The Lost Lycan Queen

ck, West

prese

Kell

I

ough I always have, it's just that it's a

what doesn't belong to me pushes

emember the f

mom had brought me to a sleepover with a few ot

t, the whole thi

of bubble gum into my backpack. The bratty, previous owner

igtails hadn't kept her

e Alpha's office. They left me in the hallway outside to twiddle my litt

discussing my misbehavior. I mean, it was rare for me to be alone with my parent

ryl Fitzer, the pack psychologist who was

dition. He demanded that no matter what, I would b

ornly held his decision and made

ay, the stealing

w it I was spending hours in Fitzer's office. We talked and talked, di

ce werewolf, but it all fel

absolutely despise me. Kids my age were evil, and middle school and high school

cruel parents and siblings rain the reminder on me, as if

ired Fitzer because the treatment wasn't

ling like it was all my fau

ind of relieved that he was gone. I had a love hate relationship with him, and even the im

t of the pack office building after a session, seei

thing I want to r

it's a weird name. He's foreign. He's always enthus

Some

th a head throbbing with insane anxiety. My house is always

upy is shared with my four

ks a ridiculous amount of scrambled eggs

ravenously. I was glad to get a single strip of meat with all

giggling and being completely annoying. All us range f

ch, Marcus, left last year to join hi

when they shift, some are lu

l you find your mate. Sounds great, right? I'm trapped in this place wit

lways so much going on. Sports, music, homework, parent teacher confere

r is a blessing from above

ant to forget I even exist. It's all I can think

at sticks to one of my pant legs. Sighing, I peer around at all

hate i

a lot of people, especially knowing their eyes follow m

less thief? The one the pack leaders refuse to l

ance, a bu

n, scribbling away in that little black notebook. His large eyes flicker up

way to the adjourning room without a word o

aroon walls with a warm, coppery lamp in the corner. There are two roomy loveseats in the corner

while he strides into the room on his long legs. He's wearing burnt or

seat, clicking his pen a few times as he settles in,

tted? H

I deadpan, and his gaze shoots from his

happening in your life? How you're feeling, any incidents of significance." I roll my eyes and sigh

hing a pretty little whisk out of the pack kitchen.

en I feel the urge to steal. My heart rate picks up, I focus and plan, a

er thingy. Sometimes I wonder what he wrote about me. Was it nice? Mocking? I do

nificant?" He always asks this question when I adm

me reply for him; a sile

ing. That whisk couldn't be more than a few dollars. It d

st truth is,

e it. The feeling is amazing and glorious and having my hands on stolen goods gives

ly special about any object I want. I

tood. When I was younger I was foolish enough to try to tell m

horror, and absolute embarrass

n't open up, we'll nev

Fi

to do. Because there must be

'm a

A mi

be me because I'm not no

nyone just like

.. .. ..