A few hours and one stupid dress discarded for a much preferable T-shirt and yoga pants later, Anna knocked on my door.

"Miss Zara." She entered my bedroom with, surprisingly, Elena following behind her.

Anna's words didn't register with me. I was sprawled on my stomach, engrossed in a romantic novel. The main plot line was a police agent who worked undercover to rescue a daughter from within a drug cartel family. It was a modern-day fairy tale.

I'd give anything to be this girl...

Ahh, what if one of my father's security guys has watched me grow up and blossom? He's waiting for the right moment to confess his pent-up feelings so he could tear me away from this isolated misery.

My eyes lifted up to the security detail outside my room. His left hand lifted and scratched the back of his neck.

A girl can wish.

None of the security guys glanced at or spoke with me, other than a relayed message from my father or "Miss Zara." A few I saw briefly, then never again.

Sensing two presences looming over me, my eyes lifted up from my laptop and settled where Anna and Elena stood. My eyes blinked because, sure enough, they stood at my bedside.

"Oh." I snapped my laptop shut as fast as my wrist hinged.

My bedroom reflected a physical manifestation of how I never made a single decision for myself. Like the rest of my father's house, it looked opulent. I wish I could take credit for the décor, but everything had all been selected by my father's interior design team. All I'd requested was 'not pink,' and someone selected all-white furniture with gold accents and splashes of royal blue in the linens and curtains.

"I'm not even sure I like blue," was my first mumbled reaction.

The design team's crestfallen expressions were the last I saw of them. In my defense, they didn't ask further preference questions and made all subsequent decisions for me. One morning, a large truck showed up in front of the house and six hours later, my bedroom was intact.

The designer made one mistake by getting me a dresser with a large vanity mirror attached. That mirror started my obsessions of visually inspecting myself as an empty shell of a person.

In addition to the standard furniture, ten-foot tall French doors open out to a small balcony. The space was the perfect balcony for a prince to rescue a princess from, maybe steal a kiss, even stage a Taylor Swift video. But no prince ever came, not even a Swiftie extra. The closer we got to my eighteenth birthday, the angrier I got at those stupid fairy tales.

And at myself for reading them in the first place.

When my daily injection routine first started, at night, I tied my bed sheets together, scaled down the stucco exterior with dreams I was a vigilante, and landed on the spongy grass below with a satisfied grunt.

I never got further than that landing spot before my father's security team ushered me back inside. At first, they were amused but, after a few more attempts, my father had the doors barred.

Initially, I yanked at the bars until my wrists strained and fingers numbed, but couldn't do anything about them. Other than keeping me indoors, the resulting lack of fresh air in the room felt more stale and oppressive. The thick, uncomfortable atmosphere served as an effective reminder of my father's intentions to keep me trapped here.

"Will one of you please tell me what's going on?" They looked at each other with apprehension for a few moments, then Anna's gray eyes turned to me.

Here we go, let me know about the drug distribution, cartel kings, fit me for a silver revolver and pink leather holster, I'm ready -

"You're a werewolf," she stated without a blink.

Slack-jawed and eyes pulled wide, I stared at her for a solid minute. My breath stalled in my lungs and thrums of my heart pulsed through my veins. With a clench of my stomach, laughs bubbled up the back of my throat. They tickled the palate of my mouth, ripping out of me in the form of short, sharp barks.

Not at all what I expected.

I had no idea she had a sense of humor.

"What?" I squeaked the word out between hearty laughs. My shoulders pitched so hard, my breasts jiggled and elbows bounced into my mattress.

"You. Are. A. Werewolf." She spoke each word slowly, and deliberately, as if enunciating each helped me absorb them more effectively.

Her efforts fell onto deaf ears, absorbed into the belly-aching laughs that rolled out of me one after another. Anna's unamused expression blurred as my eyes watered. I squeezed them closed, my torso hitching as my laughs pitched higher into hysterical squeaks.

"That-that's hilarious," I choked out with a gasp. As my shoulders heaved and lungs burned, my stomach curled inward and spine rounded. My knees tucked, I was one round of laughter away from falling off my bed.

They're joking.

A sharp pain stitched in my right side, jolting my eyes open. I took a few deep breaths to recover my oxygen level.

They have to be joking.

My knee-jerk reaction was that I needed to join in on the joke. "Like in the movies?" I tossed out, "Watch out for a full moon? Hide your silver?"

"It's not like that," Elena spoke up, her eyes serious as stone. "I'll help you understand the best I can."

Hearing her soft, almost angelic voice, my eyes widened then narrowed as suspicion pitted itself in my stomach. Neither showed any amount of amusement or teasing manner in their expressions; they gazed back at me with eyes set and mouths firm, but jaws relaxed.

They look... completely serious.

As their seriousness penetrated and dissolved my laughter, a shudder trickled down my spine. Silence weighed down on me as I sat up straighter and mouth gaped. "Are you serious? What about the mafia? The pharmaceutical company's... drug front."

The more I spoke, the more I sounded like the ridiculous one. My cheeks cooled and skin tingled, like the blood drained out.

"Mafia?" Elena's furrowed eyes shifted to Anna's.

"Zara," the condescension in Anna's voice was so thick that the shudder lifted up between my shoulders. "Your father's company makes medicines for the country."

My laughs dried up in the back of my throat. "There's no such thing as werewolves."

Unlike diabetes.

Which, since I was thirteen until now, I was told I had. I believed I had it, even from the simple fact I had no other reason to believe otherwise.

"Have you ever known your father to joke?" Anna crossed her arms over her chest.

She has a point.

"No." I looked down at my hands and clutched them together. "So... I don't have diabetes?"

How is that possible? Why all the bloodwork, the tests?

My blood chilled at the thought of any worse conditions. Goosebumps raised on my forearms as I hugged them around my stomach, which rolled with nausea.

"No." Her mouth tugged into a firm line. "The injections were to delay your natural cycle from starting."

Anna's words felt like a bucket of ice water tossed onto me. Any lingering remnants of my laughs dried up in the back of my throat.

"What... Why?" My wide eyes stared at her so long that the edges stung with dryness. I studied every inch of Anna, every gray hair perfectly pulled into her bun, crisp corners of her nursing uniform, fine lines etching the corners of her mouth and eyes whether she smiled or not.

Realizing I studied a complete stranger chilled right into my bones. Trembles vibrated my lower lip and my breath hitched.

How could this woman, who I've known since I couldn't remember not knowing her, willingly manipulate my body daily like this?

And what kind of father would instruct her to do that?

My brain had a hard time wrapping itself around this idea. Physical manipulation of my body for God knows what purpose seemed so cruel that the idea was incomprehensible.

As if teenage hormones on their own aren't bad enough.

A slow glow sparked inside the chill that had taken over my body. My blood surged faster in my veins, warming my body with an internal rage that simmered the longer I sat, hugging myself. I drew down my shoulders and, by the time my eyes lifted, a hardened glare burned out of them. Anna stood but Elena's lips twitched, puckering inward.

"Normally, werewolves first shift at fourteen, after the onset of menses." Heat crept into my cheeks at the antiquated word. "Thanks to your father, your onset was... delayed."

Tightness ticked my jaw but my voice came out in a strangled squeak, "How? Why!?"

"For your protection," was all she replied. Her mouth pulled into tighter line, like a physical barrier of information that hung in her dilating pupils.

She could not, or at least would not, share any further explanation. Whatever secrets she held in that vault of a mind, her mouth kept effectively sealed shut. The realization sunk like a weight into my stomach. My arms still hugging my stomach, I coiled my hands into tight fists.

My protection? Against who? Or what?

I knew of two kinds of protection, physical protection against a dangerous threat, or self-preservation like how parents withheld information from a child they felt was too young to comprehend the gravity of the information.

Given those definitions, I couldn't understand how this 'protection' fell under either category.

Feels more like lying to me about my own body.

The personal violation pricked hot tears into my eyes, which I blinked until my lashes clumped.

My reactions elicited none further than Anna's emotionless tone, "You would not have been able to select a mate until you were eighteen anyways, so your father thought it best to delay the transformation until as late as possible."

Father knows best...

I gazed at her until her impassive expression blurred under hot tears that rose in my eyes. I had no understanding about any of what she spoke about. A flicker of doubt surged a random thought into existence, almost as if my mind hadn't thought it up.

Whatever was in that syringe must have been manufactured in his labs.

"So... I don't have diabetes?" I blinked at my supposed nurse caretaker.

My repeated question seemed like a silly point given the larger, unexplained circumstances that I assumed were related to the heaviness hanging in Elena's sympathetic eyes. At this moment, I couldn't get past that minute issue since Anna jammed those needles into me for false reasons... for years.

Mentally, I wasn't capable of processing the possible reasons behind that simple action.

The pads of my right hand's fingers rubbed the sensitive injection spot on the inside of my left elbow.

Anna shook her head. "The subcutaneous injections were leuprorelin, a female reproductive hormone suppressive medicine, to delay the onset of your menses."

I stared at her, having no idea that was possible. "And these?" I hissed through gritted teeth and held out the silver circles on my wrists, offering myself like an enslaved submissive.

"Those, like your muscular injections, were low dosages of silver nitrate and wolfsbane administration."

The words burned into me and my nails sunk into my palms.

She reached out, pressed a small key into each, and released them as easily as if she removed two pieces of jewelry. At the cool air that kissed my skin, I recoiled. Rolling my wrists inward until they crossed my chest, I clutched them close and rubbed at the red indentations left behind.

"Silver nitrate and wolfsbane," I muttered these unfamiliar words as if hearing them in my voice provided meaning, some context to them. The only reaction they spurned was heat flamed over my face and I dipped my chin down.

I'm so... ignorant.

"And what were those for?"

Without a flinch, Anna offered, "Suppressing your inner werewolf from appearing earlier."

Well, that clears everything right up.

"But... why?" My voice squeaked, high-pitched like an anxious child, a nervous habit.

My feet swung over the bed and grounded them flat. I curled my toes into the plus hcarpet, tickling the skin between them, and stood up. The gravity, the seriousness, of the conversation struck into my chest with each hard beat, weighing down my limbs like they were pumped full of lead but I started straight into Anna's serious, stormcloud-gray eyes.

Nose to nose, she didn't blink.

Inner werewolf? She's... not kidding.

She... What. The. FUCK.

"I still don't believe you, but if I am a -" Through the cracks and rasps of my voice, I couldn't say the word 'werewolf.' "- that I'm... what you say I am, then why not let it happen naturally?"

They both looked at me, showing two different expressions that showed the same lack of information. Anna's eyes remained gray and expressionless as usual. Elena's eyes flickered with sympathy, but she remained silent. I couldn't tell if she was shy or unaccustomed to my father's withholding of information policy.

I didn't need them to respond, knowing the answer was that my father requested this chain of events. And if their relationship with him was like mine, then they didn't know his underlying motivations. And if they did, then due to their loyalty, they wouldn't have told me anyways.

My knees buckled. I sank down into my bed under the weight of this conversation. Part of me clung to one last shred of denial and I didn't know if I was ready to let it go.

It can't be true. I'm a weak, isolated little girl. I can't be a monster.

The other part of me, that grew with every breath, curled my hands into fists at the obvious manipulation of my body over the past five years. I knew nothing about werewolves but what my father had done, how he left me in the dark, was wrong. The thoughts did little but clenched my teeth so tight that my molars grinded over each other.

I hate him.

My eyes narrowed at my supposed caretaker.

I hate Anna.

Shifting my gaze revealed Elena had dropped hers to the floor space between us.

Elena, I know we just met but if you had anything to do with this then I hate you too.

They're the monsters.

My eyes closed, remembering how earlier today I was that silly, stupid girl, sitting in front of her mirror and asked who she was.

This wouldn't have ever been a consideration. Never in a million years.

I'm a monster.

With a small sting, my nails pinched into the flesh of my palms. With straightened legs, I slid off my bed and walked over to that mirror. Each step marched closer to the death sentence of my former life, which would have filled me with uncertainty if my skin wasn't flushed warm, my breath short and sharp, and eyes drawn so narrow that blackness vignetted my vanity.

Like two aquamarine gemstones, my blazing eyes stared back, as I had done so many times. One hand clutched the top edge of the dresser tightly, as if I could press my anger out through my fingertips. The other hand coiled against my leg, so tight that my wrist compressed. My reflected eyes shifted as the striations of green overtook the light blue backdrop.

I took a deep breath, then released the most primal scream I could muster. It tore through my throat, one piercing vibration at a time, leaving my mouth dry and breath spent. Clenching my stomach and hurling my shoulder, I punched a fist dead-center of my reflection.

It really fucking hurt. 

And punching my reflection didn't help me feel better at all.

And didn't help me feel better at all.

The glass shattered into a small spider web pattern around my knuckles and sliced into the skin. With the exception of a few hairline cracks, the mirror remained intact. Elena's reflected mouth gaped. Tiny pieces tinkled down to my dresser top, like pieces of my false conspiracies shattering.

A few shards weren't enough.

Thick, stifling silence enveloped the room, as the weight of reality bore upon me.

There is no mafia. I'm an idiot. A stupid, clueless idiot.

I looked down at tiny red marks on my knuckles, hairline scratches like the mirror's damage. After a few silent minutes, my fingers released from my fist and my eyes closed. The harshness of my choice-less reality flowed unobstructed through my mind.

Doesn't matter. I have no choice... I've never had any choices, so why start now?

"When?"

A whisper escaped my lips as hot tears pricked the corners of my eyes, blotting my lashes. The heat in my veins subsided and simmered into a dull ache centered in my chest, to be replaced with doubt and apprehension of what would happen next.

"We have little time, Miss Zara." Anna rushed at me, reaching for my hand, but I pushed her away. She looked down, checking her watch as if she counted down the minutes.

"Elena here is a pack historian from the library. She'll get you up to speed on background information. But now, Cole is expecting you for your new afternoon training."

My only answer was hanging my head until my chin dipped into my chest.

I never wanted to punch Cole in the face more than when I saw him next. He stood, those stupid, meaty arms crossed over a jutted-out chest and legs locked in an aggressive stance. His brown eyes gleamed as soon as I swung the gym door open.

"So," he greeted me as I approached him. If becoming a werewolf was my death sentence, then Cole was the executor of my will.

"Ready to try something new, Princess?"

At the teasing tones in his voice, I looked at his face. He made no attempts to mask his amusement. Behind light brown strands of hair hanging across his forehead, the sparkle in his eyes made me believe he'd known all along. The slight upward curl of his lips into a smirk showed a sadistic amount of pleasure in knowing that I was going to become a monster.

He must know... How can he be so casual? Unless -

My jaw dropped to the gym mats beneath our feet and eyes stretched wide. "Are you a-a..."

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

In a blink, his eyes flashed. Brown-hazel irises filled with yellow before his pupils dilated and flooded his entire eyes a solid black. With a second blink, they pooled a bright cobalt blue.

Before my silent gasp passed between my lips, Cole's eyes were back to hazel, creased at the corners from his resumed smirk. On wobbling ankles, I took a few steps back from him like an unrecognizable stranger.

"Welcome to the pack, Princess." One eye, still brown-hazel, winked at me. "Now let's really get started. We're doing hand to hand combat and defensive positioning until you transform."

"Transform?" I echoed.

There's that word again.

He nodded, then pointed to a set of black mats spread out on the gym floor, two inches thicker than the usual gray ones we stood on. After standing off center, he squeezed two fists in a defensive boxing position. Knuckles positioned up near his chin, he smirked in a silent challenge.

With heavy steps, I came over and stood across from him. My thin, spindly arms and tiny, pale fists were laughable across from his.

"Now what, Cole?" My forehead tensed as both my eyebrows arched upward.

In a dry, crass tone, he spat out, "Fight me."

I blinked at him over my knobby, pale knuckles. While we'd done boxing training as I punched a bag or hand-held target, Cole didn't realize I'd never hit anyone with a fist.

Never ever.

The red striations etched over my right hand's knuckles reminded me of the obvious.

Unless you count my reflection.

That punch was an act of rage, in reaction to a five-year old lie. At this moment, I felt hollow inside, as if my emotions had been scooped out and discarded as insignificant. The evaporated emotions left me physically weak, like an empty and abandoned shell.

"I can't -"

"No choice, Princess." The way Cole's full lips puckered inward, then popped out while forming that word bothered me.

My eyebrows drew together and nails bit into my palms.

I'm not a princess. I never was and will never be one.

"Good, get angry, maybe then you'll actually hit me." Cole retorted like he encouraged my anger. I narrowed my eyes in annoyance at how he baited me. "Before I fall asleep standing up."

My chin lifted and nostrils twitched as they flared open. Heat rose up the sides of my neck, pooling in my cheeks. I squeezed my fists tighter.

"That's it... Princess." His emphasis was all I needed.

With fast-twitch leg muscles, I lunged forwards. My fist aimed for his face, but he caught my wrist with a side-swept palm block. With one arm circled across my chest, he pushed me face-down on the mat. Pain burst in my nose, followed by a smacked sound where my palms caught my fall and the smell of rubber filled my nostrils.

The contact gritted my teeth and frustration surged through me. With a loud exhale, I knew I was still weak but rolled my head in his smirking direction. After one glare up at him, he removed his hand.

"Don't lunge. Again." With inward curling fingers, Cole motioned for me to stand.

I hate his form of encouragement.

My heels grounded and calves tensed, I sprung forward. Again, he twisted my advancing fist away from me, redirected my forward momentum as if I was weightless, then pushed me down from behind. His movements were so fluid, borderline gentle, like we walked past each other on an afternoon stroll.

My cheeks burned upon smacked impact.

"Again, Princess," Cole's voice goaded above me.

I put my hands on my knees and stood with a grunt. Resetting my feet, I huffed and repositioned my hands. With a turn, I faked right then lunged left. Despite a change of tactic, Cole caught me easier than a viral cold, shoved me down again as if I were an annoying insect that he swatted away.

"Stop lunging." In the first crack of his impassive, bored expression, Cole frowned. "You're not listening. Move around my blocks... hit me."

Believe me, I want to!

My nails bit in deeper, slicing half-moon shapes into my palms.

"Again." This advance, Cole repositioned me so my butt hit the mat.

Trembles shook my fists and I exhaled with a hot, slow breath. My jaw rattled as I face planted... again.

"Again, Zara." Cole flicked his fingers. "Hit me."

This is beyond embarrassing.

"Again," he groaned and rolled his eyes when I belly-flopped down like a dead fish. "Get up."

"Ugh." Red splotches decorated the impact spots on my pale skin but I lifted my now-throbbing arms into fists.

"Again." Cole's only acknowledgement of my efforts was a quiet scoff and my left cheek pinned until my lips puffed out.

"I'm trying!" I cried out, slamming my fist into the mat.

This escalated to becoming the icing on my 'worst day of my life' cake.

"Again."