The Only She-Wolf

The last she-wolf is dead.

At least, that’s what the packs believe. That’s what they need to believe.



Because I made sure they did.



I escaped the dungeon I was locked in for eighteen years.

I faked the blood. Burned the bodies.

Then I ran—straight into the last place anyone would ever look:

The only werewolf academy, which of course happens to be only males. No she-wolves alive, remember?



They think I’m one of them. Just another scent-soaked, aggressive boy trying to survive training.

But if anyone finds out I’m a she-wolf?

I’m not just exposed.

I’m claimed. Bred. Or worse, caged.



The plan was simple:

1. Disguise myself as a boy.

2. Don’t shift. Don’t bleed. Don’t get caught.

3. Avoid eye contact. Avoid actual contact.

4. Survive. Somehow.



It should’ve worked.

It would’ve worked, if not for the four territorial bastards who keep sniffing around like I’m their next meal.



They don’t know what I am.

But they know something’s wrong.

And worse?



They make my skin burn.

My blood pulse.

My heat rise.



So now I’ve got a new plan:

1. Don’t shift.

2. Don’t look at them.

3. Don’t let them touch me.

4. Don’t moan when they do.



Wish me luck.