Page 57 of Bitten, Marked, Obsessed

One Iwantto make.

And one Ihaveto.

I pull my hoodie up, let my scent blend with the chaos, and head toward Stefan’s apartment.

He opensthe door faster than I expect. Like he’s been waiting. He doesn’t say hi. Doesn’t ask where I’ve been. Just stares at me—hard.

His blue eyes—usually warm, are sharp now. Cold like glass in winter. Not blank, no. Worse. Tired. Haunted.

I swallow. “Can I come in?”

He doesn’t answer. Just steps aside.

The apartment smells the same. Clean. Lemon and cedar and the faintest trace of his cologne that always clung to my hoodie after sleepovers. Books still stacked on the coffee table. The plants he pretends not to care about still watered. And that ugly mustard-yellow throw pillow I always said clashed with the couch is still right there, perfectly fluffed.

But everything feels...off. Like I’m in a memory wearing someone else’s skin.

I don’t sit. I don’t want to get comfortable. This isn’t that kind of visit.

“I need to talk to you,” I say.

Stefan crosses his arms, the muscles in his forearms tightening under the sleeves of his Henley. It used to make me weak when he looked like this—lean and controlled, that effortless athleticism that came from hiking and lacrosse and chasing me around parking lots during rainstorms.

Now he just looks braced. Like I’m a storm rolling in.

“Figured,” he says, voice dry.

“I should’ve said it sooner. But I was scared. And confused. And everything was happening so fast?—”

“Kendall,” he snaps, cutting me off. “Just say it.”

I meet his eyes. Force my voice not to shake.

“I’m not human,” I say quietly. “Not anymore.”

His expression shifts—but not with surprise. Not exactly.

“I figured that much,” he says. His voice is lower now, like gravel under foot. “You changed into—” He cuts himself off. His shoulders tense as he turns away, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to wake up from all of it.

I can smell it—his fear. The sweat, the cortisol spike, the bitter scent of heartbreak.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to keep my tone dry. “That was a fun moment.”

He turns back, eyes flashing. “What are you?”

I hesitate. “Werewolf. Kind of.”

He flinches. Not dramatically—but enough. Like the word stung.

Stefan looks down at the floor, then back up at me—and I can see it all over him. The cracking. The splintering. The inner war between everything we were and everything I’ve become.

And for a second, I almost wish I hadn’t come.

“And when exactly were you gonna tell me?” he asks, voice too calm. “After you tore someone’s throat out in front of me?”

“That’s not fair.”

He spins back toward the window, then whirls around again. “Isn’t it?! You think I haven’t been watching the news? Seeing what your kind’s been doing? You lied to me, Kendall. After everything you knew about what happened to my parents—how I felt—you still kept it from me.”

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