26
The start of summer vacation is no longer a “vacation” anymore without a job to return to, so I don’t know what to do with myself. I could think up some more ideas on the Rogue daycare we’ll open in the fall, but I promised Rainn we’d do that together next week. I could plan more for my upcoming Luna ceremony, but other than mentally preparing for my induction and our mating ritual, there’s nothing I can prepare for alone.
With the added pressure of being the ceremony’s front-and-center, I”m just as anxious to perform the ceremony steps correctly as I am excited. Maybe I’ll get it all wrong and ruin the ceremony, or maybe it’ll be the best day of our lives thus far even if I make minor mistakes. My stomach flutters just thinking about it, but every uncertainty is worth becoming Noah’s Luna.
I can’t stop smiling as I fetch the new scrapbook I purchased yesterday. Gathering my old, cut-up magazines and decorative cardstock, I sit down with one image in mind: creating a visual representation of my bond with Noah. I want to surprise him with the first spread before my Luna Ceremony, keeping the following pages blank for us to add to over the years.
Although, I’m not sure if he’s as sentimental as I am. There aren’t many pictures lining his cabin walls. Instead, fuzzy rugs and blankets coat every floor and couch, allowing me to curl up in Noah’s residual scent.
Familiar comforts have been necessary the last few days. I’m not sure if I’m coming down with something, or if it’s just my usual crash after a stressful school year. All I know is I’m exhausted.
My heart flips; I could also be pregnant. Noah and I did mate without protection on the last day of school, and again every night since, but it hasn’t even been a week since the first attempt—a bit too early for a pregnancy test. I’m trying so hard not to get my hopes up that my stomach rumbles in complaint.
After an hour of scrapbooking, I’m happy with my progress. Hiding the scrapbook beneath my side of the bed, I fetch my laptop and head out the door.
Yasmine waits in her old convertible with a fanged grin. She puts her arm around my seat just before I get in, giving me a nod. “Hey, Luna. Nice necklace.”
I bite my lip, clutching the moonstone Noah gave me. “I know it’s a little too fancy for coffee, but I just thought—”
Yasmine waves me off. “I’m giving you a hard time. That thing is gorgeous on you, but it’s also really special, you know? Only Lunas wear moonstones.”
My heart flips over itself as Yasmine shifts into drive, throwing my hair back in the wind. By the time we’re racing down the country roads, my mind finally catches up with Yasmine’s words. “Only Lunas?”
Yasmine does a double take at my gaping eyes before bursting into laughter. “He didn’t tell you, did he? As Luna, you’re basically our pack’s figurehead of protection, nurturing, fertility, and emotional safety, so the moonstone is supposed to provide it all back to you from the Moon Goddess.” Yasmine cackles as my stomach somersaults. “My best friend is such a sneaky bastard. The dude’s mad in love with you, if you couldn’t tell.”
I let out a bright laugh, shuffling in my seat. “God, I don’t know how to thank him enough, Yas. For everything he’s done for me, but especially for accepting me as his Luna. Even with our bond, I’m having trouble scoping out what he might like as a gift for the Luna Ceremony. What I have so far doesn’t feel big enough.”
“Just you being there is what he wants. He’s more of a sentimental sap than a physical gift lover. Actually, the last time I gave him a physical birthday gift, he turned bright red for two whole minutes. I timed it.”
We burst into laughter, slowing to a halt at the first red light we’ve come across in Greenfield. Once we cross the bridge over the river, we’ll be back in Westfield. It’s where I’ve worked daily for years, but now that I lost my job, it registers in my mind as “where my old apartment with Steven used to be.”
My stomach gurgles, and I shift in my seat in discomfort.
“You okay?” Yasmine asks.
I sigh, closing my eyes. “Yes. I’m just a ball of nerves, lately. It’s all approaching so quickly. And, to be honest, I have an idea of something sappy Noah might like at the Luna Ceremony. It’ll make me anxious as hell to do, but in the best way.”
Yasmine grins. “Besides fucking him in front of thousands of Lycans?”
I cup my forehead, letting out a nervous giggle. “U-um, yes. Besides that.”
“Oh, spill it, please. I want to know something the Alpha doesn’t.”
I laugh, fidgeting with my purse strap. “From what you’ve all described, the Luna Ceremony sounds a lot like Noah and I are getting married in front of the whole pack. So I was thinking, at a human wedding, I’d vow myself to Noah in front of everyone I love, letting them hear me pour my heart out about how much I love and devote myself to Noah. I’m not sure if that’s standard for Lycans, but— But I think it’d be special for us, at least.”
For the first time since I’ve met her, Yasmine is speechless.
I laugh, tugging on her arm. “What?! Yas, you have to tell me—is that a bad idea?”
“Dude, you have to! Please, do it! Oh, he’s gonna cry.”
I let out a bright laugh as we turn into a parking spot outside the tiny coffee shop. The Cozy Roast is cuter than I remembered it, crumbled brick accents and low lighting giving it an aged, sheltering atmosphere. We order lunch and drinks, settling at a corner table with our laptops.
Yasmine stretches her neck with a quick shoulder roll. “Alright, Luna, let’s get to work.”
I exhale, struggling to calm my racing heart. “Good luck!”
Hopefully Yasmine won’t notice I’m shaking. I didn’t want to tell her anything I didn’t have to, but Noah and I haven’t been able to think of anything to prove our dad’s deaths weren’t accidental. Yasmine thinks I’m planning for future Luna responsibilities, which isn’t a total lie. I’ll be working to protect us all this way, but I won’t be carrying out this investigation publicly.
Tapping the search bar on a fresh browser tab, I type in the first thing I can think of:
signs someone might be a murderer
It feels a bit silly, but I don’t know where else to start. But when I press search, my stomach plummets.
Article after article shares lists of “signs,” but they’re all online forums or gossip magazines. Just reading article titles and excerpts, my heart thumps faster. Not because of the content, but because my father’s potential murder never felt more like a joke to society.
I click on the most familiar source, hoping it’s less gimmicky, but no: it’s a linked summary to an “Ask Me Anything” question on one of the popular forum sites...
The forum Steven used to use, just before his behavior escalated.
I grip my head, unable to calm my racing heart. I’m not triggered as much as I am furious, scrolling through “real” accounts of people who claim they distantly knew murderers before they killed victims. Steven used to show me forums like these, laughing about twisted real-life issues he’d claim were proven to be true by moderators. This article has a similar air of mystique and excitement, as if killers are enticing, fantastical phenomena, not violent thieves playing God.
The general public might not put the pieces together, but with how intimately I’m haunted by the brutal aspects of Dad’s sudden death, there’s no way victims’ families wouldn’t know the crimes mentioned in these detailed comments were referring to their loved ones being brutalized. How must they feel, knowing their family members died an early, violent death, only for society to have some sick fascination with it? Wait, my dad might’ve been murdered alongside Noah’s too. How do I feel about this?
Wincing, I grip my grumbling stomach. It’s not just rocking with anxiety, it’s gurgling with intense nausea.
Yasmine’s eyebrows are furrowed. It isn’t until then that I realize she hasn’t been typing for at least 30 seconds, watching me from across the table. “You good?”
I sigh, closing the tab. “Yes, sorry. I just saw something messed up online.”
Yasmine’s lip curls in disgust. Plenty of humans are twisted as fuck, so that makes sense.
I’m part human. Am I twisted too? What if this is human nature, and I’m secretly a murderer?
Wait, I can’t answer that; that’s just OCD talking.
Nibbling my lip, I pull up a fresh tab. Yasmine just gave me an idea.
scientific studies on killer psychology
These results are much better—well, as in, these articles at least take the horrific situation seriously. Otherwise, the subject matter is just as revolting.
But something sticks out to me as important in our search: serial killers often prey on strangers, but most homicides are committed against victims the killer knows. “Homicide” yields more specific search results; perpetrator motives, profiles, and killing methods vary from serial killing.
I don’t feel good about any of it, but I’m relieved I’m making progress, settling into a numb focus.
After 30 minutes of my face remaining neutral, Yasmine stretches her arms. “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Be back in a minute.”
“Okay,” I mutter, already buried in a new search.
The more I read about singular killings, the more familiar the perpetrators sound: a lack of guilt for victims, seeing victims as objects, a need to assert power, an inability to see right from wrong, and seeing themselves as exempt from certain social or moral rules. Most often, perpetrators target significant others.
There’s no way Mom or Lilian killed our dads. Lilian may be heartless toward Noah now, but she sounded warmer before Ritchie’s death. Mom refused to ever touch a gun, let alone shoot the man whose loss killed her from pure heartbreak. I’m well-aware of what domestic violence looks like, and Noah seems well-versed too. Unless our parents hid aspects of their relationships from us, I haven’t seen signs in either couple.
That doesn’t rule out our closest friends and family of past and present: Yasmine, Dave, the Elders, Amy, Kira, or Steven.
My gut curdles at the last one. I’m tempted to rationalize the thought away; although Steven was abusive in multiple ways, he never seemed capable of murder.
But he didn’t seem capable of breaking in and assaulting me, either.
I shuffle in my seat. It’s nowhere near the first time I’ve thought about how Steven had the physical power to kill me the day he broke in. He didn’t kill me, of course, but he could’ve. He still could. Present-tense. Jenny and I have discussed how this uncertainty might remain extra uncomfortable for life.
But he didn’t do this, right?
As I scroll back through my notes on killer psychology, chunks of Noah’s list about Steven appear in my mind.
lack of morals around how to treat others: highly objectifying.
manipulative, word-twister
demands power, control, and dominance—especially over women***
***fixated on beliefs to the point of violence→proof of potential to hurt others
Oh, God. No, Steven couldn’t have. Could he? Is this just an intrusive thought?
He was into hunting like my dad. The way Noah phrased our dads’ shooting makes me sick; their unusually massive wolf forms would be a high-value kill. A hunter like Steven would never pass up the chance to brag about it.
But is he vicious enough to discover he shot my dad, ditch his body, then come back home to reassure me through my worst grief?
With how Steven treated me shortly afterwards, I don’t feel confident that the answer is “no.”
“Oh, God,” I say out loud this time. Gripping the table, I can’t stop myself from shaking in fear.
But it’s worse than that. I can’t stop my stomach from lurching.
As my eyes bulge, I cup my hand around my mouth. Am I going to throw up? Scents heighten by the second, adding a nauseating chill down my spine with how powerful everyone’s food and drinks smell—stinging mustard, sharp meat, and roasted coffee colliding. My stomach lurches again, this time leaving me mere seconds to act. Oh, God. I am about to throw up.
My eyes land on the bathroom, the lock’s OCCUPIED sign shining hot red. The trash can has a rocking lid that I’d dirty, and the door is too far to run for. I won’t make it in time no matter what, and this cute little coffee shop is packed—stuffed with people having a nice, pleasant drink or sandwich.
I’m going to soil it all.
With my surge of rampant OCD harm fears, it happens. I open my bag frantically, dumping my wallet, keys, and makeup onto the booth cushion, just in time to lift the empty bag to my mouth and spill the contents of my stomach. Stifling any noise the best I can, I shake in my seat, quietly doubling over. It’s only a flash second, but as I come up for a deep breath, it feels like I’ve been subjecting the whole coffee shop to a disgusting, warped version of reality for an hour. I’m mortified, glancing around the room.
Everyone’s eyes are glued to their laptops or friends, laughing, chatting, or typing away with their headphones in.
No one noticed.
But I’m still left with the most disgusting purse I’ve ever owned, tempting me to vomit again. Smacking my bag shut, I gag again.
Jumping from my seat, I set my sights on the door. Yasmine, I’m really sick. I don’t know what’s happening, but I have to leave our stuff to run outside in case I throw up again.
Holy shit, okay. I’m coming.
Yasmine opens the bathroom door, gaping at me as I sprint across the small shop. Now people are noticing me. God, I really hope they can’t see anything wrong with my bag, or that I didn’t miss anything that splashed onto my clothes.
Threatened tears burn my eyes. How could this happen? Trauma triggers sometimes make me puke from all the stress stewing in my gut, but that’s usually after my initial panic. I’ve never been sick uncontrollably like this before.
With the fresh air blowing in my face, I’m smell-free. My stomach relaxes, but I burst into tears.
Carrying my laptop, Yasmine throws open The Cozy Roast’s door. When she sees my ugly crying face, she grabs my shoulder with petrified eyes. “What happened?”
“I threw up, but it’s— It’s okay. I’m fine.” My voice hitches through sobs.
Yasmine bites back a smile. “Um— I mean, clearly you’re not okay, emotionally.”
I groan, gripping my rocking stomach as my anxiety returns. “No, I’m not. I probably grossed everyone out.”
“Oh, really? I thought you mindlinked you threw up inside, but I didn’t see anything at our table. Some lady asked if you were okay because you looked scared when you ran out, but she didn’t mention anything about you puking.”
With a whimper, I drop my head. Yasmine sits at one of the outdoor tables, plopping our belongings in front of her. She’s staring, awaiting my explanation. Now that I know Amy is another Beta, I can see why they’re so effective at mediation; Noah’s best friend also has truth-serum eyes.
I can’t bear to look at Yasmine as I hold my bag out, pinching the corner like it’s infected. “That’s because I— I threw up in here quietly and ruined my purse.”
Yasmine gives me a sad laugh, returning to my side to rub my back. “Poor Luna. Your sad face is gutting me. No wonder Noah says he’s regularly totaled by you. Here, let me help you with that.”
Before I can argue with her, Yasmine takes the bag from me, striding to one of the big public trash cans at the street corner. I try to sputter out words as she opens my purse, but a sharp, revolting pain strikes my gut. All that comes out is, “Oh, no—”
Yasmine does a double-take. “Are you going to throw up again?”
I lurch a little, clasping both hands on my mouth. Yes, if you touch that! What are you doing?!
Emptying it for you. Just close your eyes.
I can’t close my eyes. I’m too horrified by the thought of someone taking care of my disgusting mess for me. With my body shaking like it’s in active trauma, this is way beyond the normal exposure-safe anxiety limit. I make a mental note to bring this up to Jenny as I cry out beneath my hands, fighting an aching compulsion to keep Yasmine contamination-free. Although, I think I’ll pass out if I have to handle that bag myself.
Or, maybe I will now. My vision reverts to spotted, starry lights, blocking out big chunks of Yasmine’s face.
“Whoa, hey—”
I can’t see her, but I hear the clatter of my bag on the concrete as Yasmine catches my stumbling body.
“Dude, you’re not okay at all. I’m taking you to the Pack Doctor— Well, after I take you to the—” Yasmine steers me to the trash can, gripping my hair behind my head just before I throw up again. “To the trash can,” she mutters. “Dude, you’ve gotta actually let yourself puke. That was hardly anything, so no wonder you’re still gagging.”
I don’t want to make you watch.I shudder over the can, catching my breath as my vision returns.
“Well, too bad, because you’re looking like you’re going to pass out if I don’t hold you up. If you hold it in like that, you’ll only make yourself feel worse. Your body’s doing its job to protect you from something, and I’m here to help, so don’t strain against it. Let your poor stomach do its job.”
Her soft rubbing on my back somehow makes me even more nauseated. I’m terrified to do it, but closing my eyes, I relax as much as I can through the next wave of sickness.
Every second is disgusting and scary. A wet sound escapes me, but I survive it. By the time it’s over, I actually feel worlds better.
As promised, Yasmine carries most of my weight for my wobbling legs, helping me into the car. She shifts into reverse, and I relax into her passenger’s seat.
My tears resurface. This time they’re hot and sad, ripping apart my heart.
Maybe it’s OCD talking, but I feel so guilty. This was all my fault for triggering myself too badly, just like Noah warned me about. How will I handle becoming Luna when I can’t even stomach my intrusive thoughts? Thoughts are just thoughts, and I should know that already.
God, that sounds like an intrusive thought too. I’m officially in meta-obsession territory.
“Hey, you okay?” Yasmine softly says, rubbing my forearm as she drives.
I can’t bear to answer, my lip wobbling as I suck in a shaking, sad breath.
“Your mate is meeting us at the doctor, okay? You’ll be alright. I promise.”
“That’s not it,” I whisper through tears. “I’m so disappointed in myself.”
Yasmine frowns. “For puking? Last time I checked, no one’s a better or worse person for puking or holding it in.”
Burying my head in my palms, I let out a small laugh. “It does sound silly when you put it like that. But I think I triggered myself too far, and that’s what caused this.”
Yasmine is silent, but I can hear her thinking in her puzzled scent.
“What?” I ask.
“Aren’t you trying to get pregnant, though? It could be that too.”
My heart flips. But I grip my seatbelt, turning away. “I know Noah is convinced I am, and I told him he could share his excitement with you, but we just tried for the first time in a while a few days ago. It’s way too early.”
“Oh,” she mutters.
Even deeper disappointment rattles my heart. Maybe I don’t want to go to the Pack Doctor and find out if I’m pregnant or not. If it’s another no, I don’t know if I can handle it. Today was hard enough realizing my ex could’ve murdered my dad.
Stabbing, sharp pain sinks into my gut as my fear comes flooding back. I grip the paper bag Yasmine gave me, just in case. But as I let out another tense sob, I retrace the triggering research session.
Was that all just one big intrusive thought? Maybe I got ahead of myself and made too many assumptions by landing on Steven as the perpetrator. I thought of everyone I’ve met, but there’s a key difference in Steven’s behavior that I didn’t consider: unlike the hunters who killed our dads, Steven was always willing to be found by me. I’m the one who pushed him away with my failed restraining order, and blocking him everywhere I’ve found him online.
Except, now he’s hard to find again. He’s since changed his social media accounts, address, and who knows what else. Steven was always cautious about his address, so without a scent to track, he’s been hard for Noah to find without access to human police records.
So maybe I can’t discount Steven, but I forgot an important detail: someone else in our lives also refuses to be tracked. Someone I’m guessing I’ve never met, so I didn’t think of them initially.
Noah’s abuser has always refused to be found. Like the hunters, his abuser has somehow escaped my mate, the most powerful Alpha in the Pacific Northwest, and they have a deep, harrowing past with Noah. Whatever happened between the two, it feels violent. Dangerous.
What if his abuser was one of the hunters who shot our dads? What if they decided they didn’t elicit enough power over Noah, stripping him of Ritchie, his ultimate protector?
This thought doesn’t feel like an OCD or PTSD nightmare. It sinks into me, rattling my core like a numb, rational truth.
I hate it. I don’t know how I’ll safely bring these thoughts up to Noah, but I have to find a way.
But will it trigger him too drastically?
As we pull up to the Pack Doctor, I shut my eyes, breathing through what’s to come. Noah will be here any second, and I can’t ask him now. Not here.