Page 20

She’d disappeared into her room after, probably to design some sleek logo or lay out a magazine spread in Helvetica like it was foreplay. The door was closed, but I could see the soft glow of her desk lamp under the crack and hear the occasional annoyed sigh. She made that sound a lot around me. I was starting to like it.

I rolled my neck and stretched out on the living room rug, taking a second to check in with myself. It’d been days since I’d last shifted, and I hadn’t done so nearly as often as I normally would after the incident when Maggie first moved in. Maggie had recovered faster than I expected, considering she’d caught me mid-shift like a deleted scene from Teen Wolf: Uncut Edition. I hadn’t shifted in the apartment since then. It was too risky.

But right now? We were stable. The ground rules were in place.

I let the shift roll over me slowly.

It started as heat blooming low in my core, pushing out through muscle and bone. My skin rippled. Fingers curled in. Joints popped and reset. My jaw stretched, spine lengthened, heart rate dipped into that low, ancient rhythm. My body bowed forward, and then I was on all fours. Thick black fur covered my skin. Claws clicked lightly on the floor. The wolf.

God, it felt good… this time.

I shook out my coat and padded quietly down the hallway. The stretch of my limbs, the redistribution of weight, the subtle difference in how the world smelled—it was all grounding. Real. I circled the kitchen, dug briefly at a corner of the rug because it looked at me funny. I sniffed the fridge door, lingered a beat too long when I caught a whiff of Greek yogurt. I rolled onto my back and scratched an itch behind my ear using the wall like a medieval peasant.

Fifteen minutes of bliss.

Then I shifted back, my body naked and damp and rug-burned in places I refused to acknowledge. But the relief in my muscles? Worth it. Always.

I lay on my back, panting softly, hair damp with sweat. “Mags,” I called out, “time for an obligatory emotional recovery cuddle!”

“Give me a minute. I’m on a deadline!” she yelled through her closed door.

And that’s when it happened. Three sharp knocks. Firm. Rhythmic. Judgy.

My stomach hit the floor.

“That’s a landlord knock,” I muttered, shooting upright.

“Mags!” I whisper-shouted down the hall. “Don’t open the door! I’m naked, and there’s wolf hair everywhere!”

Her door cracked open. She stepped out slowly, a pen tucked behind her ear, her expression already halfway to murder. “Why are you naked?”

“I shift naked! What do you want, a werewolf in tearaway pants?”

She blinked. Considered it. Honestly? I think she liked the idea.

More knocking, and then a key turned. Was Doris using her landlord key? She pushed the door open, but the latch lock caught the door before opening farther than three inches.

“What’s going on in there?”

I scrambled for cover. The closest object within arm’s reach was a small potted fern. I snatched it up and clutched it to my groin.

“Stall her!” I hissed. “Distract her! I need five minutes to vacuum and find pants!”

Maggie groaned and stomped toward the door. I pressed myself against the wall behind the coat rack like a man caught in the dumbest possible crime.

She opened the latch lock and cracked the door just enough to wedge her body in the gap.

And there she was. Doris Cranberry. Clipboard in hand. Binoculars hanging around her neck. Cardigan buttoned all the way to the top. She smiled like she’d just caught two teenagers peeing on her prized rhododendron.

“You must be Maggie,” Doris said, eyes narrowing. “Why are you here? Don’t you work?”

“I’m a graphic designer. I work from home,” Maggie chirped, about two octaves higher than usual.

“Mm. You don’t host wild parties, do you?”

“Oh, um, nice to meet you, too. And no. I don’t even like medium parties.”

“Have you seen anything unusual since you’ve been living here? Hairy guests? Growling sounds?”