little-goblin
María Guadalupe "Lupe" Sullivan had always known she was different. It wasn't that hard to figure out. Her aversion to silver. Her love of raw meat. The physically transforming, specie-altering metamorphosis she undergoes every full moon. Werewolf - that's what was stated under her medical designation. And for the longest time, she tried to hide it. Pass herself off as human with her human adopted parents, her human friends, human civility. Werewolves were supposed to be monsters, after all. A canine menace hunted to the brink of extinction only forty years ago.
But times have changed and so have the laws. Werewolves were now considered a protected endangered species. They've been civilized now, the media promises, domesticated. You weren't technically allowed to kill one, but it still wouldn't be a great idea shouting "werewolf" around someone with a gun license. And maybe that's why it took Lupe so long to track down another werewolf pack, elusive as they were.
In an effort to reconnect with her roots, she joins the pack and ends up butting heads with the uselessly strong and unnecessarily pretty Andreas Nikolaou. The pack members lower their eyes in submission when he's around. But when Lupe watches him, it's him who averts his gaze.
This was equal parts a dare and a plot bunny that's been itching on my brain for a while.