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I sippedmy glass of water, watching two couples swing dance in the corner of the rustic bar. The purposefully-scuffed jukebox was playing the newest country song—something about sex in the back of a truck—and my stomach growled mercilessly.
Was I hungry for truck sex?
Not even a little.
…okay, maybe alittle.
But what I really wanted was blood, which in Wildwood, was hard to come by. The werewolves ran the city. While I could technically fit in with them, it would raise some major red flags if I popped my fangs out around them.
My best friend, Tori, and I made a run to another city when we needed to buy blood bags. They were insanely expensive, so we were barely drinking enough to survive.
If it was safe to live in the other city, we would’ve stayed. Living was cheaper there, and the few jobs we qualified for paid better.
But it wasn’t safe for us, so Wildwood won.
Hunger did, too.
“Can I grab you something else?” the bartender asked me, her smile friendly. She was tall and curvy, with dark skin, and two full sleeves of tattoos. Enough of the ink depicted the forest and moon to tell me she was a werewolf.
Female werewolves were rare, for some strange biological reason. Most of them were made through mating, when the male werewolf bit his human mate and she became like him.
…except in my case.
I was made in a lab.
Or my wolf was, at least.
Most supernaturals would call me a blood wolf. Both vampire, and wolf. It was a shitty gig. I definitely wouldn’t recommend it.
The people that didn’t go withblood wolfstuck withblood donororlure.
Of course, neither of those titles were entirely untrue.
They just didn’t tell the full story.
Vampires created blood wolves to be their personal blood bags. Thanks to our wolves, we didn’t require much outside blood to survive, and could regenerate our own rapidly. Our blood smelled incredible to vampires, functioning as a lure to let them know that we were the ideal food source.
Our blood tasted great too, from what we’d heard.
And suffered.
It was illegal to make us, because of the horrors of the transformation process. Tori and I existed, so some vampires clearly took the risk.
We had a third friend, too—Sienna—but she had been too afraid to leave when we did.
“I’m good. Thanks, though,” I said, giving the bartender a small smile. When she stepped away, I finger-combed my straight-across bangs. Other than the fringe, my medium-brown hair was cut to my chin, with an uneven wave pattern that made it look messy, but fun.
Considering I was only five feet tall and built soft, not strong, I worked with what I had. The short hair fit my face and personality, and it also made me look spunky.
All I had on was a simple black tee-shirt-dress that fell to the middle of my thighs, and a pair of scuffed gray high-tops. I’d tied my work shirt below my breasts during my shift, but tucked it in my bag on my way to the bar. Not only did I love the style, but it played into the image I projected to people.
Fun and sassy.
Nowhere near as weak as the vampires had always made me feel.
