Made in Moonlight

Two

The room is bright when I wake up and I think for a moment that I've found myself in some kind of afterlife.

But then I blink and the room comes into view.

It's a small room. Sparse. There's no furniture other than the creaky bed I'm lying in and a wardrobe.

It hits me then—where the hell am I?

Panic shoots through my chest, sending my pulse skyrocketing. This is it. Bianca has finally caught me. Except—I hear a gasp.

"She's awake!" a voice shouts.

I turn. A woman stands next to me with brown skin and long, black hair. She's so tiny I think she's a kid for a second, until I get a clear look at her.

"Blake!" she hollers. "She's awake!"

I groan. All this yelling is driving a hammer through my already aching head. I try to sit up, and a dull pain stabs through my chest.

Suddenly, the events of last night come back to me—the man with the knife, the white wolf, and then... then... the wolf turned into—

I must be remembering wrong. Delusion, from blood loss.

It must be, because—wasn't I stabbed in the chest? I should be dead. I look down. I've been changed into a loose t-shirt. Tugging on the collar, I glance down to find a thick, angry-red scar on my chest.

I twist slightly, testing the pain. It stings, but nothing worse than a dull, faded ache. I don't even see any stitches. How did I recover from that? How long have I been asleep?

"I heard you the first time," a familiar voice says. I look up as a man enters the room.

I almost don't recognize him without his hood, but those bright blue eyes settle on me and I freeze. Ice runs through my blood.

The man from the diner.

He looks the same, with his high cheekbones and a jawline that could cut through a mountain, but now I can see him more clearly. Even better, I can see his dark hair, brushed in waves on his head. I want to run my fingers through them.

But there's something strange here. If I squint my eyes, I can almost see a string connected to his chest. It's transparent and almost shimmers a pale silver. I follow the glittering line, only to find the other end buried into my own chest.

I blink up at him. He doesn't even seem fazed by it.

I blink again, hard, expecting the line to vanish, but it doesn't.

I feel like I'm going insane.

"What are you doing here?" I croak. My voice snags in my dry throat and I burst into a fit of coughs.

"Leyla, get her some water," the man snaps. He doesn't even look at me, his cold gaze settled upon Leyla instead.

Instantly, the woman is by my side again, shoving a cup of water into my hands.

"Who are you?" I snap, ignoring the water. I keep my eyes on the man. Here, in the daylight, I can still feel that tug—that urge to move closer, to reach up and touch him—but it's weaker now. I can resist it more easily.

It's a strange feeling. Sure, I've seen some hot guys in the past. I've had my fair share of crushes. But with him—it's almost subconscious. Even in my most boy-obsessed years, I never felt this way.

Is he really that attractive that I feel naturally compelled to touch him? My eyes rake over his thick arms, clad in a tight long-sleeve, and his sculpted chest. I swallow drily. Okay, maybe he is.