Chapter 21 #2
I hang onto him tighter, until I can feel his heart beating through his shirt, quick and steady. “I want it be official.”
“Good,” he says, and I can feel him smiling against my skin.
I spend the night in my room, drafting a paper about the role of necromancy in World War I. There are at least twenty-seven tabs open on my computer, and twelve of them are about werewolves.
Maybe I shouldn’t research this on Halea’s wifi, but I’ve already failed Duncan once. The least I can do is educate myself in my spare time.
There’s next to nothing about merfolk, but werewolves are insanely active online. Forums everywhere, pop articles galore. There’s an entire online subculture I knew nothing about, and it’s easily accessed.
I have no excuses. I read articles about ways to have a pleasant post-full moon (tea, a hot bath, a massage, an intimate night with a partner), methods to ease the pain of shifting, grooming tips, a guide to human interactions (“Don’t scare them off!
”), how to prepare your children for the full moon.
Eventually, my brain is fried. For the first time in weeks, I go on social media. Just to see how Gretchen is doing, I tell myself, even though she’d probably pick up right away if I called her.
It’s a mistake. The first image on my feed features two familiar hands, each with a golden band on their ring fingers. One of the hands is freckled, both are hairy. WE’RE ENGAGED! a little banner announces.
It’s Marc’s announcement. There are four hundred likes and one hundred and eighty-nine comments.
I should click away.
I expand the post.
After two and a half wonderful, crazy, exciting, sexy years together, Jeremy and I have decided to take the obvious next step in our relationship.
We just bought a house, and now we’re engaged!
Can you believe it? I finally get to call this amazing, funny, dedicated, gorgeous man mine! We’ll see you at the wedding!
Bile rises in my throat. Two and a half years? Jeremy and I were together for two years. We’ve only been broken up for ten months.
I knew he cheated. I knew he left me for Marc.
I didn’t realize he’d been cheating for half of our relationship.
I dig the tequila out from under my bed, take a swig directly from the bottle.
That fucking asshole.
My phone is in my hand before I know it. I unlock it, trembling with fury, go to my texts, and then a message pops up.
It’s from Duncan.
Miss you already.
I lower my phone with shaking hands. As much as I want to scream at Jeremy, as much as he deserves it, I shouldn’t. We aren’t together anymore, and I don’t want him anymore, anyway. I should just fucking move on. Let Marc have him.
I drink too much tequila. My essay probably has typos. I submit it at midnight, take some deep breaths, and go back to reading about wolf shifters.
I’m not prepared for the article I find. “How to Talk to Your Fated Mate.”
The words twist my stomach. Fated mate? What the fuck is that? That’s a romance novel trope, not a real-life thing.
I open the article.
You see them across the bar. They’re laughing, they’re ethereal, they’re beautiful. And you can’t look away. And when you approach, you just know it: this is the person you’re meant to be with.
It’s the kind of experience every wolf craves.
After all, we all have a fated mate. Fated is the hard part.
We might not meet our mate until we’re elderly.
Until long after we’re married. And some of us will never meet our mate.
Maybe it’s because they’re on the other side of the world, or they’re dead, or our paths just never cross.
But this article isn’t about that. How do you know when you meet your fated mate?
I stop reading. Search “fated mates wolf shifter” and find a plethora of articles on this single topic.
Recognizing a fated mate. Navigating life changes after meeting them; mostly, how to address this with your spouse.
I find hundreds of online threads about wolf shifters whose spouses have left them for their fated mates.
Tons of people worrying that they’ll never meet their “true mate.”
A couple of hours later, my throat is tight. I try to call Duncan. No answer. He’s probably asleep.
Fated mates are real, at least as far as wolf shifters are concerned. If I was his, he would’ve told me.
And since I’m not, that means he’s going to leave me when he finds them.
I take another swig of tequila.
When my phone rings, I answer it without looking, relieved. We’ll talk this out. Everything will be fine. (I hope.)
“Hello?”
Nothing. Just heavy breathing.
I pull the phone from my face, check the caller ID. RESTRICTED NUMBER.
Not Duncan.
I should hang up. This is probably a crank call. But it’s two a.m., and I’m drunk and lonely, so I mumble, “Who’re you?”
More heavy breathing. A scratching sound. Then a voice, low and unfamiliar. “I know what you are.”
My heart leaps into my throat. “What?”
“Shifter.”
The phone nearly drops from my fingers. “You have the wrong number.”
“Mer,” says the voice.
“Sorry, what?”
“Merman,” the voice wheezes. It’s like something out of a horror movie. A voice dragged out of something beastly and inhuman. Something that shouldn’t be able to speak at all.
“You have the wrong number,” I say again, and hang up.