That's what he asked me. Human was the correct response, I realize belatedly. What else would I be?
Eric comes over a few minutes later and throws his arm around Amy's shoulders. They make plans with Jason to get brunch tomorrow, and Amy nudges me not-so-subtly and asks if I want to join. A double-date isn't subtle, but she's a few drinks deep. I almost say no, it's on the tip of my tongue. But even if I lost interest in Jason, tomorrow I'll realize I'm still alone in the world, and I did think he was cute half an hour ago.
"Umm, sure. Yeah, that sounds good. If I'm up for it, I'll definitely come," I tell Amy pointedly. She nods in understanding. We mostly work remote, handling calls for an agency that provides outsourced customer service. It's the perfect job for me because even on my off days, I can still manage to sit on the couch with my laptop, headset, TV on mute, and earn a paycheck.
Jason asks if he can walk me home when I announce to the group that I'm leaving. It's not even midnight, but I'm drained, confused, and a little overwhelmed. I don't know why. I don't know if that guy was a werewolf, I have no proof, just a suspicion. And nothing happened, aside from our intense, brief encounter. But the urge to leave the party prods at me, and, like always, I feel really tired, so it's time to go.
I encourage Jason to stay. It is New Year's Eve after all. He should be here for the countdown. And the streets are full of people, I'll be fine walking home alone.
"But who will he kiss at midnight?" Amy teases.
Jason and I shrug awkwardly at the comment. His cheeks turn a little pink as he smiles at me. I bug my eyes out at Amy, but she laughs me off. I shake my head and say goodnight, then weave my way through the crowd.
As soon as I'm outside, I feel like I can breathe.
Chapter 3: Mona
There's a strange feeling in my gut, tugging me forward. I've given up trying to understand all the things my body does, but this is new. And the familiar itchy feeling, the restlessness beneath my skin, grows louder the closer I get to my apartment. I pull out my phone to distract myself while I walk, dodging groups of people partying all over the streets of New York.
I open the text chain with my dad. The last message from him was three weeks ago, making sure I've been keeping up with my medication. Always the same robotic check-in, like I'm some task on his to-do list.
It was nice—weird, but nice—that he texted me tonight. He's never reached out on a holiday before. I shoot him a quick text and let him know I'm heading home, then stare at the screen. Waiting for three typing dots to appear. They don't.
When I get home, the building is blissfully quiet. I live in a large complex, and they don't allow parties. Dad's the one who found this place for me. It's an old folks' dream home, with ahuge elevator, quiet halls and offsite management. It's not the Ritz, and we don't have a doorman, but for me, it's perfect.
Dad's never hugged me or called me on my birthday, but he shows up like clockwork to take me to the pharmacy. He pays my rent, schedules my doctor's appointments, even pays my cell phone bill.
But every time I attempt independence—trying to find a cheaper apartment, finance a used car, apply for student loans, or hell, get my own health insurance—suddenly I'm ten years old again and he's screaming in my face, throwing his temper around like I'm a misbehaving child.
It doesn't make sense how he can care so much yet so little. He exerts control over my life in a way most women my age should be shrugging off.
But I take whatever attention he gives me. Even the bad. I cling to it because I have no one else.
Tonight, the residents are quiet, despite the holiday. There's no noise, no small get-togethers behind the closed doors. I hit the elevator button and make my way up to the eighth floor, the top of the building.
There's another slight tug in my gut, that restless feeling beneath my skin still crawling like ants, but I do my best to ignore it as I stick the key in the lock and enter my dark apartment. The door slams shut behind me.
I register the silence and take a relaxed, audible breath at being home before a shadow detaches from the darkness. I barely have time to scream before my back hits the wall, so hard my teeth clack together.
The figure pins me and I cry out, but a heavy hand slaps over my mouth, the other wraps around my throat, squeezing slightly. Just enough pressure to make black spots bloom at the edges of my vision. His hand constricts, steel fingers digging into my windpipe, cutting off my shrieks.
My heart beats out of my chest in panic, and I try to lift my knee to kick out, pounding my fists into his shoulders, but I have the physical strength of a preteen with mono, and the man holding me is a beast.
I recognize the rich, earthy scent of rain before he lets go of my throat, then reaches out to flick on the kitchen light. The weak bulb barely illuminates the room, casting long shadows across my small apartment, but it's bright enough to seehim.
Beneath the brutal scar, his dark forest green eyes lock with mine as his lips curl.
"You're not going to scream."
I'm shaking, and I think I might pee my pants. Ishouldscream. But my neighbors will probably just bang on the wall and tell me to be quiet before anyone calls the cops.
If the cops even came. A noise complaint on New Year's Eve?
I am so fucked.
All these thoughts race through my mind as my entire body trembles in his hold, his palm still trapping my mouth shut. I don't know if I shake my head yes or no, but he must get some idea that I'm too terrified to do anything because he releases me.
His arms reach out and he cages me against the wall, just like he did at the party. My mouth opens, but I can't form the questions:Why are you here? What do you want?
