundred and—

A pool of viscous blood seeped in from under the door, and the child could no longer control herself. Her gasp ricocheted off the walls of the overstuffed closet before she could cover her mouth. She knew then that she was as good as dead.

No. No, no, no.

Trembling, she bit her lip and prayed to her mother’s old god. In the darkness, she could not make out the color of the blood. Stay calm, she told herself, shrinking into a pile of ancient blankets. The pleas had stopped a whole minute earlier, but there was still movement all over the house. Maybe it was her mother. Maybe she was coming upstairs to look for her—

The closet door opened abruptly. A dark figure stared down at the girl, its tall silhouette framed by a glowing halo from the ceiling light.

He was Death. Who Death would be if it were a person.

Seized by terror, the girl opened her mouth and filled her lungs with air, ready to scream. But the man lifted his finger to his lips, and the simple command froze her.

“Not a huge fan of shrieks,” he explained, coming closer. Behind him was the corpse of the Were she’d tried to warn, forest-green liquid oozing from the gash in his neck.

And she was going to be next.

“Don’t beat yourself up. It’s not because you made noise.” Death’s voice was a low rumble cutting through the silence. He seemed distracted, glancing around the room, as if looking for something he may have misplaced. “I could smell you the second I walked inside.” He crouched down to her height, carelessly stepping in blood.

The child’s teeth chattered with pure fear. Beg, a voice ordered. Beg him. But her mouth wouldn’t open.

“You up there?” someone yelled from the first floor, and the girl jerked. She tried to be brave, but tears began streaming down her face. The man noticed, and his expression became displeased, just like Mother’s had when the girl used to complain about their new life.

Weak. Crybaby. Selfish.

He reached for her with a sigh, and she screwed her eyes shut. In the riot of her heartbeat, she wished only for the end to be quick. Let it be quick. It can be painful as long as it’s quick.

But then a thumb gently wiped tears from her face, and her eyes sprang open.

“Hey!” Another voice traveled up the stairs, closer this time. “Anything you need?”

The man’s dark eyes held hers. He sighed again. “Call the social worker.”

“Shit. How many this time?”

“One.” The man’s jaw ticced as his finger did one last pass.

“Don’t cry. Or do, if you like. But it’s better this way. I sincerely hope that this will be the worst day of your life.” His lips curved in a small smile. “When’s the last time you ate?”

She blinked, taken aback by the change of topic. Truth was, she couldn’t remember. Yesterday? Two days ago?

“C’mon. Let’s get you something warm.” He held out his arms, and since the child couldn’t avoid the sticky green puddle on her own, she let him pick her up, not sure why she was allowing a murderer to carry her downstairs. Maybe he helped Mother, too, she thought, knowing that the man was strong enough for the task.

Yes, he certainly had. She was sure that they were going to her right now. So she buried her face in the stranger’s neck and let his slow heartbeat lull her to calm. And since she was able to, she started to count to a thousand once more.

CHAPTER 1

She tore him apart and remade him.

It took her less than a second.

Present day

IF SUCH A THING AS AN IDEAL NIGHT TO DIE EXISTED, IT WOULD not be this one.

There’s so much wrong with it. I could bitch about the recent rainstorm, the weak garlic-clove-sized moon, the uncharged phone sitting on my nightstand. The main issue, though, is that I’m wearing no more than two items of clothing: undies and a camisole. They were both perfectly adequate underneath my fluffy comforter. Unfortunately, I left that back at the cabin. When I woke up at one a.m. to the realization that someone was breaking in.

It’s fall. In a place that a year or so ago— back when I still foolishly believed I was Human— I would have called Oregon. Now that my Were genes are taking over, stuff like cartography and state lines have become comically trivial, but the crux of the matter remains: November in the Northwest is cold, and I’m not dressed appropriately.

The goddamn timing, I mouth to myself, darting behind the gnarly trunk of a Douglas fir. Chest heaving, I stare down at my very Human-shaped hand. I visualize the change, willing my bitten- to- the-quick nails to turn into claws.

Shift into a wolf, Serena. Shift into a fucking wolf, or I swear to God that . . .

That nothing. My body refuses to be shamed into compliance. I glance up at the sky, but the much-publicized pull of the moon offers only the most apathetic of tugs. With a muted groan, I resume my sprint through the forest, bare feet slipping through fresh mud. A dozen little cuts crisscross my soles and shins. The longer I run, the fainter my hope that the soil will conceal the iron scent of my blood.

And I’ve been running for a while.

The intruder is tracking me. Gaining ground. The wind carries his ever-closer smell, and I don’t like what it tells me. Vampyre. Adult in his prime. Eager. The thrill of the chase titillates him, and his arousal scrapes against the bottom of my stomach. As revolting as that is, though, it’s the least of my problems. Because if I can smell him this clearly, there’s a very high chance that he’s close enough to—

“At long fucking last.” The words hiss like bullets in my ear. An instant later, my back is slammed into a trunk. I don’t know what hurts most— the bark biting into my skin, the hand he curls around my throat, or his disgusting, maniacal stench.

The forest is pitch black. There’s no darkness through which Weres cannot see, but I got only half of those nice wolf genes, which means that my night vision is hit or miss. Still, the Vampyre’s bloodlust is unmistakable. As is the blade in his hand. “Not very fast, are you?” he growls.

No shit. I swallow an eye roll and make myself moan helplessly. “Please,” I beg. His scent explodes, like having women at his mercy is his kink of choice— how predictable— so I give him some more. “Please, don’t kill me. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?”

He’s so interested. I let out a whimper and widen my eyes. “Anything.”

His eyes travel down my body, as if to assess what I might be useful for— organ trafficking, bone broth, yard maintenance. Unlike me, he is fast. Preternaturally so. With dizzying speed, his knife slices through the front of my silk top, deepening the neckline.

This fucker.

But as he leers, his scent spikes. Which means that he’s distracted enough by what he’s uncovered that I get a chance to put the self-defense classes my sister forced me to attend to good use.