Liar.
I set down my phone and take a long sip of whiskey. Ruby knows me too well. We grew up together, trained together, and watched each other stumble through adolescence and into adulthood. She was the first person I told when I realized I’d never connected with anyone the way other wolves seemed to. Never felt that pull, that recognition, that certainty that another person was meant for me.
She told me to be patient. That it would happen when it happened. That the lottery would sort everything out.
Easy for her to say. The lottery gave her James, and despite their rocky start, anyone can see how happy they are together now. The mate bond settled something in her that had always been restless. Gave her a sense of belonging she’d never had before, even within the pack.
Maybe it’ll do the same for me.
Or maybe I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering what might have been if things had gone differently.
I finish my whiskey and head to bed, but when I close my eyes, all I see is Fern standing at that window, looking out at a sky that holds no answers.
And my wolf, circling her memory like she already belongs to us.
Chapter 5 - Fern
The young man sitting across from me can’t stop fidgeting.
His name is Ethan, and he’s nineteen years old according to his intake form. He’s been bouncing his knee for the past ten minutes and simultaneously drumming his fingers against his thigh in an erratic rhythm. Every few seconds, he glances toward the window like he’s expecting something to come crashing through.
“Take your time,” I gently urge. “There’s no pressure here.”
“You don’t understand. I can’t control it anymore. It’s getting worse.”
“Can’t control what?”
Ethan runs both hands through his hair, tugging at the strands hard enough that it must hurt. “The… the other part of me. The one that wants out.”
I make a note on my pad. Dissociative symptoms, possibly dissociative identity disorder. It would explain the agitation, the sense of something lurking beneath the surface. I’ve seen presentations like this before, though usually in patients with significant trauma histories.
“When you say ‘other part,’ can you describe what that feels like?”
“It’s like…” He trails off and squeezes his eyes shut. “There’s something inside me. Something that isn’t human. And it wants to get out, especially when I’m angry or scared or—” He breaks off with a frustrated growl that sounds almost animal. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”
“I’m not here to judge you, Ethan. I’m here to help you work through whatever you’re experiencing.”
“You can’t help with this.” He stands abruptly and starts pacing the small room, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. “No one can. It’s just something I have to deal with until I learn to control it.”
“Control what, exactly?”
He stops pacing and looks at me with eyes that seem almost gold in the afternoon sunlight. A trick of the light, surely, though I’ve never seen anything quite like it. “The shift. When it comes, I can’t stop it. And if I can’t learn to control it soon, I’m going to hurt someone.”
The word catches my attention. Shift. An unusual term for dissociative episodes. Most patients describe feeling disconnected or watching themselves from outside their bodies. They don’t usually talk about shifting.
“Is that what you call it? The shift?”
“That’s what everyone calls it.” He seems genuinely surprised by my question. “You know, when the wolf takes over?”
I blink. “The wolf?”
Ethan stares at me for a long moment, then he laughs, though it sounds forced. “Never mind. Forget I said anything. I should go.”
“Ethan, wait. We still have twenty minutes left in our session—”
But he’s already out the door, leaving me sitting in my consultation room with a notepad full of questions and no answers.
I spend the next hour reviewing his file, searching for any mention of psychotic features or delusional thinking. There’s nothing unusual in his history. His previous notes describe him as a well-adjusted teenager with occasional anger management issues. Standard adolescent stuff, Patricia had said when she gave me his file.
