Barefoot.
Of course I was running home barefoot.
Emmett's sneakers had looked like they might fit, right up until I tried to shove my enormous clown feet inside and nearly tore the shoes in half. So here I was, sprinting through the forest like a lunatic in jeans that were a size too small and a T-shirt that felt like it was losing a battle with my shoulders.
My life had really gone places.
The cold dirt slapped against my soles as I ran, but honestly, I barely felt it. What I did feel was the lingering tension of having to sit in a living room with a mind reader while actively trying not to think about the exact things he could read.
Do you know how impossible that is?
Trying not to think about something automatically makes you think about it. And Edward sitting there all rigid and intense certainly didn't help.
I'd nearly slipped so many times. One stray thought about James, his tracker ability, his obsession, his history, and boom, Edward would've known I was way too informed for someone who'd "just turned into a giant wolf minutes ago."
But I survived.
Not because of my mental fortitude, not because of my iron will. Not even because of any wolf instincts.
No.
I survived only thanks to Rick Astley. My hero, my champion, my mental bodyguard.
Whenever I felt myself about to think something dangerous, the chorus would burst into my brain like a divine shield:
"Never gonna give you up~!"
Instantly wiping out any other thought.
I swear, one of these days I'm going to build that man an altar. Light a candle. Offer a sacrifice. Something. He deserves it.
I hopped over a fallen log, still humming the tune under my breath. It felt… safe. Like as long as Rick was singing in my head, no one could pry anything out of my skull.
If Edward wanted to read my mind, he would have to get past Rick first.
As the forest blurred past, another thought crept in. A darker one, heavier. The metallic aftertaste on my tongue reminded me.
My first kill.
I slowed down without meaning to, my feet digging into the mossy ground.
The moment replayed in my mind, not with guilt, but with something disturbingly close to calm. When that vampire lunged, everything inside me just… aligned. Like my body already knew the steps. Like I'd been waiting to do it my entire life.
My muscles had moved before I consciously decided. Instinct took over, power surged, and teeth sank into stone-cold skin.
It had felt so natural and effortless. Just like breathing.
Even now, back in human form, I didn't feel guilt twisting my stomach or clawing at my conscience. Nothing like the horror movies say. Just a kind of… factual acceptance.
He attacked me. I killed him. End of story.
The only thing that bothered me was the lingering taste of venom on my tongue. Sharp, bitter, metallic, like sucking on a battery dipped in bleach.
I spat to the side, grimacing. "Ugh, gross…"
The saliva hit a tree root with a wet sound.
Yeah, vampire venom wasn't winning any culinary awards anytime soon.
I rolled my shoulders, readjusted the too-tight shirt, and started running again. Faster this time. Feeling lighter.
Tomorrow I'd hunt the other two.
But today? I just wanted a shower, some real clothes…
…and maybe a quick prayer to Saint Rick Astley, patron saint of mental privacy.
But the reminder that I have to meet Leah's family again set my stomach in a knot. It was ridiculous, I had just killed a vampire like it was the most natural thing in the world, and yet the thought of sitting in a living room with a few humans who happened to share DNA with my girlfriend was what made me sweat. Figures. Rip a murderous bloodsucker in half? Easy. Try to look like a normal, well-adjusted teenager in front of your crush's mom? Absolute nightmare.
…
By the time I arrived back home, I finally realized I'd lost my keys somewhere in the woods when I shifted. Perfect. And with my parents not home, I had no choice but to break into my own house like a bargain-bin cat burglar. Luckily, I'd left my bedroom window cracked open. One quick jump later, I slipped through the second-floor window with all the grace of someone who definitely does this more often than he should.
I glanced down at myself and winced. Emmett's clothes had apparently surrendered somewhere along the way, there was a rip down one side of the t-shirt, and the pants had a gaping tear right in the middle. Fantastic. I prayed I hadn't accidentally flashed anyone on the way home; that would be… a whole new level of trauma for the good citizens of Forks.
I peeled the ruined clothes off and grabbed a towel, heading straight for the bathroom. The shower was heavenly; hot water, steam, and the glorious feeling of washing vampire grime off my skin. I scrubbed like a man trying to erase a crime scene, then brushed my teeth hard enough to use up half the toothpaste tube. You'd think the taste of venom would fade fast; you'd be wrong.
Back in my room, I started rummaging through my drawers for something halfway presentable. But no such luck. All I had were sports clothes from my family's shop. Anything nicer had stopped fitting the moment my body decided to grow like it was trying to escape Earth's gravity. I'd planned on buying new outfits once my bones stopped playing musical chairs, but life hadn't exactly given me a free afternoon lately.
…
Two hours later, I stepped onto the Clearwater porch with a shopping bag swinging from one hand and a small flowerpot of pink orchids cradled in the other. I raised my knuckles to knock, then paused, realizing my hands were full like an idiot. After a brief, awkward shuffle of orchid–bag–orchid again, I finally managed to knock gently.
Seth opened the door almost immediately, his face lighting up.
"Hey, Mike!" he said, raising a fist.
I bumped him back. "Sup, bro."
His eyes dropped to the orchids. "Uh… Leah doesn't really like flowers much."
"Good thing they're for your mom, then," I said.
Seth blinked, then grinned. "Solid call. She'll love them." He leaned in a bit, eyes shining with hope. "Sooo… what'd you bring for me?"
I lifted the shopping bag with a smile. "In here."
Seth stepped aside, practically vibrating, and I walked in. Mr. Clearwater was in his usual spot on the recliner, eyes glued to the basketball game on TV.
"Evening, sir," I said, placing the bag on the table. He gave me a nod without looking away from the screen.
Mrs. Clearwater walked out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a towel. I straightened and held out the flowerpot.
"For you, ma'am."
Her whole face brightened. "Oh, Mike, these are beautiful." Then she added warmly, "And please, just call me Sue."
"Sure thing," I said, a little relieved that the offer hadn't sounded weird or overdone.
She glanced toward the stairs. "Leah will be down soon."
Before I could respond, we heard the unmistakable rustle of plastic. Seth had already torn into the bag and triumphantly pulled out a pack of snacks.
"Seth!" Sue scolded.
"It's fine," I said quickly. "I brought those for him anyway."
Seth beamed, hugging the chips like a long-lost sibling.
I pulled out a cold beer from the bag and offered it to Mr. Clearwater. He finally tore his gaze from the TV long enough to accept it with a grunt of approval. But when he saw I wasn't opening one for myself, he raised an eyebrow.
"You don't drink, son?"
"I'm seventeen," I reminded him. "The only reason I could even buy that was because I look like I'm thirty after my recent growth spurt."
His eyebrow inched higher at that, but then he shrugged, cracked the beer open, and turned back to the game.
I dug into the bag again and pulled out a can of Sprite, cracking it open with a hiss. Then took a seat on the sofa near Harry and nodded toward the TV. "Who's playing?"
"Blazers and the Knicks," Harry said, eyes still locked on the screen. "Fourth quarter. Knicks are choking."
"They always choke," Seth chimed in through a mouthful of chips.
For the next ten minutes, the three of us commented on plays, yelled at questionable calls, and complained like a trio of old men who'd been watching basketball together for decades. Sue lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching us with that soft, motherly look, before she smiled and slipped back into the kitchen.
That's exactly how Leah found us when she finally came downstairs, her dad with a beer, Seth hoarding snacks, and me leaning forward on the edge of the couch with a Sprite in hand, all of us deeply invested in the game like I'd lived there my whole life.
…
(Leah Clearwater)
I came down the stairs and found exactly what I expected: Dad, Seth, and Mike all yelling at the TV like the referee could somehow hear them through the screen. Some terrible call must've happened, because all three looked equally betrayed.
Typical.
I shrugged and went straight for the bag Mike brought, spotting the familiar green stripe of a Sprite can. Perfect. I cracked it open, took a sip, then walked over to the couch.
Seth was sitting next to Mike on the couch, which simply wouldn't do.
"Move," I said, already sliding him to the side.
"Hey-hey! Those are my chips!" Seth shouted as I reached right into his bag.
"You snooze, you lose," I said through a mouthful of salty goodness.
Mike turned just in time for me to lean over and kiss his cheek, still chewing my stolen snack. His lips twitched up into a smile, and Seth groaned dramatically beside me like he was being tortured.
Whatever. I got my Sprite, my chips, and my seat. Balance restored.
…
When the game finally ended, Mom emerged from the kitchen at the perfect moment, carrying a tray of lasagna big enough to feed a small army. The smell alone made my stomach growl. She asked Seth to help her set the table.
He groaned like she'd just asked him to rebuild the house by hand, but he still dragged himself up and did it.
Once the table was set, Mom called everyone over, and we dug in. After a few minutes she looked at Mike and said, "I heard this was your favorite. How is it?"
Mike swallowed a big bite; seriously, the guy eats like food might run away; and said, "It's the best I've ever had, but… please don't tell my mom."
Mom lit up like a Christmas tree. I swear she has a soft spot for anything that resembles a compliment.
Dinner went on with easy small talk, laughter, Seth stealing bites from everyone's plates, the usual chaos. Then, out of nowhere, Dad looked at Mike and said, "You'd be perfect if only you were Quileute."
"Harry," Mom snapped at him, her tone sharp with warning.
But instead of being offended or even slightly awkward, Mike perked up. Actually perked up, like someone had just thrown him a bone.
"Oh! But I am," he said, way too eagerly. "I told Leah already, my great-grandmother was Quileute!"
Dad frowned, totally unconvinced. "Really."
Mike nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! Dorothy Black. Older sister of Ephraim Black? He was your chief decades ago."
The room went quiet.
Dad stared at him, really stared, like he'd just connected a bunch of dots that no one else could see. It wasn't the suspicious dad look he usually gave guys who look at me. It was something deeper. Recognition. Calculation. Maybe even… realization.
And honestly?
It made me nervous.
…
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