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I stagger back and hit the nightstand, gripping the bedpost for dear life as I stare down at Dimitri. A feeling of helplessness swamps me, melding with the terror, as Dimitri’s fingers curl and shorten.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to block out the sound of his agonized cries and the horrible snap of bone.
This is all a dream. It has to be a dream. There’s no way this is real.
When I open my eyes, Dimitri is gone. In his place is a huge gray wolf.
For several seconds, all I hear is the animal’s pants and the thud of my own heart. My palms are sweaty, my legs are locked, and my lungs don’t seem capable of inflating fully.
All this time, I thought Dimitri was bullshitting about the bear in his study, but there’s a wolf in his fucking bedroom. A fucking huge wolf.
Careful not to make any sudden movements, I start to inch around the bed. I half expect the thing to pounce, but it just stands there — staring.
I chance a glance into the animal’s eyes and see Dimitri staring back at me.
No. Not Dimitri — a wolf. A wolf with glowing amber eyes. Eyes that look remarkably like Dimitri’s.
But how is that even possible?
Even though I saw Dimitri shift with my own eyes, my logical brain won’t accept that it’s him. Werewolves aren’t real.
Then the huge predator blinks, and my stupid human instincts finally kick in. Clutching the sheet around my middle, I turn toward the door and run.
DIMITRI
It’s a good forty minutes before I’m calm enough to shift back and take stock of the damage I’ve caused.
The bedclothes are in ribbons. The bedpost closest to me is chewed to bits. Broken glass glistens from where I broke the lamp on my nightstand, and the room is covered in a thin layer of goose down.
Most fully grown shifters don’t behave like destructive puppies, but I’ve been suppressing my wolf for far too long. I haven’t been shifting.Haven’t been running in wolf form or hunting wild game. And when a shifter suppresses his wolf, the beast always finds a way to act out.
Losing it on Ian Gray should have been a clear warning that I was no longer in control of my wolf. But I was so caught up in my feelings for Jules that I ignored just how far gone I was.
When I read the demeaning things that journalist wrote about Jules, it snapped the last of my self-control.
I don’t know which is worse — Jules thinking I’m ashamed of her or the look on her face when she saw me shift. As long as I live, I’ll never forget the raw terror in her eyes — or the disgust at watching all my bones break and reshape themselves.
But worse than Jules’s reaction was that I let it happen in the first place. I denied the beast within me too long, and I lost control.
I could have killed her. It could have happened when I was asleep or while we were having sex. So close to Jules’s tender human flesh, I could have eviscerated her in an instant.
Self-loathing suffocates me like a lead blanket as I sit slumped against my bedroom wall. I never meant for this to happen —never meant for her to find out so soon. I thought I had time — months, maybe years — before I’d be forced to tell her the truth.
Deep down, I knew Jules would never accept that side of me. I should never have allowed myself to get so close —never allowed myself to entertain the possibility that we could ever be together.
Jules is human, and I’m a monster.
The sun is low in the sky when a noise finally rouses me from my fog of misery. I jerk my head toward the door, thinking it might be Jules, but it’s only Beckett.
He’s dressed in a crisp charcoal suit, and he’s holding a plate of food. My stomach rumbles at the scent of ribs, but I don’t lunge for the meat.
“What the fuck happened?” Beckett snaps, his nostrils flaring as he surveys my bedroom.
I let out a heavy sigh, hanging my head in shame. I can’t even look at Beckett. “What the fuck does it look like?”
“I thought . . .” Beckett trails off, and I can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “It just seemed like things were getting better ever since Jules came around.
“Jules is part of the problem,” I snarl, still not meeting his gaze.
