Bloodmoon – The Shatter

Stolen Nights

For the record, I never claimed to be subtle. I just want to lead with that before I tell you the rest.

But apparently, I was subtle enough that Sloane and I managed to sneak around for weeks without anyone calling us out. Or maybe my family was just letting me think I was subtle. Which, honestly, would be worse.

Either way, we had a system. It took us a while to develop and fine‑tune, but eventually we got there.

Late nights. Quiet knocks. Her trailer door cracking open just wide enough for me to slip inside like some oversized raccoon. And mornings where I had to sneak back out before the construction crew started their day.

Every night and every day, this.
Our little ritual.
Our stolen world.

The first time I tried sneaking out after spending the night, I almost got caught by two early‑riser surveyors. The sky was still that pale, bruised blue before sunrise, the air cold enough to sting my lungs. Sloane shoved me behind her generator—where I crouched like an oversized armadillo—and for the record, that generator was not designed to hide a full‑grown werewolf in human form. Metal dug into my ribs. My knees were in my throat. I was one deep breath away from knocking the whole thing over.

Then she sprinted outside, loudly singing and pretending to take out the trash to distract from me making a dash for it through the bushes out back. She sang off‑key so badly it rolled my toenails up to my knees — and to this day I genuinely don’t know if she did it on purpose or if she just can’t carry a note in a bucket with a tight lid on it. Honestly, the bushes were the least painful part of that escape. I didn’t run into them – I fled.

I had to circle around the trailers, crawl under a deck, and emerge on the other side like some kind of cryptid to get to the path to my house. Dew soaked through my shirt. Mud streaked my arms. A spider web wrapped itself across my face like nature’s slap for being stupid.

“Morning,” I said casually when I finally walked up the path, like I hadn’t just belly‑crawled through the underbrush.

They nodded. I nodded. Sloane stood behind them, trying not to laugh, mouthing go like I was a fugitive.

That was week one.

It only got dumber from there.

By week three, we had a whole routine. I’d wait until every last member of the crew had turned in before sneaking to her trailer. I spent the night doing things couples do when the lights go out. Then I’d sneak out through the thicket, loop around, down the trail leading to the back of my home, climb up my covered patio, and in through my bedroom window I left unlocked from sneaking out the night before.

Like a thirty‑two‑year‑old teenager.

I finally understood why Sloane teased me about living with my parents and grandparents. If I had my own place, she’d be the one sneaking in and out. Too bad I didn’t have—and would never have—the money to afford my own house.

And then came the morning that nearly killed me.

I’d stayed way later than I should have because Sloane—in a moment of terrifying domestic instinct—realized how much I enjoyed food and in what quantities. So, trying to be a top‑shelf girlfriend, she bought a week’s worth of supplies and cooked me a gigantic breakfast with literally every breakfast item imaginable. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, fruit, toast, hash browns, breakfast sausages, muffins, donuts, oatmeal, cereal, yogurt—the works.

The smell alone could’ve fed a small village.

I didn’t even know she could cook. Honestly, to my great surprise it didn’t taste half bad—not exactly my mom’s level, but still impressive for a single, career-minded city girl—and she’d made it for me, so I plowed through it feeling like a king.

Of course, because of this, I got a late start and had to be extra sneaky getting back home.

When I finally made it there unseen, I climbed in through my bedroom window as usual, landed on the floor, and had just enough time to yank on a fresh shirt—one without Sloane’s lipstick marks on it—before my mom burst in.

“Oh good, you’re up and dressed! Did you not hear me calling and knocking? Breakfast is ready!”

I stared at her like I was seeing her for the first time in my life.

Oh God.

More food?!?

I was so stuffed. Even werewolves need a minute to be hungry again. And by minute, I meant at least two or three hours before I even wanted to think about food again.

Of course, I couldn’t tell my mother that I had already eaten. A lot. All that would raise uncomfortable questions I just wasn’t prepared to answer yet.

So, I sat at the table, feeling sick at the smell of more breakfast, shoveling down a second werewolf‑appetite‑sized meal while my stomach begged for mercy. The kitchen smelled like maple syrup and doom. Every bite felt like an execution.

Mom frowned. “You don’t have your usual appetite, baby. Are you getting sick?”

Four worried pairs of eyes on me.
Mom.
Dad.
Grandpa Mike.
Ezzy.

All staring like I’d just confessed to a crime.

Every single one of them knew me to have a blessed appetite after a full night’s sleep. A legendary appetite.

OH GOD.

I forced down another forkful of eggs.
“Nope. Totally fine.”
My eyes watered.
I was sweating profusely like a sinner in church.

So this was it. This was how I die. Not in battle. Not to a rival pack. Not in a war with other occult or the mortals after they finally discovered us.
No. Because I ate two breakfasts like an idiot and literally exploded.
My stomach was waving a tiny white flag.

Esmee narrowed her eyes. “You sure? You look a little green around your nose.”

Mom placed a motherly hand on my forehead, her face worried.
I jerked back like she’d tried to brand me.

And because I knew charm – especially about her cooking – works on my mom the way jiggling keys works on a toddler, I laid it on thick.

I attempted a believable smile. “Just still full from your awesome dinner last night. I think I had three or four helpings… really appreciating your cooking. Honestly, Mom, it was like a religious experience. Michelin‑star level. Life‑changing. I’m still emotionally processing it.”

She beamed. “Aww, honey.”

I nearly died. I swear I was sick for hours after.

Sloane thought it was hilarious when I told her later on during another site visit—then, with a devilish smirk, offered me some brownies she baked.

I totally glitched out.

I literally turned green and barely had enough time to run into the bushes to throw up. Under the eyes of all the surveyors, the architect, and some of the construction crew, naturally joking about me being pregnant.

Dickheads.

By week four, we almost got caught twice.

One time I was just about to enter her trailer when the architect came by. The night was dark, the air thick with humidity, and the only light came from the construction lamp near her trailer—one I had removed the bulb from three times now. Someone kept replacing the damn thing. So when he rounded the corner with a flashlight, we looked like two deer in headlights.

Startled, Sloane grabbed the first thing she could off her counter and shoved it at me.

“Here you go. He just came by to borrow some… uh…”

We both looked at what she’d handed me. A package of feminine hygiene products. Of course. Naturally. Why wouldn’t it be.

We both turned crimson so fast it was probably visible from space.

“Yeah. Those. For my… mom,” I added, because apparently my survival instinct had abandoned me. Then I turned and rushed off, the package tucked under my arm like I was running a relay race for the world’s most confused women’s personal health and hygiene team.

God damn.
Did she not have ANYTHING better on that damn counter?!
A bag of chips?
A can of beans?
A fricking rock?

But no. Nope. Just the one item guaranteed to obliterate my entire night, my dignity, and whatever was left of my reputation.
Honestly, at that point I would’ve preferred she’d handed me a live grenade.
At least that would’ve been a quick death, not this slow torture.

Another time I was already in her trailer—we had already started making out and shedding clothing—when someone knocked on the door.

“Are you expecting someone this late?”

“Of course not!”

They were relentless. Some of her lights were on, so she had to answer. I was shoved into the shower cabin, which was not made with werewolves in human form in mind. I had to pull in my shoulders to even fit. My knees were jammed against the wall. My back was screaming.

Her boss came in and droned on and on and on. I swear he just loved the sound of his own voice echoing off the trailer walls, and nothing he said was urgent. Twice I breathed in too deep—there was no ventilation in that cabin and I was overheating—and the movement pushed the damn door open. I had to hold it shut with my fingertips.

When he finally left, my shoulders ached and were numb, so Sloane gave me a massage. Okay, that part I actually liked.

Those were weeknights. The weekends were somewhat easier, as the construction team usually went home to their families and lives in the city.

A few times I went with Sloane to her apartment — until we found out the hard way that her friend Kaley treated that spare key like a VIP pass. She’d “water the plants” and “check the mail,” which apparently also included gnoshing on whatever men she’d collected during clubbing that night.

The first time, Sloane and I had gotten it on and ended up taking a shower together. We had just finished when the door unlocked. We froze. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
We stayed silent until Kaley and her nameless conquest wandered straight into Sloane’s bedroom like it was a hotel suite she’d prepaid for.
Luckily, our clothes were in the living room behind the couch — don’t ask — so we got dressed at record speed and drove back to Moonwood Mill, laughing so hard we nearly hit a mailbox.

The second time, I was in her bed, minding my own business, while Sloane went to the bathroom. That’s when Kaley entered with her latest “plus‑one.”
The girls had a heated argument in the hallway — the kind where you can hear eyebrows being raised — and Kaley finally left in a huff with her flavor of the night.
Sloane was fuming and vowed to call a locksmith first thing in the morning.
At first I thought her mood was ruined. Then I learned that Sloane getting upset just… ignites her fire.
And I stopped complaining about Kaley entirely.
Thank you, Kaley. (Probably the only time I’ll ever say that.)

The third time, I was on her couch watching TV when her landlord showed up for an inspection. He took one look at me and immediately decided I lived there.
I tried explaining. He didn’t buy it. I’ve never felt more like an unlicensed emotional support human wolf in my life.

The fourth time, we were strolling through the city — big metropolis, millions of people, total anonymity — and still managed to run into two of her friends.

Sloane introduced me as one of the construction guys from her jobsite who was “going to build her some more furniture.”

Fantastic. Reduced to discount labor in front of strangers. But neither of us was ready to take whatever this was public yet.

Especially me.

I wanted to get to a place where I could actually tell her the truth — who I was, what I was, the whole family situation — and make sure she was okay with all of it before calling anything between us solid.

Because if it could survive that kind of truth, it was the real deal. Real love. Right now, it felt real enough… but still borrowed.

So, for the time being I was the dude from the construction site she was overseeing who had enough brain cells to lift heavy things and put them down while making her a table and shelves with all my collective knowledge.

And we kept our “dating” in Moonwood Mill. Easier to escape reality and hide from prying eyes there.

Our first attempt at a daytime date—sometime around week five—was a disaster.

We picked a quiet clearing for a picnic—no work scheduled, no crews around, just us, a blanket, and a basket Sloane insisted on packing herself.

Out idyll lasted maybe twenty minutes.

Then a group of hikers from town showed up. Not wolves—tourists. Yeah, it was high summer and now we had those roaming around too. Unfortunately, I knew them. Dad and I had spoken to them, and they knew exactly who I was. And they were the annoyingly outgoing type that told everybody’s business to everyone, like parrots on crack.

“Here?!” Sloane hissed, shoving the basket behind a log. “Today?! Of all places?!”

“Agreed. This forest is huge,” I whispered back.

“Apparently not huge enough!”

We had to scramble up a tree—yes, a tree—to avoid being spotted.

“I am not a fucking squirrel,” I muttered, clinging to a branch after almost sliding off twice and it cracking suspiciously under my weight.

“Shut up and climb higher. They can see you,” she snapped, already halfway up like she’d been raised by acrobats.

We stayed there for twenty minutes while the hikers took selfies directly beneath us. I was fantasizing about anvils to drop on their heads like in the Roadrunner cartoons.

When they finally left, I looked down at her.

“This is ridiculous.”

She nodded. “Agreed.”

We climbed down, dusted ourselves off, and silently agreed that nighttime was safer. No hikers.

And honestly?

Those nights were perfect.

Quiet forest. Cool air. The glow of a small fire. Her hand in mine. The contrast between skin hot from our passion and cool from the nighttime breeze. Her laugh echoing through the trees. Her leaning into me like she belonged there.

No drama. No danger. Just… us.

The nights were ours now. Nighttime and nature—every werewolf’s comfort zone. And now I had a beautiful girl to warm my lonely nights.

Life was perfect.

The Night It Broke

It should have been another perfect night.

Nine weeks. Nine weeks of sneaking, laughing, kissing, hiding, and pretending we were the cleverest people alive. Nine weeks of stolen hours and whispered jokes and her warm breath against my neck in the dark.

I was getting cocky about it. Professional by day, lover by night. Nobody suspected a thing. I strutted around the jobsite like a man with a secret superpower.

Tonight was supposed to be easy. A quiet walk. A little kissing. A lot of kissing. Maybe more.

The forest was warm with late‑summer air, cicadas humming in the trees, the sky a deep velvet blue with the moon hanging low and bright. Sloane walked beside me, swinging her flashlight like she was conducting an orchestra, talking animatedly about something—honestly, I couldn’t even remember what. I was too busy watching her hands, her smile, the way her hair caught the moonlight.

Then I heard it.

A twig snapping.

Not the light crack of a squirrel. Not the heavy crunch of a deer. Something in between. Something deliberate.

I froze.

Sloane didn’t notice. She kept walking, kept talking, waving her hands around like she was giving a TED Talk about why I should stop wearing flannel.

Then the growl came.

Low. Warning. Predatory. Close.

My wolf surged up so fast I didn’t have time to think.

I stepped in front of her, shoved her back, and shifted.

Not fully—just enough.

Claws. Fangs. Eyes. A ripple of fur down my arms. My vision sharpened. My hearing expanded outward like a net.

It was instinct. Protection. Automatic.

The threat bolted—whatever it was—but Sloane didn’t see that.

She saw me.

And she screamed.

Not a startled scream. Not a “holy shit what was that” scream.

A scream of pure, primal fear.

She stumbled back, hands shaking, eyes wide, staring at me like I was a nightmare wearing my skin.

“Sloane—” I tried to shift back, but the wolf was still half‑there, adrenaline pumping through every vein.

She flinched.

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t come near me.”

That hurt more than claws ever could.

“It’s me,” I said, voice rough, body still fighting the shift. “It’s just me.”

“No,” she breathed, backing away. “No, it’s not. What—what ARE you?”

I reached for her.

She recoiled like I’d tried to burn her.

“Stay away from me!”

“Sloane, please—”

“Don’t touch me!” Her voice was too shrill and cracked. Her eyes filled. She shook her head like she was trying to wake up from a nightmare.

She looked around wildly, grabbed one of the axes lying around from the crew’s work, and held it out between us. Her hands trembled so hard the blade shook.

That stung. More than I could ever admit.

“No. No … no … no … no … NO,” she choked out. “I can’t—this can’t be real. Oh my God… this just can’t—”

Her breath hitched. Her face crumpled. She started crying—hard—then turned and ran.

And I didn’t chase her.

I couldn’t.

Not like this. Not when she looked at me like that.

Her reaction hurt so badly I don’t have the right words to describe it. It felt like something inside me cracked—quietly, cleanly, like a bone snapping under too much pressure.

The forest swallowed her footsteps. The cicadas kept humming. The moon kept shining.

And I stood there alone, half‑shifted, half‑broken, watching the woman I loved disappear into the dark.

The Silence After

I thought the worst part was the scream.

I was wrong.

The worst part was the silence.

The forest swallowed her footsteps, leaving nothing but the echo of her fear ringing in my ears. The night air felt colder without her beside me. The cicadas kept humming like nothing had happened, like the world hadn’t just cracked open under my feet.

I shifted back fully, skin prickling as the last traces of fur receded. My hands shook. My breath came uneven. My chest felt too tight, like something inside me had splintered.

I called her name once. Quiet. Pointless.

She was already gone.

She didn’t answer my texts.

Didn’t return my calls.

Didn’t open her trailer door when I knocked.

Didn’t look at me on the jobsite.

She moved through the world like I didn’t exist, like the last nine weeks had been a dream she’d woken up from and immediately regretted.

She asked to be reassigned to another project.

And she got it.

She was gone within two days.

No goodbye. No explanation. No closure.

Just… gone.

The construction site felt emptier without her. The forest felt colder. Even the air smelled wrong, like something vital had been ripped out of it.

My family noticed immediately.

Mom: “You look pale and you are unusually quiet. Are you eating?”
Dad: “He’s been drinking his dinner. You need to get a hold of yourself. Your mother and I didn’t raise a boozehead.”
Esmee: “Since when are you the brooding type? It’s annoying.”
Grandpa Mike: “You not acting right. Fix it.”

I tried.

God, I tried.

I drove to her apartment. She wasn’t home. I waited outside for hours. She never showed.

I texted again.

Me: Please talk to me.
Me: I can explain.
Me: I’m not dangerous.
Me: I would never hurt you.
Me: Please. Just talk to me. Answer me. Pick up the phone when I call. You don’t have to speak, but please LISTEN.

Nothing.

I kept trying. Every few days, another batch of pleading messages — each one a little more pathetic than the last.

Then suddenly my texts wouldn’t go through anymore.

I tried different spots in town, thinking it was bad service. I tried calling again.

The automated voice hit me like a punch to the ribs:

“The number you have dialed is no longer in service.”

It felt like someone reached into my chest and tore my heart out with an ice‑cold fist.

She changed her number.

She didn’t want me to reach her. Didn’t want to hear my voice. Didn’t want anything to do with me.

Weeks passed.

I went through the motions at work. I trained. I patrolled. I pretended I wasn’t dying inside.But every night, I found myself in the forest, standing in the clearing where we used to meet. The fire pit still held the faint scent of smoke. The grass was still flattened where we’d sat. The air still carried the ghost of her perfume.

I waited.

Hoping she’d show up. Hoping she’d forgive me. Hoping she’d look at me the way she used to.

She never did. Never returned.

The forest stayed silent. The clearing stayed empty. And I stayed alone.

And that’s when it hit me — not gently, not like a whisper, but like something ancient finally telling the truth:

This was why I was still single at thirty‑two. The girls I wanted never looked twice at me — and the one who finally did ran the second she saw what I really was. Why wouldn’t she? I wasn’t handsome enough. Wasn’t rich. Still lived with my family. Still trying to be good enough for a world that was probably better off not knowing I even existed.

Because no matter how hard I tried, no matter how gentle I was, no matter how much I loved her…

I was the truth people ran from. The truth people didn’t forgive. The truth nobody stayed for.

I wasn’t just alone.

I was a monster — and she proved it.