Page 31 of Bitten, Marked, Obsessed

That pull, it stretches between us like a wire I’m terrified to separate.

“I’ll see you then,” I say.

I walk away before I do something stupid.

Like tell her what she already is to me.

13

KENDALL

Ididn’t sleep much last night. Again.

Not because of the nightmares this time, or the bone-deep soreness Dad calls “growth.” It was him. Callum. I keep seeing his face.

The way he moved—calm, efficient, like every step he took had been planned three seconds before his body even followed. The way his voice dropped low when he talked about survival, like he knew exactly what the cost of being careless was. Like he’d paid it already.

His eyes. That kind of stillness doesn’t come easy. Doesn’t come without losing something.

He has that too.

And the worst part? It doesn’t scare me. It should. But it doesn’t.

It makes me want tounderstandhim.

His hair was dark and light all at once, cut just messy enough to look natural but not lazy. His jawline looked like it could slice through chain-link. And when he looked at me with those green eyes—I swear my lungs forgot how to work.

I don’t get it. I barelyknowhim. And yet… I do.

That’s the part that makes me want to crawl out of my skin.

I pull my hoodie tighter around me and head downstairs, trying to shove the thoughts aside. I need to meet Dad in twenty, and I want food in me before he starts another round of “learning through pain.”

I’m halfway to the kitchen when I hear her.

Mom.

She’s standing by the fridge, staring into it like it might offer her salvation in the form of cold leftovers. I haven’t seen her much since I was bit. Since Dad told me about Adora and how she wasn’t his…

“Morning,” I say, keeping my voice light.

She startles. Not visibly, but Ifeelit. The tension spikes like a slap in the air.

“Kendall,” she says, turning.

Her hair’s down for once. It spills over her shoulders in a loose braid, long and blonde like mine and Adora’s, but hers has started to dull at the ends—more tired than aged. There’s something ethereal about her when she isn’t trying so hard to seem normal. Like her stillness isn’t human. Like she’s holding back some kind of shimmer just beneath her skin.

Her smile’s too tight. Her hands don’t stop fidgeting. And her brown eyes—usually calm and clear—can’t seem to settle. They flicker down my arms, like she’s searching for something she’s already afraid she’ll find.

“You okay?” I ask.

“I’m fine.” Too fast. “Just tired. I was going to grab some milk for Adora later. She needs more calcium.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Since when do you care about milk?”

“I—I just think it’ll help. Bones and all.”

Her voice cracks slightly at the wordbones.Her fingers twist the hem of her sleeve like she’s unraveling more than fabric.

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