Page 2 of The Reaper's Vow
He slams the last box shut, tape screeching across cardboard. The sound hurts my sensitive ears, but I don't flinch. I've learned to hide the little tells that might give me away.
“You know what your problem is, Karina?” Travis hoists the box, biceps flexing obscenely. “You're afraid of letting people in. Of letting yourself feel something real.”
The irony nearly makes me smile. If I truly let him in—if I showed him what lives beneath my skin—he'd run screaming. The real me would terrify him more than any ghost story.
“Maybe,” I concede, just to speed things along. “Or maybe I'm just tired of pretending.”
He doesn't catch my meaning, of course. Travis only hears what he wants to hear, sees what he wants to see. Travis stops at the door, balancing the box against his hip. For a moment, I think he might actually leave without another word. Then he turns back, that familiar smirk playing at his lips.
“You know what? I'm glad we're done.” His tone carries that particular brand of cruelty men deploy when they can't get what they want. “Whatever freak you're hiding in the woods can have you. I can do better than an ice queen like you.”
The words should sting. A year ago, they would have. But now they bounce off me like rain on glass. The monster inside me has gone still, almost amused. She knows what real power looks like, and it isn't this.
“Goodbye, Travis.”
He wants a reaction. I can see it in the way he lingers, the way his shoulders tense with expectation. But I give him nothing.
“Fucking weirdo,” he mutters, and finally—finally—he's gone.
The door clicks shut behind him, and I slide the deadbolt home with shaking fingers. The apartment already feels different, like I can breathe more deeply. The wolf inside me stretches luxuriously, no longer cramped by his presence.
I lean against the door and close my eyes. For the first time in eighteen months, I'm truly alone.
I push away from the door and walk to the living room window, pulling back the curtain just enough to make sure Travis's Camaro is leaving the parking lot. My shoulders relax as the red taillights disappear around the corner.
I move through the apartment, throwing open windows to remove the stale air, Travis’s cologne dissipating bit by bit. My phone buzzes on the counter—a patient needs help finding transportation to their dialysis appointment.
I straighten, slipping into my work. Calls, confirmations, arrangements. The jagged remnants of Travis fade behind the professional mask of competent, composed Karina. The one who never snarls, never bares her teeth. The one the human world trusts to keep everything running smoothly.
If only they knew.
By the time I finish, the afternoon sun has shifted, casting long shadows across my living room floor. I should eat something. The closer we get to the full moon, the more ravenous my wolf becomes. I open the refrigerator and stare at the contents—mostly vegetables, some yogurt, a package of raw steaks I'd been saving.
My mouth waters at the sight of the red meat. I grab the steaks and set them on the counter, my fingers lingering on the packaging. The wolf inside me whines softly, wanting me to tear into the plastic and devour them raw.
“Cook them like a human,” I remind myself, but I only sear them for a minute on each side. The center stays bloody, the way both parts of me prefer.
I eat standing at the counter, savoring the taste of iron on my tongue. The protein settles something restless in my chest, and for the first time today, I feel almost normal. Whatever passes for normal when you're a monster pretending to be human.
My laptop chimes with another work email, but I ignore it. My lunch break ended twenty minutes ago, but I can't bring myself to care. Today feels like a turning point, like I'm finally stepping out of a cage I didn't even realize I'd locked myself into.
The afternoon stretches ahead of me, empty and full of possibility. No Travis coming home early to complain about my “weird” eating habits. No need to explain why I'm restless, why I keep checking the moon phase app on my phone, why I sometimes pause mid-conversation to listen to sounds only I can hear.
I finish the steak and lick my fingers clean, not caring that it's undignified. The wolf approves, settling deeper into my bones with satisfaction.
A sharp knock at the door makes me freeze in the middle of cleaning up. My heart rate spikes instantly, and the wolf bristles beneath my skin, hackles raised.
Travis?
My body goes still, senses heightening as I catch a trace of scent seeping through the doorframe. Not Travis’s usual cologne or that stale note of resentment. This is softer—coconut shampoo, vanilla, and a whisper of nail polish in the air.
Britney.
My shoulders relax as I wipe my hands on a dish towel and head toward the door. I unlock it and pull it open to find my neighbor standing there in yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt, her blonde hair piled into a messy bun.
“Hey girl!” she chirps, already sliding past me into the apartment without waiting for an invitation. “I saw Officer Douchebag loading up his car earlier. Please tell me he's actually gone this time.”
I close the door behind her, inhaling the cloud of scented products that constantly surrounds her. To human noses, it probably smells pleasant. To me, it's overwhelming, but still preferable to Travis's lingering presence.
