Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
I had intended to only write back once—I swear that’s true. But her second letter got me hooked. She mentioned gossipy little details of her life and painted a picture of the small town she lived in and the diner she worked at so vividly, I could almost see it all in my mind.
I was starved for any little bit of affection—I heard from Branson regularly, but he’s my business manager and he’s not about to send me cute little notes to brighten my life. That’s not his job.
It wasn’t my job to write back to Sunny either, but I couldn’t help myself. She started asking my opinion about things in her life—asking my advice. She sent me pictures and in every one she looked so fucking adorable—so sweet and innocent—everything I knew I should avoid because I’d just fuck it up.
I told myself I’d stop writing. But every time I saw a new envelope with Sunny’s round handwriting in the trash, I felt like a moth being drawn to a flame. I literally could not fucking resist. Every letter was like a ray of light piercing the gloom of my dark, ugly prison cell.
Before I started corresponding with her, I saw no reason to go on. It’s not exaggerating to say that she gave me a reason to live. How could I ever give that up?
So that’s why I’ve been writing to my cellmate’s little sister for the past two years, pretending to be him and the reason I’m planning something I know I shouldn’t even be considering now that it’s time for my release.
Even though I know it’s fucking wrong, I want to go see Sunny in person.
2
CONNOR
I follow the guard who came to get me through the prison yard on my way to the office where my discharge papers are waiting. Placed at three-foot intervals around the perimeter of the cracked concrete rectangle that counts as “recreation space” are the cages. Each one is three by five—not very fucking roomy, especially for a big guy like me—you have to crouch down on all fours to get in one. Yet almost every full moon I’ve been crammed into one of these until my Shift was over.
You can probably see the point of the cages. After all, you can’t have a bunch of Rogue Alphas running around in their Wolf forms. The prison I’m in—Briarcliff—is one of the few that accepts my kind.
The human world and the Were world don’t mix much, but there are a few people who straddle the line between both. One of them is the warden here. He’s a blank—a Were with no wolf in him—but he apparently recognized the need for a facility that could handle my kind. After all, what’s worse than a hardened criminal running around loose? A hardened criminal who shifts into a huge, powerful wolf is the answer to that fucking question.
So cell-block C was established and the cages made an appearance. They’re made of solid steel and painted with silver, which makes them strong enough to keep even the most determined Were in place during his Shift.
Honestly, they’re not as bad as being thrown into solitary once a month—which is what used to happen before they brought in the cages. At least you can see the sky and feel the moonlight working on you when you’re in a cage instead of being held underground in the dark. But I’ll still be fucking glad to never see them again.
It sends a shiver down my spine to think that this month, when the moon gets full, I’ll be able to Shift and run and hunt in freedom with no bars to hold me back. I’ll go to the woods and bring down a deer, like I used to. I can almost taste the fresh venison now—it’s a hell of a lot better than nutri-loaf. But then, almost anything is.
Once in the office they take their time with the paperwork and eventually they give me back my clothes and things I came here with. I’m surprised that I get it all back. I finger the gold Rolex Ultra, which was a gift from my old man before he passed. He wanted so much for me—he would be disappointed to see me now.
Or maybe not. I think he’d understand if I explained why I did what I did to get in here.
My mom died from breast cancer the year after my dad went. Then Bethany…but I hate to think about how she died. And why. I did what I could for her but it was too little, too late.
The result of all this is that I have no family to meet me as I come out of the prison and walk across the road to the dusty gray parking lot beyond. I just have Branson.