Page 35 of Fool Moon First Aid

“Home,” I reply, though my voice wavers, betraying my uncertainty.

“Let me in,” he demands, his voice brooking no argument, as if his words can unlock doors and barriers alike.

“Dad,” I mutter, a wave of exhaustion washing over me, as if his words are eroding my resolve. “I’m in bed. I’m not getting up.”

Then I hear the knock on my apartment door, the sound as ominous and foreboding as the footsteps of an unwelcome visitor. “Open the door, Ava.”

Panic sets in, my heart racing. “No, Dad, you’re freaking me out. What’s going on?” I sit up in the chair, the pressure on my ankle eliciting a silent wince—a sharp reminder of my vulnerability.

“Ava,” he says, his tone ominously calm. “Dinner, Wednesday night.”

I hear his footsteps receding down the hallway, and for a brief moment, I breathe easier, my heart rate slowing. My apartment is a cozy, first-floor rental from the sweetest old lady just blocks from my clinic.

“All right,” I say softly, a knot of apprehension tightening in my stomach.

“We’re having dinner with the Castellon family,” he announces, the wind in the background assuring me he left my building.

The Castellon family? Fear spikes through me, and a cold shiver runs down my spine, chilling and foreboding. They are like the old mobsters from the early 1900s, but worse. They run on fear and control and are the head of the Puritas movement, hunters seeking to eliminate those like the very men who own this home. The thought of them pursuing Ethan, who’s currently running through the woods, sends chills through me that I can’t shake off.

“I’ll have a car pick you up at seven sharp on Wednesday,” he dictates, his voice as rigid and unyielding as iron.

“Why?” My voice trembles slightly, the vulnerability of a child resurfacing, despite my age.

“Because, Ava,” he replies, his tone deadly calm, “I’ve accepted an offer for your hand in marriage to Elijah Castellon. Wednesday, we plan your wedding.”

He hangs up, leaving me staring at the blank screen where his smug face once mocked me, a haunting image that lingers like a bad dream. He knows where I am.

Grinding my teeth, I contemplate calling Eloise to vent about that webpage, but I don’t. If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that being told not to do something only fuels the desire to do it.

He never chose to dictate my actions before. How dare he try to control my life now?

One thing is crystal clear—I’m not about to play by anyone’s rules. Not the moon’s, not an incantation’s, and sure as hell not my father’s.

Ava

I like to think of myself as self-sufficient and independent. I mean, graduating from veterinary school a year early wasn’t just a tick on my resume, and opening my own clinic, Creature Comforts, within three years wasn’t just a career move. It’s my love for pets laced with my peculiar fascination for horror—a genre that somehow delivers just the perfect dose of serotonin to my system.

Anyway, after spending a solid twenty minutes staring at the phone, caught in a whirlpool of anticipation and dread, and with Brody thoughtfully leaving a plate of steaming food outside my door, I decide to let the day drift away. You know, some days you just have to acknowledge as a wash, a canvas smeared with grays, and hit the hay, hoping for a burst of color the next morning.

Or at least, that’s the plan. Unfortunately for me, I wake up hours later, disoriented and all out of sorts, like a puzzle with pieces scattered and misplaced. Outside the window, the moon hangs low in the sky. Its slivers of light sneak through the curtains, casting ghostly silhouettes over the room where I never managed to crawl under the covers of the bed or change into the sweats lying forlornly on the chair.

The house feels unnaturally cold, as if an invisible frost has crept through its walls, wrapping its icy fingers around my bones. I slowly sit up in bed, trying to gather my scattered senses like fallen leaves. My ribs ache with a deep, persistent throb, my ankle pulsates to its own stubborn rhythm, and the stitches on my thigh pull tight—all a harsh reminder of my recent ordeal. I tap my phone, and bright white numbers flicker up at me, reading three in the morning—folklore’s notorious witching hour, when the veil between worlds is said to be its thinnest.

My gaze drifts to the window and the sliver of moon peeking through, its glow a pale lantern in the dark. Compelled by an unknown force, I toss my legs over the bed, lean forward, and stare out at the vast forest before me. Shrouded in an early morning fog, the yard adopts an ominous ambiance, as if it’s a stage set for a spectral play, the shadows the silent actors whispering lines in a language only they understand.

Gripping my crutches, I hobble to the window to peer down, my heart a timid drum in my chest. My eyes, drawn by a primal, magnetic pull, scan the clearing until they land on a shadow that’s deeper and darker than all the others, a midnight mystery etched against the night. It stretches across the tree line, lengthening into the night like a dark hand reaching out.

A strange thrill, a cocktail of fear and fascination, ripples up my spine as eyes materialize out of thin air within that darkness. Glowing and reflective, they pierce the night, glaring back at me from the deepest recesses of the darkness. Without a shadow of a doubt, I know it’s Ethan. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but it’s him. I watch as his form, a silhouette of rippling black fur that seems to extend the shadows, moves toward the house, his gaze never leaving what I’m sure must be me.

He has to be looking at me.

From here, he looks like a fierce beast, a majestic yet daunting creature of the night, all fur, muscles, and sharp teeth. His eyes don’t just watch me, though, they see right through me—through every single wall I’ve ever built around myself, all my misgivings and my past, and all my fears, hopes, and desires.

He truly sees me.

I want to look away, I need to look away, but I don’t. Not even as he fluidly shifts from wolf to man, his gaze locking with mine. He watches me with a mix of wildness and human cunning in his eyes as he steps across the dew kissed lawn, stark naked. The moonlight dances on his skin, highlighting the contours of his muscles. Part of me, the part that’s still shivering from the night’s chill, wants to dissect this transformation and really understand it, yet another part, the one that’s all instinct, just wants to dodge his intense, almost predatory gaze. I manage to break the stare first, but not without catching the smug smirk he tosses my way, as if he knows the turmoil he’s stirring in me.

I let the blinds snap shut and limp across the room, my mind a whirlwind after what I just saw. My eyes land on the pile of sweats and T-shirts left on the chair. They are far better than Eloise’s clothing that I’m currently wearing. In a burst of defiance, I strip down, the cool air raising goose bumps on my skin, and chuck the clothes in a corner. Three shirts stare back at me, each carrying the scent and story of someone I may or may not know. It bugs me. It really shouldn’t, but it does.

---