CHAPTER ELEVEN
are monsters born or created?

WHEN VIOLET WALKS INTO SCHOOL on the first day of April, the skin around her wrists sting with fresh cuts lined up in neat little tally marks. New additions on stretches of skin that haven't seen sunshine since middle school. She's pale, ice pale and deathlike underneath the long sleeves and the cold-to-the-touch charisma.

           Kids sidestep, wheeling and carving clear paths out of her way. It's not just because her father is old money and is connected enough to know people who know people who can destroy their parents' careers so by default, Violet inherits all that ammunition too, or the fact that she's left chokehold bruises on a girl's throat before, and aforementioned girl can't look at her without flinching anymore. It's something else. It's in her eyes. In the ice and the steel-blue you see a girl who knows how to damage, who knows where to hit. A girl with a politician's gait and her father's smile who knows how to wield her power, a girl whose eyes have inventoried every flaw of yours to pick at and unravel the moment you step into the same room, who's already calculated the weak points in your armour and knows exactly how much pressure she must exert to break you.

          One look at her and you'd never be able to tell that this is the house that monsters built. Marble and ice and barbed wire, a fortress as painful to look at as is her presence disorienting, this juxtaposition between this image of a stereotypical, laid-back skater who thrives off adrenaline and tearing themselves open on the concrete, and the tapered, put-togetherness of an All-American political candidate who could map out all your strengths and weaknesses and has no qualms about giving you a rap sheet on how to be better, how to get on her level, how to stop begging for scraps.

             Just last week Violet had managed to charm her way out of a detention for punching a boy in the crotch so hard he'd had to be carted off to the ER to be monitored for signs of a concussion. It wasn't her fault; he was the one who thought he could get all up in her space without facing ramifications. Violet didn't even need to drop her father's name to shake off any form of punishment. That was a last resort. She was precocious and frightening and intense, the kind of girl who got away with everything, thanks to good genes and rapier wit.

            So they stay out of her way. It's rumoured that she carries knives, too.

           April Fool's has always been less of an occasion and more of an inconvenience. Nobody's ever really coordinated anyway. Some kids take their jokes miles ahead. Some kids have been sitting on the eggs of pranks for months. Some kids half-ass their shenanigans. Some kids don't bother showing up at all. Half the school is empty. Nobody thinks about playing practical jokes on Violet. They've TP-ed the classrooms, and stuck embarrassing baby pictures all up on the walls missing person and WANTED poster style. Some doors to the classrooms in the humanities block were cracked open three inches, and if Violet had to guess what lurked behind, sit would be buckets filled with water or diluted paint or food dye balanced on top of the door, ready to fall over and splash down on the unsuspecting moron who opened the door without checking.

            Though, the other students had actively left her out of the little pranks like pretending to cut a girl's hair and holding up the snipped off ends of a wig—believable in the moment to pass off as that girl's actual hair—to induce a freak-out. One sophomore had gone around wiping Nutella on the backs of other kids' legs in the hallways, but when he'd come up behind Violet, she noticed him skip over her, passing without incident, giving her a wide berth.

           —WE'VE HAD IT UP TO HERE WITH YOU—

           Being left alone was nice. Oftentimes there would be the girls who would suck up to Violet just because her father had money and her name meant power and being her friend meant nobody else could touch them. But those were the sort of people Violet couldn't stand. So she learnt to cut them off at the knees before they could sink their hooks into her skin. She would rather take the wary stares over superficial falsehoods any day. Better to be feared than loved. In light of the Machiavellian philosophy, she picks and chooses who she lets in. Only Kit and Sage will ever make the cut.

               "What are you doing?" A nasally voice behind her asks.

             Finn from therapy, skinny boy with olivine skin and dark circles ringing his gaunt eyes, annoying and spritely. They'd run into each other more times than Violet would've liked in the waiting room while waiting on their appointments. He liked to talk. Too much. Somehow, he had the unfortunate impression that she didn't mind his presence, and wouldn't stop making futile attempts at small talk. As if the universe couldn't torture her enough, apparently, he went to Forks High too.

            The world jars back into place. Realisation dawns on Violet that she's still staring into the contents of her locker, blanked out of her mind, and she's been standing there while the world revolved around her, bustling to classes, albeit, she hasn't moved for a whole five minutes. Her left arm's gone numb from holding her skateboard, and her knuckles have blanched paper-white from gripping the door of her locker so hard she's surprised her fingers haven't left dents in the metal. The fresh cuts on her wrists sting, lost in the old scream of old aches from old scars. But since Saturday, the truth coming to light, Kit's secret surfacing in the shape pf white fur and fangs, monster to monster, Violet realises she can never outrun them. Not even when her entire universe has been turned over and won't stop tipping on its axis and now she's left scrambling at the edges of her galaxies, fighting to regain control.

             —KEEP PUSHING—

             Jaw flexing—once, twice—Violet forced herself to loosen her grip on the door of her locker. "Praying," she said, composing her features into the cool mask of icy focus.

            "For what?" Finn asks, confusion permeating his tone.

              "For forgiveness," Violet said, voice dangerously low, thinking fervently, We are not friends. We will never be friends. You are just a face in the waiting room, an insignificant spectre boy who matters nothing to me or in any grand equation. Do not mistake my diplomacy for friendship. "For what I'm about to do to you if you don't get out of my way."

               In a flash, she slammed her locker shut and Finn flinched. His only saving grace was that he had the good sense to back away, letting Violet brush past him without another word.

☾

THREE OF THEM CORNER HER in the parking lot while she's "excused from gym with a serious migraine", smoking in solidarity. Three hulking figures crowding her against the staircase, closing in on each side until—as they might perceive—the only way out is up, back into the school.

           Immediately, skipping art and gym class becomes staple in the daily routine of her timetable. Both classes are worthless, anyway, so what's the pointing investing her time in something that wouldn't count towards her future? Violet was never born for the mundane. It's why her father only ever sent her to the expensive, top-notch private boarding schools. It's why he let her take her future into her own hands, because she knew what she wanted. Luka, on the other hand, wasn't so lucky when he was still around. Their father always slid snide, passive-aggressive comments at him to find something more sufficient, something more substantial to cling to, like medical school, like engineering, like sciences and math.

            They'd gotten into countless heated arguments concerning Luka's future, how he had to start taking things more seriously, how he couldn't rely on skating or art as a backup plan because skating wasn't an actual career, and nobody took skaters seriously unless they were Tony Hawk, and just like skating, art was a hobby. Artists starved before they could gain any recognition, and even then, it was only the extraordinary ones that stuck out, that struck it rich. Art was a pipe dream, Luka was damning himself with such idealistic fantasies because if he wasn't number one, what was the point? His future couldn't fall into either of those recreations—their father refused to let it.

             Ironic, in retrospect, how he never got a chance to live it.

            Smoke billows out of her mouth in a nebulous stream. The cigarette's half-burnt down to the filter, but she lets the embers scorch the skin between her fingers, inhales the smoke and stares at some fluctuating, indefinite point beyond the sunless sky. At first, she thought nothing of the three boys approaching. Heard their footsteps thundering against the concrete, but thought them of no consequence. Until their shadows fell over her, three small mountains eclipsing the meagre light of the sky, forming a blockade around her.

            Holding onto her cool composure, Violet flicked the three boys—all broad-shouldered, long-legged, muscular in a functional but not imposing way—a chillingly impassive stare. One of them, she recognised. Blond-haired and blue-eyed, Jonathan Vale's All-American boy smile seemed to be the topic of conversation between clusters of girls at the bathroom sink. Despite his good genes, however, there was no denying that he was dumb as a brick. Jonathan sat in front of her in Chemistry class, and obviously struggled with the simplest of concepts. It made her wonder, sometimes, as she watched their teacher smack yet another pop quiz branded with a big, fat, aggressively red F on his desk, if his stupidity could be attributed to the concussions from football, or if he popped out of the womb with half a football-shaped brain cell that never germinated into something more substantial. 

            The other two, Violet didn't recognise. But the matching nasty expressions on their faces, she did. They were out for blood. Hers, to be more specific. As she mentally counted her sheathed knives under her sleeves, Violet racked her memory for what she could've possibly done to incur their wrath. A moment evanesced. She came up empty.

           "You," Jonathan snarls. For a second, Violet sees Paul Lahote's face flash before her eyes. But Paul deserved more credit than this comparison, Violet decided as an afterthought.

            Raising a brow, Violet straightened to her feet—not losing her cool, even though she came up a whole head shorter than either of the football players—and took a drag from her cigarette. Instead of gifting them a response, she blew smoke into Jonathan's face. Teenagers were a different sort of monster with different sorts of teeth and claws. But they all had their weak points.

            Rage flared in Jonathan's eyes, and he seized her by the shoulders and shoved her into the staircase railing, pinning her shoulders back with enough force to crush her shoulder blades. Lips pulled back to bare his teeth, his storm blue eyes crackled with a manic intensity, and she felt the heat wicking off his shoulders with his anger as he sneered down at her, "look at you, thinking you rule this fucking place because your daddy's got money, you forget that some people don't need to hide behind their mental disorders and family fortunes to make others suffer."

            "I'd worry about your own intellect first, if you think you can touch me without facing consequences. Unless you do wish to get held back a year again," Violet said, voice calm, tone measured, even as a razor-sharp rage slices through her veins. Even if she wants to stab him between the eyes right here and now. But she listens to reason. She listens to the iron voice in her head.

           —BIDE YOUR TIME, WAIT FOR AN OPENING. THERE ARE THREE OF THEM AND ONE OF YOU—

             "Tell me—Jonathan, is it?" Violet purred, cocking her head. "How does it feel watching all your friends graduate while you're stuck behind a desk, surrounded by people who will graduate before you do again?"

            Something raw and primitive flickered in Jonathan's features. A thousand emotions flashed through his expression before settling on anger again. Violet knew she hit a sore spot when the grip on her shoulders tightened, threatening to pop her bones out of joint. By natural instinct, her chest seized in panic. But satisfaction curled in her guts, knowing she'd touched a weak nerve. Boys like Jonathan were all gas and noise. All brawn but no brain.

              "You hurt my girlfriend," Jonathan growled, and Violet could see the maniacal glint in his eyes. He would crush her skull if she so much as twitched in the wrong direction. Irritation pricked at her skin. She didn't like being the prey.

           —FLIP THE GAME BOARD, RELINQUISH CONTROL—

          She needed to find the right moment. The right window. She needed to switch their positions, because the power was out of her hands at the moment. And there was nothing more she despised than not having all her hands on the controls.

          In the same vein, Violet figures he's talking about the girl she'd cornered in the bathroom some unmemorable weeks ago. Holly Muldani. Pretty, but in such a dull, conventional way.

           "A little late to catch on, don't you think?" Violet said, and watches, from periphery, the two other football players flanking him. Both were burly and tall, cutting imposing figures and built like oxen, but if Violet had to guess, they were both just as stupid as Jonathan if they were out here trying their luck against her. —CATCH THEM BY SURPRISE— "Pity," she mused. "You know the look on her face when she finally faced who she was messing with was quite entertaining. You should've been there. Did you know she cried? So spineless, so pathetic. At least you have the gall to look me in the eyes. Though, the way you're going about it seriously makes me question your intelligence. How's your GPA looking these days, hm?"

               "You shut your fucking mouth, crazy cunt."

              Violet laughs, but the sound is harsh, cutting down to the bone. "You have exactly five seconds to take your filthy hands off me. Don't say I didn't warn you."

            Jonathab grins, a slash of horrific bravado across his face. "Or what? You gonna stab me? That's against school rules. And there's only one of you now."

             Violet starts the count in her head.

            —AIM FOR THE CHEST—

          "Or I'll cut the smile off your girlfriend's face the next time I see her if you don't start moving. Which would you prefer?"

          Three.

          Fury thundered across his face as he made an animalistic sound of menace in the back of his throat.

            Two.

            Jonathan ripped her away from the railing, but only to throw her back against it with enough force to knock a hole in her skull and dislodge a few of her ribs. For someone so small, Violet was made of more steel than she looked, which meant most people made the fatal mistake of underestimating her.

              One.

           Laughter erupted from her chest, cold and dark and something horrible, though she didn't know what amused her more: the caveman-like show of violence Jonathan displayed, or the slash of blood that now stained the front of his shirt and splattered down to his jeans. Nobody had seen Violet unsheathe the knife, but it was in her hand, poised in the air between them, blood slicking the blade, glinting like rubies in the light. Brows creasing, Jonathan swore viciously, backing up as he looked down at the damage, shock written across his features.

                Judging by the minimal blood spill, it was a shallow cut. Long, spanning from the bottom corner of his right pec to the end of his left collarbone, but nothing of serious consequence. It would prove a little difficult to play football with, though. Disappointment tugged at Violet's gut. She should've aimed for the heart. To add insult to injury, Violet wiped the blood off her blade against the sleeve of Jonathan's varsity jacket and slipped the knife back under her own sleeve.

          Only one of the other two boys broke out of their shock and swiped at her. Without wasting a moment, Violet jammed her knuckles into his crotch, and a sick thrill rushed through her veins as agony contorted his pallid features. As he crumpled to the ground—tower falling down—she ducked under his outstretched arm and bounded down the steps, picking up her skateboard at the bottom of the stairs, and took one second to level Jonathan—who stared after her, stunned and pissed off, but wise enough not to go after her again—with a cool look. A regal smirk curved her lips, malicious and triumphant.

               Jonathan's chest heaved, and his hands shook. His expression darkened, murderous, filled with a black anger that pulsed through the protruding vein popping out from his temple. The fingers of his left hand were blood-slicked and trembling visibly.

           Tapping two fingers to her temple in a mock salute, she held his furious stare for a vengeful moment.

           "Better luck next time," Violet said, smugly, in a voice made of poison and glass, before walking away.

☾

ALONG THE WAY TO KIT'S HOUSE, HER PHONE VIBRATES ANGRILY WITH a string of messages.

            Grinding to a stop on the side of the highway, Violet fishes her phone out of her pocket and skims the previews in her inbox. Aaron is asking where she is. Paul's message, she ignores. Kit responded to her previous text about coming over to her house with a heart emoticon. Sage—who was one of those people who despised calling and texting and was essentially unreachable if she wasn't in her house or any location known to the seeker—had sent her a convoluted series of letters and emoticons that ultimately meant nothing, but was an agreement to Violet's request to skate together at Kit's house after Kit came home from soccer practice. She opens Aaron's message first and responds, going to Kit's house to skate. don't pick me up. I will be back for dinner.

             Seeing that neither Sage nor Kit's messages required any response, Violet took a moment to slant an incendiary glower at Paul's contact, which he'd programmed into her phone, along with all the other werewolves' the night of their sleepover with firm instructions to call any of these contacts if you ever feel unsafe in your own house, or if you think that vampire is anywhere within the vicinity, or if you're out alone without Kit, or if you can't reach Kit. And if you can't reach Kit, call me. In the unlikely case that I don't pick up your call, call Jared. If Jared doesn't pick up, try Embry or Quil or Jacob or Sam. Chances are, one of us will pick up eventually. It doesn't matter if it's just a gut feeling that you're in danger or being followed. Just call, please. I'd rather accompany you through a false alarm than find you dead. Or worse, turned into one of those blood suckers. As if he cared any about her wellbeing, really. Still, with the vampire woman, the red-eyed monster, still around, Violet wasn't taking any chances.

PAUL, 12.27PM: sup violent. i know you kinda hate me or whatever but can you help me with my homework? i don't understand how to do math or nuclear physics. you said you'd help. i've come to collect.

VIOLET, 12.32PM: be there in 5.

          True to her word, the Lahotes' house loomed ahead after five minutes of retracing her steps to their street.

          Paul opens the front door before Violet even reaches their driveway. Kicking her skateboard up into her hand, Violet spots him, one shoulder leant against his doorframe, dark eyes watching her as she strode up the little path and ascended the rickety steps of their flimsy front porch.

          "You're out of school early," Paul commented gruffly, scratching his left bicep. "You cut class just to see me?"

           Forcing her eyes away from his muscles, Violet slanted him—his face, his stupid, stupid cute face—a bemused look, and flicked her fingers at him. "I skipped gym. Didn't feel like going back in. What's your excuse?"

           Crossing his arms over his chest, Paul smirked. "I'm sick. Had a migraine, couldn't focus, and got sent home."

             "Funny," Violet drawled, deadpan and sardonic as she brushed past him without ceremony on her way into the house, "I used the same excuse."

           Eyes sparking, Paul raps his knuckles lightly against the crown of her head. "Great minds."

            Rolling her eyes, Violet smacks his hand away. The moment the door shuts behind them, the sweet aroma of chocolate perfuming the house hits her nostrils. Striding into the living room, Violet spots a stack of brownies—still steaming, fresh from the oven—sitting atop the coffee table on a sizeably large paper plate. She sets her backpack and skateboard down by the sofa, while Paul throws himself onto the sofa. A bright pink post-it note stuck to the edge of the plate catches her attention, and she picks it up, inspects the cursive writing scrawled by loving hand on the page:

            Help yourself to as many as you want, darlings! I'm working late tonight, so I'll see you tomorrow morning! Circle what you want for breakfast: waffles / pancakes.

          All my love,

          Mom.

           A warm feeling engulfs her insides, sick and saturated with envy as she eyes the heart-shape drawn at the bottom of the note. The Lahotes were missing their father, but a broken home has never felt more whole. When Mrs Lahote wasn't around, they got notes and brownies. When Violet's father wasn't around for the day, she found out from Aaron or the maids. While the Lahotes didn't have much, they had everything that Violet wanted. While Violet had everything most people could only dream of, it wasn't enough. Paul and Kit had each other, while Wren was over 3000 miles away, across the ocean, taken from Violet's side when she'd been wrenched out of her home and deposited in California to be an expensive boarding school's problem. Paul must've noticed her disoriented expression, the misted eyes and the flat line of her mouth, must've felt the lonely pang spearing through her chest too, because he gestured to the plate of brownies, a sympathetic look twisting his features.

            "Take as many as you want, just leave two or three pieces for Kit. We can start working after lunch—or, shit— have you eaten yet? We might have some leftover pasta, but I don't know if Kit would want it when she gets back from soccer practice—"

               "I can order delivery pizza," Violet says, shaking her head, ignoring the thickness of her voice, the swell of her throat. Here's the deal: she got it. Even though she didn't have all the answers, she understood how the world worked and that kids don't get to choose their parents, and parents don't get choose who their kids get to be. But the ultimate mystery, the real sucker-punch was this: what you can choose is how you act towards your kid or your parent, so why do some people push their kids so far away they can't even hear them anymore? Why do some people think they're making all the right calls while their kid is right there drowning, alone and screaming, in monsters? It's not fair. It just isn't. But Violet knows better than to count on miracles or sympathy from a universe that has never once answered her prayers. So she plasters on the indifferent, devil-may-care mask again, and waves Paul's concern off. Granted, there's no mistaking the sharpness of her voice that hadn't been there before. "I'll pay. Don't fight me on this. How do you like pineapples on pizza? If you say no, I'm leaving and your grades can rot."

             Paul wrinkles his nose in disdain. "If you're implying I'm one of those pussies who can't handle pineapple on pizza..."

               Snatching a brownie from the plate, Violet smirks. "Good. Is it enough for you if we share three pizzas?"

             Paul blinked. Violet could practically see the cogs turning in his head, a conflict of interest battling it out on his expression. Despite what most might think, Paul wore all his emotion on his sleeve. He might be perpetually angry and foul-tempered, but anger was still an emotion, and Paul felt more than most people typically did. Violet wouldn't call Paul being emotional a weakness. It was how expressive he was that could get him hurt. Feeling meant being out of control, which was why Violet put all her emotions in boxes and locked them deep inside. Objectivity without tether to emotional influence meant control. But most people didn't grow up with Elijah Korchak as their father, and couldn't do the same with such practiced ease. She didn't expect it of them, just like she couldn't expect the same from Paul. Plus, it made him easy to read, so it was a win for her, anyway.

             "Nevermind," Violet said, making a snappy decision, as she pulled out her phone and dialled the pizza delivery hotline. "I'll get four. Two Hawaiian and two cheese pizzas, all on me, alright? Don't worry about it."

             Paul frowned as she brought the phone up to her ear, an argument searing the tip of his tongue. "Wait, but I feel bad making you pay for all that—"

            "Hi!" Violet said into the speaker, turning on her charm and cutting Paul off mid-protest before slanting him a warning glare: shut up and sit down before I make you. Then, she turned around and listed her order, added a fifth pizza (pepperoni—for Kit and Sage when they came home later) as an afterthought, and relayed the Lahote's address, which she'd memorised by heart, and hung up once all of her information was processed.

              While they weren't dirt poor, the Lahotes weren't well-off either. Violet knew that. The twins' mother worked overtime just to keep them afloat and pay off the bills. It was just enough and it wasn't all at the same time, and Violet liked doing whatever she could to alleviate the pressure. For one, she had more than enough money to last her family generations into the future. Another thing was that, even though this small sum was hardly a blip on her father's radar, some petty part of her liked the idea of spending his money however she wanted to. And if it was to help out a friend, all the better.

            Once she'd put away her phone, Violet turned back to Paul, who fixed her with a flat look.

            "You didn't have to do that." There was an accusatory look in his eyes. I know you pity us. Stop. We don't need your charity.

             "I wanted to," Violet sighed, taking a seat beside him on the couch. "Look, I had a shitty day, so if you're going to make things difficult, we can duke it out tomorrow. I just want my pizza, okay?"

            Paul's eyes softened as she picked up a throw pillow and placed it over her knees, fingers idly picking at the seams.

            "Wanna tell me what happened?" Paul asked, cramming a brownie into his mouth.

             Violet let out an explosive sigh. "Three guys tried to jump me." When a murderous glare thunderstorms over Paul's features, Violet adds, "it wasn't, like, in a rape-y way or anything. They just cornered me at the staircase about some girl I threatened on my first week of school. Anyway, I cut one of them and got another guy in the balls, so everything's okay. I'm fine, they're not."

            A laugh startles itself out from Paul's broad chest. "Violent, you little asshole," he snickered, and knocks knuckles with her in a fist-bump. "Look, they deserve it. I know you don't waste your time antagonising random people, so it must be justified. Anyway, next time you injure someone, give me a call so I can watch."

            "Sure, let me tell my assailants to wait for a second while I can call a friend so he can watch us throw down," Violet deadpans, sarcasm dripping from her tone like venom. "Oh, and bring some popcorn and a lawn chair too while you're at it."

           Paul snorts. "God, you are such a smart-ass."

           "Don't pretend you don't love it."

            He pegs a pillow at her. "Don't be so presumptuous."

          "I hate you."

           "Sure you do," Paul scoffed, unconvinced. "You look me in the eyes and tell me you hate my guts."

            At this point, Violet didn't think she could. Partly because her gaze had involuntarily slid to his arms, the veins protruding from on the skin of his forearms like vines, all sinew and roping muscle. Paul had nice arms.

          "Excuse you, my eyes are up here," Paul said, lips curled into a devilish smirk. "You know, I'm kind of worried for myself now. I asked you to come over to help me with my physics and math homework, but now you're ogling my arms? Will there be any tutoring done today?"

            Violet groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation. "Okay, shut up."

            "So you are staring at my arms," Paul exclaimed, declaratively, looking a little too smug for her liking. "You admitted it. No take-backs."

                "God, you're such a child," Violet growled, an animalistic sound rippling from the back of her throat, though it was without heat. More out of mortification than real anger. "Eat your brownies and keep your mouth shut."

            "But how can I eat with my mouth shut?"

           Violet's eye twitched. Paul burst into laughter again.

☾

DESPITE PAUL'S HEAVY RELUCTANCE, Violet forced him to start on his physics homework once they finished off their four pizzas (of which Paul had shamelessly polished off three and a half pizzas), cleaned up, and kept the fifth—the pepperoni Violet had ordered for Kit—in the fridge. Too full to move to Paul's room, they'd made the executive decision to lay out their work on the coffee table and sit cross-legged on the floor.

           "You know, for someone so small, you sure like to throw your weight around a lot," Paul grumbled, as he scribbled an equation onto the paper.

           "Who else will if not me?" Violet retorted, poking him in the thigh with her own pencil. As Paul begrudgingly worked through a series of physics questions, she'd started on her own homework, a Spanish essay she was certain contained an innumerable abundance of grammatical errors since languages were never her strong suit. "And stop complaining, if you're stuck on a question, move on, then ask me how to do it if you're really, really stuck. You have to try, Paul."

           Tipping his head back, Paul let out another plaintive groan. Without looking up from her essay, Violet flicked him in the cheek in reproach.

           Somewhere along the lines, somewhere between strangely comfortable silences permeated only by the scratch of their pencils against paper and light-hearted bickering, time began slipping by without their notice. Sage called at three to let Violet know that she had to help her mom out with something important. At four, Kit had called to apologise that she'd be staying late at practice, and that she had forgotten that she'd already made plans to hang out with Jared after. With a promise to skate together and hang out another day—most likely tomorrow, considering the trio were the pretty overly attached to each other, according to Paul—Violet hung up on Kit, and relayed the news to Paul.

             "Yeah, I heard it all," Paul said, waving Violet off. He shot her a cocky grin. "Werewolf, remember? I can basically hear everything whenever the people living down the street decide they want to fuck instead of fight."

            Violet grimaced. "Every blessing comes with a curse."

           Paul nodded, mock sagely. "It really does."

           A glimmer of something darker ignited in the cracks of Violet's mask. A deep curiosity she couldn't keep in shackles.

           "I have a question," she began, tapping a fingernail against the edge of the coffee table.

           "Yes, I had a crush on you when we were kids," Paul said, distractedly, as he pencilled his answers onto lined paper, evidently not realising the weight of what he'd just revealed.

            "What? That wasn't even close to what I was going to ask." Violet wrinkled her nose in confusion. Paul had liked her when they were kids? The sheer notion seemed too unfathomable. They'd spent the entire time they'd known each other at war or at least with some sort of argument. He'd put earthworms in her shoes, for Christ's sake.

              Jerking away from his homework, Paul blinked. A red heat crept up his neck, and he swore viciously. "I did not mean to say that out loud, but by all means, ignore me. What was the question?"

          Smirking, Violet decided to hold onto that trump card for another more worthwhile time. But there were more pressing matters at the moment. So Violet had the proof that monsters existed. The next question that she had to ask was how. Were they born or were they created?

            "As I was going to ask," she began again, "what can you tell me about your werewolf history?"

           "What, like my kill count?"

           "No, I meant how you were made. But enlighten me on that one too."

          Hesitant, Paul raked a hand through his hair, the muscles of his right arm rippling visibly even with such a mundane action. Spanish essay forgotten, Violet kept her eyes trained on his face. She didn't need distractions.

           "It's in our blood," Paul said, slowly, absently tracing circles into the carpet with his index finger. "Long ago the warriors of our tribe were given a gift by some spirits. Those spirits meant protection, manifested in the wolf form. Those who carried the blood of the warriors would eventually become werewolves too."

             "So it's an ancestry thing," Violet confirmed, brows furrowing as she analysed Paul's expression. "You were born a werewolf."

           "Yeah," Paul said, nodding. Mesmerised by the transformation from the boredom she'd treated her work with to such an intense interest, he watched Violet with careful eyes. Watched the zeal peeking through the corners of her mouth, the savage intensity around her eyes, and the sharp energy of her jaw. "We all were. Me, Sam, Jared, Embry, Jacob, Quil, and Kit. Though, we didn't know about this side of our... ancestry until we started phasing. We didn't ask for this, but it's not a bad thing to be—this sort of monster. The only things we kill are vampires. Our natural enemies. That type of monster is made. They're, like, evil or something. And that evil is infectious. They're kind of like parasites. They don't know how to coexist in peace—it's not in their nature, like it is in ours."

             It was a comforting thought to know that the wolves would always be there. They were protectors. But who was there to protect Luka the day the vampire woman had taken him? Who had been there to save him? Sam Uley had been too late. What if the wolves were always one step too late to save her as well?

AUTHOR'S NOTE.
this might be, by far, my favourite chapter of this whole book???? idk

what are your thoughts?