For Me,There Is Only You |18+|

10. The Monster

A deep, soul-crushing weariness settled over me, one that sleep couldn't hope to fix.

It wasn't just the exhaustion of my body; it felt like my mind was being pulled in a hundred different directions, weighed down by the tangled mess of secrets and emotions I was carrying around.

I felt hollow, as if I wasn't really living but just drifting from one day to the next, barely hanging on.

Golden yellow.

Those eyes haunted me like a nightmare I couldn't wake up from.

I still couldn't fully accept that the werewolves were real. And now that I knew their secret, I was in serious danger. If they ever found out I knew, they wouldn't think twice about silencing me—permanently.

I was a threat to them, and after what Alaric had tried to do, my fear had only deepened.

I was lucky the truck driver had shown a bit of human decency and helped me get out of that terrifying place. I managed to grab a cab afterward, but by the time I stumbled through my front door, I was running on empty.

I collapsed onto the sofa, not even bothering to take my shoes off. I just needed everything to stop spinning for a while.

When I finally came to my senses, it was evening.

My body was drenched in sweat, and I could feel the fever gnawing away at my strength. My head pounded like a drum, and the wound on my neck still throbbed with pain, even though two weeks had passed.

They called it a claim—a claim of the beast.

Ansel? No. It couldn't be him. But then again, deep down, some part of me knew. The pieces fit too well to ignore.

But why would he do something like that to me? He hadn't even bothered to show up at the hospital to check if I was still breathing.

I sank deeper into the sofa, a strange mixture of exhaustion and frustration bubbling inside me. I needed answers, but more than that, I needed this fever to back off and give me a break.

I needed some way to hold it together, to prevent my mind from cracking under the weight of everything I'd learned.

After what felt like an eternity of wallowing in feverish misery, I finally managed to drag myself up from the sofa. My legs wobbled beneath me as I stumbled toward the medicine cabinet.

Sweat clung to my skin like a second layer, and my body was burning up. Every step felt like wading through molasses. As I shuffled along, I noticed an odd dampness between my legs. I froze.

What the hell? My foggy mind couldn't quite process it. Was this part of the fever? Or had my body decided to betray me in some new, embarrassing way?

Before I could dwell on that thought, the doorbell rang, making me jump.

Who the heck would be here now? Uncle George, maybe?

My legs trembled as I took a few shaky steps toward the door, feeling like a newborn calf learning to walk. Everything seemed heavier, more exhausting. What was happening to me?

The idea of Uncle George dropping by brought a flicker of hope. But when I opened the door, all that hope went straight down the drain. Standing there wasn't Uncle George.

It was Ansel—his face a confusing mix of familiarity and terror. And his shirt—a light blue color—was smeared with something dark and ominous.

Blood.

I tried to swallow, but my mouth was as dry as sandpaper. Panic gripped my chest.

Ansel wasn't just some guy. He was a werewolf, and that blood on his shirt was definitely not a good sign. The room spun a little, and I tried to remind myself to breathe, to stay calm, even though my instincts screamed at me to run.