Page 9

9

KENDALL

T he bus ride to the hospital is short, but my nerves make it feel like I’m crawling there in reverse. Every bump in the road rattles through my bones, and I swear the fluorescent lights overhead are humming loud enough to crack my skull open.

I’m not okay.

I know it. My body knows it. My senses are still too sharp. Every person on the bus smells like sweat and fabric softener and old coffee. I can hear the tap-tap-tap of some guy’s phone screen across the aisle like he’s drumming right on my spine.

I haven’t told anyone what happened last night.

Not Adora. Not Mom. Not Stefan, and he was right there in my kitchen this morning, looking at me like I was some cracked vase he didn’t know how to hold without bleeding.

But I need answers. Adora might not be ready to talk, but I am . Or at least I’m desperate enough to try.

I step off the bus two blocks from the hospital. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s the itch under my skin that hasn’t stopped crawling since last night. But something makes me walk.

That’s when I see him. A flicker in the alley to my left.

Familiar. Broad shoulders. That stupid silver streak in his hair.

Dad.

I freeze mid-step, my body pulsating with the drum of blood and my heart. He doesn’t look back. Just moves deeper into the shadows like he wants me to follow.

Hell if I don’t.

I quickly glance over my shoulder once, then cut across the street, slipping into the alley like I’m sliding into someone else’s story.

It smells like garbage and rain but as I try to push down the overwhelming smells, I realize that he’s not in the alley anymore.

But I catch movement up ahead, where the alley cuts beneath the bridge. The underpass is low and shadowy, hidden from the street, just a dark mouth yawning beneath the city.

I hesitate at the edge.

Then I step inside.

He’s waiting. Back turned. Hands shoved in his jacket pockets. Still as a statue.

“You know, there are less creepy ways to get someone’s attention,” I mutter.

“I needed you to follow.”

“You could’ve texted. It’s 2025, not 1825.”

“I figured you’d have questions,” he says without turning. “About the bite. About Adora. About what’s coming.”

“No shit.”

He finally turns.

His face is tired. More tired than I’ve ever seen. His beard’s patchier, his eyes sunken, but there’s a steadiness to him now. Like last night shook something loose and now it’s settled in place.

“I didn’t want this for you,” he says.

“Then maybe don’t bite your daughter in an alley like a psychopath.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “I had no choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

“Not when it comes to survival.”

I cross my arms, fingers digging into my elbows. “So what, this is survival now? Turning your kids into monsters?”

“You’re not a monster, Kendall. You’re Bolvi .”

“That’s not a goddamn explanation.”

He takes a step closer. I don’t back up—but my pulse is rioting again.

“You felt it, didn’t you?” he says. “When it started. The senses. The heat under your skin. The... pull.”

My jaw tightens. I don’t answer.

“Adora felt it too. But she didn’t know what it meant. And when I tried to link with her—tried to guide her through it—it didn’t work.”

He hesitates.

“That’s when I realized she’s not mine.”

My breath catches.

“What?”

“She’s Margreet’s. She’s your sister, but not mine. I should’ve known. But I loved her like she was, and maybe that made me blind. When I tried to connect with her—to help her shift—it broke something in both of us.”

“You attacked her.”

He looks down. “I lost control.”

“ You put her in the hospital.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt her. I was angry when I realized that I’ve been lied to all of these years.”

“But you did it .”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“And I’ll carry that guilt until the day I die. But you, Kendall—you’re mine. You were born for this. And you need to understand what that means before it kills you.”

I don’t know whether to scream or cry or punch a wall.

“So wait, if Adora isn’t what… ever we are, but still could feel it, then–”

He cuts me off with a growl. “I don’t know. She’s something, whatever her real father is, just not mine.”

I can tell that’s as far as I’m going to get with him on that but my mind spins. Does Adora know she’s not his? Does mom? But then I realize none of the questions matter right now and can be answered by my own father. So, I take a moment and try to wrap my head around what he can tell me.

“So help me understand,” I say slowly. “Because right now, I’m just a girl who got jumped by her werewolf father in the dark and now hears rats scuttling under buildings like they’re whispering secrets.”

He sighs, but I can tell he’s happy I dropped the Adora topic. “The Bolvi line didn’t just survive the old purges. We thrived under them. Because we didn’t need packs. We didn’t need the old laws. We’re built different. Stronger. Wilder. And harder to control.”

“That doesn’t sound like a good thing.”

“To them? No. To humans? Definitely not. But to us? It’s a gift.”

My head spins.

He steps closer, his voice low now.

“There are factions, Kendall. Ones that want our kind registered, locked up, or worse. They’re already watching us. And now that you’ve awakened, they’ll be looking for you.”

“Then I won’t let them find me.”

“Not without training, you won’t. And not alone.”

I stare at him. My father. The man who vanished for days, pretended to be a drunk, and then bit me like an animal—and now says he’s my only shot at surviving.

God help me.

“I don’t trust you,” I say quietly.

“You don’t have to. You just have to listen .”

I hate how much that makes sense.

“So what, you’re gonna teach me to fight now?”

“Fight. Shift. Hide. Control it. Blend when you need to, run when you can’t. And never let them scent you before you scent them.”

He glances toward the street, then back.

“I’ll introduce you to the underground. Quietly. It’s not just wolf shifters and werewolves anymore. There are dragons, witches, fae—everyone’s scrambling now that the Veil’s down. But if we move right, if we stay quiet, they won’t see you coming.”

“And if they do?”

His eyes darken.

“Then we make sure they regret it.”