Bloodmoon – Synchronized Disaster

When the Room Stopped Breathing

Esmee’s voice cracked the air like a gunshot.

“Umm… guys…”

She lifted the edge of Sloane’s pant leg.

A bite mark.

Deep. Hidden. Already bruising.

The room froze.

No one breathed.

Dad’s jaw locked. Mom’s hand flew to her mouth. Esmee went pale. Grandpa Mike exhaled like someone had punched the soul out of him.

And Sloane—Sloane just stared at all of us, confused, trembling, her eyes still glassy with shock.

“What?” she whispered. “What is happening? Why are you all looking at me like that?”

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

Dad stepped forward first, voice low, steady, controlled in that terrifying Alpha way.

“Sloane… sweetheart… that’s a wolf bite. Not a regular bite—of the lycan kind, I mean.”

She blinked. Once. Twice.

Then her gaze snapped to me.

“Vincent… what does that mean? Am I gonna die?”

My throat closed. I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t force the words out.

Dad did it for me.

“It means you’ve been infected by the curse.” He swallowed. “It means… you’ll turn. You won’t die. Just … change.”

Sloane’s breath hitched. Her whole body went rigid.

“No,” she whispered. “No. No. No—”

She scrambled up and backward, away from me, away from all of us, until her back hit the wall.

“I just— I just kinda sorta got to a place where I could accept that you—” she pointed at me, shaking violently, “—that you’re a THAT. I was trying. I was trying so hard to understand. But me? Me?! Becoming one of you?! I can’t— I can’t do this! You have to stop it. Undo it. Do something! Anything!”

“Sloane—” I stepped toward her.

She flinched so hard it felt like a knife to my ribs.

“Don’t,” she choked. “Don’t come near me. Oh my God, I can see it in your face. This is permanent, isn’t it? I am fucked, aren’t I? I can’t— I can’t breathe—”

She pushed past Mom, past Esmee, past all of us, stumbling toward the door.

“Sloane, wait!” I lunged after her—

A hand clamped around my arm like a steel trap.

Dad.

“Let her go,” he said quietly. “She needs time. Alone. Allow her that.”

“But—Dad—she’s terrified—she just came back. She needs me—”

“No,” he said, voice firm. “Right now, you’re the last thing she can handle. That goes for all of us.”

The echo of the door slamming behind her rang in my ears for much longer than it had lasted.

The Sound of Her Leaving

And just like that, she was gone.

Again.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

I stood there shaking, every instinct screaming to run after her, to fix it, to hold her, to do something—

But Dad’s grip didn’t loosen.

Words started spilling out of me, half‑formed, panicked, useless. “I lost her. No, I really lost her… she’ll never forgive me. She’ll blame me. I’m supposed to be the future Alpha. I’m supposed to protect an entire town full of wolves and I can’t even protect one woman—”

Grandpa Mike finally broke the quiet. He grabbed my shoulders and shook me until my eyes snapped to his.

“Kid,” he muttered, “it ain’t over till the fat lady sings. And that old bitch hasn’t even shown up yet.”

I didn’t laugh. Couldn’t.

Dad finally released my arm and turned me toward him.

“You’re not the first Shaw man to fall for a normie,” he said softly. “And you won’t be the last.”

I blinked at him, barely processing.

He nodded toward Mom and Esmee. “Your mother was human once. Esmee too. Human — and in your mother’s case, the daughter of a vampire. They chose us. They chose the bite. They chose this life. Out of love. At their own volition.”

He squeezed my shoulder.

“So don’t you dare think this is hopeless. Not even now.”

I swallowed hard.

“But she’s out there. Alone. Terrified. And she thinks I ruined her life.”

Dad’s expression softened. “She’s smart. She’ll realize you didn’t ruin anything. Accidents happen. Wildlife attacks happen. A rogue is no different. If she’d been bitten by a rabid dog, she’d be in the same boat — hoping for a cure before the disease hit her brain. Give her time. Give her space. And when she’s ready…” He paused. “…you tell her the truth.”

“What truth?” I rasped.

“That there’s a cure.”

My heart stopped. “A cure? WHAT?! How come I never heard about that?”

Grandpa Mike chimed in, of course. “Because it doesn’t work on those born with the curse. And clearly, you didn’t manage anything worth mentioning in the dating field to justify overloading your skull with extra information. You were learning‑resistant all through school.”

Mom came in hot. “Mike, that’s my son you’re talking about! So Vince was more apt to the athletic part. Not every kid is the academic type.”

“Yeah, that’s one way to call it.”

Mom glared at him so hard Dad had to wrap an arm around her and kiss her temple to put out the maternal fire.

“Dad, come on now,” he said. “Vince didn’t like school and didn’t have good grades because he was lazy. I would know — I was the same way. And so were you. Lucky for both of us, we married smart women who kept us out of trouble.”

Grandpa looked like he wanted to retort, looked at Dad, then Mom, then me, shrugged, and went to make coffee.

Dad turned back to me.

“There is a cure, but only for those recently bitten. And it only works before the first turn. After that, it does nothing. So you have until the next full moon to decide what to do.”

My stomach dropped.

Dad continued, calm but grim. “The ingredients are rare. Hard to find. And I know you’re about to say ‘whatever it takes,’ but we’re on a timer. Once the next full moon hits, she’ll turn. Nobody can stop it. After that, it can’t be undone. Every child knows that.”

He hesitated.

“But this full moon is a special one. A Bloodmoon — twenty days from now. And the cure only works during a Bloodmoon. They’re rare. But you and Sloane… you’re in luck.”

Twenty days.

Not quite three weeks.

Three weeks to undo what had been done to her. Three weeks to win her back. Three weeks before the first full moon sealed her fate forever.

I exhaled shakily.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Okay. I’ll give her time. A couple days. But then… I’m going to her. And I’m not letting her face this alone. Tell me everything I need to know about the cure.”

Dad nodded, already pulling books from the shelf. Grandpa Mike hovered beside him with his coffee, pointing at spines like he was choosing weapons.

Esmee crossed her arms. “Alright, get a pen and paper. Once those two figure out what it takes, you’re gonna need to write it down. It’s not gonna be crap you can get at a supermarket or order off Amazon.”

Mom wiped her eyes. “We’ll find a way, baby. Eirwen will help — nobody knows ingredients better than witches and mages. But while we figure this out, I want to hear ALL about you dating that girl! Why didn’t you tell me? She’s so pretty! I’ve been hoping you’d find a nice girl and not have to settle for some ugly tomboy from around here.”

I stared at the door Sloane had run through.

My chest ached.

“Well, Mom… I was gonna tell all of you. Once I could be sure she’d accept the real me. I can’t hide this forever. And my inner nature proved me right long before I was ready to tell her. I should’ve known. The night she found out… I knew it was a rogue stalking us. Her fear distracted me. I should’ve gone after him then. Then he wouldn’t have gotten a second chance.”

The Night I Lost My Mind

I gave her till the next morning. But by nightfall it was clear — again — she wasn’t answering my texts. Wasn’t opening my messages. Wasn’t returning my calls.

So I did the only thing I could do without ripping my own skin off — I went back out. To find the rogue.

In wolf form.

Dad and Grandpa came with me. They didn’t say a word. They didn’t have to. They could smell the panic on me, the way it clung to my ribs like something alive.

We hit the woods at a run.

Her scent was still faint in places — fear, adrenaline, the metallic tang of blood that wasn’t hers. And underneath it, the rogue’s trail, sharp and sour and wrong.

We followed it deeper.

Dad moved like a blade. Grandpa like a storm. Me like something barely holding itself together.

The blood trail thickened. Then stopped.

And there he was.

The rogue lay in a shallow dip in the earth, body twisted, throat torn out. Dead.

Some lore you wouldn’t know unless you lived it:

A wolf who dies in wolf form stays in wolf form. The curse locks the body in whatever shape it held at the moment of death. Only a peaceful death — natural, willing, or ritual — returns them to human.

This one died feral. Died violent. Died a monster.

He stayed a monster.

Dad shifted back first, crouching beside him, inspecting the wound. “He bled out,” he said quietly. “He was already dying when he ran from you, Vince.”

Grandpa Mike followed, hands in his pockets. “Good. Saves us the trouble. He attacked a normie, viciously, not in self‑defense. Rules have always been clear about that. He had to die, one way or another. Good thing we found him and not some curious normies, hiking or looking for a romantic spot to fuck or what have you. Really don’t need the authorities snooping around here.”

I stepped forward.

I shifted back too. You don’t stay wolf in the presence of humans unless there’s a damn good reason. At some point it becomes reflex. They turn, you turn. They turn back, you do too. A courtesy. A sign of respect.

Speaking of respect — normally, wolves treated the dead with it. Even enemies. A life was a life. A wolf was a wolf.

But this one?

This one had bitten Sloane. This one had stalked her. This one had terrified her so badly she couldn’t breathe. He had taken her from me again. I had been so close to having her back — and because of him, she left me again. Was upset at me and probably afraid of me again. She might even hate me now.

And I had nothing but hate for him. Not an ounce of respect left.

I stood over him.

My light brown eyes were glowing with anger.

Then I spat on him.

Dad didn’t stop me. Grandpa didn’t either. They just exchanged a look — the “let him get it out” kind.

I kicked him. Once. Twice. Then again, harder, until my foot throbbed and my vision blurred and I didn’t care that he was already gone.

Dad grabbed my arm. Grandpa grabbed the other.

I still tried to spit on him. Still tried to kick him. Still shouted every obscenity I knew at a body that couldn’t hear me — the kind of things that would have a ship full of sailors curled up in a ball sucking their thumbs.

It wasn’t for him. It was for me. It was for her.

Dad finally grabbed my face and made me look at him.

“That’s enough,” he warned, voice low. “Get a hold of yourself! He’s dead. Balance has been restored, a serious thread neutralized. You losing your mind won’t change anything beyond this. Remember that she’s alive. That’s what matters. THAT is what you focus on. Whatever happens, remember that this is already the best possible outcome of a situation that was outside of your control. He could have killed her — and he would have, but you prevented that. YOU saved her. A rogue being a rogue isn’t your fault, nor something you could have predicted. None of us could, or we’d have had patrols out, especially with that construction crew around. Last thing we need is rogues pulling government interest into these woods. You know we’d all be dead if the normies knew about us.”

But it didn’t feel like enough. Not even close.

We buried the rogue where he fell — shallow, unceremonious, no rites, no words. He didn’t deserve them.

When Dad and Grandpa turned to head back, I walked over to the grave and pissed on it.

Guess what?

It didn’t fix anything. Didn’t bring Sloane back. Didn’t undo the bite.

All it got me was a whack to the back of the head and a grim glare from Grandpa Michael.

Takeout for Two Three

I didn’t sleep much, nor well.

Not really.

I dozed. I paced. I patrolled the woods until I walked on a bed of blisters on the bottom of my feet. I listened for her heartbeat in places she wasn’t.

I had just gotten her back. Barely. Almost. Now this.
So close.

It wasn’t fair.

She didn’t answer my texts. Didn’t open my messages. Didn’t return my calls. Again.

I lasted three days to give her space, until I stood outside her apartment building with a bouquet of roses — because apparently I was a masochist — and a bottle of sparkling wine like this was some fricking date night. Almost laughable if it weren’t so sad.

I rehearsed what I’d say. Forgot all of it. Rehearsed again.

I rang the bell. I knew she wouldn’t answer. I knew it.

Or — if she did — she’d curse me out so passionately the people on the sidewalk behind me would stop to stare.

Or, in the darkest corner of my mental horror cabinet… she’d have another man up there.

But then her voice came through the intercom — metallic, distant, and still somehow her — and my heart nearly stopped.

“Hello.”

“Sloane… it’s me. Vince.”
And the second it left my mouth, I wanted to slam my head into the wall.

Why the hell did I say my name? It had been three days, not thirty years.

My voice wasn’t exactly forgettable — werewolves don’t sound like normal men. There’s a depth to it, a rumble under the words, like something bigger is speaking through you. Most women don’t forget a voice like that, like a subwoofer learned English.
Werewolves don’t get “soft‑spoken.”

Especially not after everything I’d put her through.

A pause. A dreadful, endless second.

Then the buzzer.

I exhaled so hard I almost folded in half and pushed through the door.
The hallway felt too narrow, like it was trying to squeeze me out of it.
My footsteps echoed too loud, my shoulders brushed the walls, and I prayed no one wider than a broomstick would try to pass.

Waiting for the elevator felt like waiting for judgment day.
Sure, physically I could’ve run up twenty‑seven flights of stairs — werewolf stamina and all — but not with my heart doing whatever interpretive dance it was doing. I’d probably give myself a coronary at thirty‑two. I was nervous AF.
Considering my usual diet is 80% meat, 15% fats and grease, and 5% condiments pretending to be vegetables, my arteries were probably homegrown concrete. No way I’m sprinting up twenty‑seven floors when I’m already freaking out that I lost the one woman I ever got this close to and lived to tell the tale. Even I had limits.

I stepped out into her hallway. A neighbor was wrestling a trash bag into the chute. I helped her shove it in, and she thanked me with this bright, surprised smile — the kind people get when a big guy does something unexpectedly polite.
She gave me a once‑over, clearly impressed, and disappeared into her apartment while I tried not to feel like a linebacker trapped in a broom closet, my shoulders just one wrong move away from scraping the paint off the walls.

I knocked on Sloane’s door.

Nothing.

Knocked again.

Still nothing.

Oh great. She got me all the way up here and now she’d gotten cold feet.

“Sloane,” I said softly through the door. “Please open.”

Silence.

“I’m not here to force anything. I’m not here to make you decide anything. I just… I need to talk to you. Please.”

A long pause.

Then the lock clicked.

The door opened two inches.

Her eyes were red. Her hair was a mess. She looked exhausted, terrified, and heartbreakingly beautiful.

“I thought you were my takeout,” she sniffled.

Under normal circumstances, that would’ve been hilarious.

I held up the flowers, then the sparkling wine.

“I don’t have food, but… these.”

She stared at them. Then at me.

Then she opened the door wider.

I stepped inside.

Her apartment was dim. Quiet. Too quiet.

Before I could say anything, there was a knock behind me.

She startled. “Oh— that’s the food.”

She squeezed past me — which was a whole event in that narrow hallway — and opened the door again. The delivery guy handed her three giant bags. Enough to feed a small football team.

She gave me a sheepish little smile. “I, uh… haven’t quite adjusted to eating alone again. Or ordering normal amounts again.”

My chest did something stupid and painful.

We carried the bags to the counter. She unpacked them — noodles, dumplings, fried rice, soup, something that smelled like heaven and MSG had a baby.

I opened the drawer where she kept her bottle opener to help her get into her bubbly, but she stopped me, shaking her head.

“Sit,” she said softly, while arranging the flowers in a vase.

Hell yes, I sat.
I wasn’t the sharpest tool in any shed, but even I understood that as an invite.

We ate. Quietly. Awkwardly. Weirdly comfortably.

She put on the TV — some random cooking show — just background noise, something to fill the silence neither of us knew how to break.

For a few minutes, it almost felt normal. Almost.

Then, at the exact same moment, we both inhaled like we were about to dive underwater.

And we spoke.

“There’s a cure,” I blurted.
“I’m pregnant,” she said at the same time.

Silence.

The TV chef shouted something enthusiastic about scallions.

I froze mid‑bite.
A big one.
My jaw stopped working.
My brain stopped working.
Everything stopped working.

I turned to her, eyes wide.
She turned to me, eyes wider.

We stared at each other like two people who had just driven full‑speed into the same brick wall from opposite directions.

Then we both choked.

At the same time.

I inhaled rice.
She inhaled soup.
We coughed and wheezed like idiots while the TV chef kept yelling about aromatics.

She slapped my back.
I slapped hers.
We were a mess.

A synchronized disaster.