Page 26 of Bitten, Marked, Obsessed

I nod once.

Because this can’t be right. Itshouldn’tbe right. Not when it’s her. Not when the whole damn pack is ready to tear her apart for what she is.

For what shemightbecome.

I’m already halfway gone, chasing the scent of a girl I’m not supposed to want… but somehow, already feel like I can’t live without.

11

KENDALL

I’ve never been this sore in my life. Not after cross-country, not after dance recitals, not even after Mom made us do that half-marathon fundraiser when we were twelve and didn’t train for shit.

This isdifferent.

It’s not just muscle pain—it’sbone-deep, like my body’s still rearranging itself under my skin. Like nothing’s settled yet, and maybe it never will.

For three days straight, Dad’s been pushing me harder than I thought possible. Hand-to-hand drills. Breath control. Smell tracking. Pain tolerance. I puked twice and blacked out once, and he just stood there like it was part of the process.

“You’re stronger than you think,” he keeps saying.

I’m starting to believe him.

Still, I’m raw. Running on fumes. And this morning, he says we’re meeting someone.

Someone he trusts.

Which is rich, coming from the man who ghosted me for most of my life and then turned me into a supernatural science experiment in a back alley.

We’re walking through the tunnels again. Same damp concrete. Same shadows that press too close. But this time, he’s not barking orders or telling me to listen for vibrations.

This time, he’s nervous.

He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t have to. I can smell it on him.

“You good?” I ask, glancing sideways.

He grunts. “Always.”

“Liar.”

He gives me a look, but I see the twitch at the corner of his mouth. A rare almost-smile.

“He’s not like the others,” Dad says after a beat. “His name is Callum Wulfson. He sees the bigger picture. Wants peace.”

“You trust him?”

“I trust my sources. And I trust myself.”

“Vague.”

He huffs out a breath. “I trust him enough to see if he can help you stay alive.”

Well. That’s... comforting.

Dad’s quiet. Not barking orders or telling me to listen for vibrations. I can smell how nervous he is—muddied adrenaline and the bitter sting of fear, buried beneath that same cool indifference he always wears like a damn coat.

“You good?” I ask, casting a look his way.

---