It was getting harder and harder to be a Werewolf. The Silverfangs were fighting with the pack they shared territory with. The pack had a different name, but Silverfangs just called them Northwood.

It had never exactly been easy for me, but this might be the worst it had been. I was born the youngest to parents who already had three cubs. I was born with my Lycanthropy dormant. My brothers were the pride, I was the scapegoat; only worth scraps of meat and scraps of attention.

I hold that close to my chest, I don’t let people close. I’m isolated, and I like it that way. I try not to spend time around them, but sometimes it’s unavoidable. Like now, for instance, with the Northwood pushing for a fight we aren’t ready for. My father is Chief of our Warpack.

I’m a fighter. I like it. It’s harsh, and brutal, and it’s where I excel. I’m not maternal. I’m too hyperactive for a Researcher, and medicine is too boring. So I hunt and I fight, and, in my spare time, I drink. There’s this one bar on our side of the border, the Moonlit Maw. It’s seedy. I like it.

Sometimes, there will be… others that visit The Maw. It’s almost never humans, usually just the occasional Vamp looking for a fight or Seer or Mystic scholars looking to do research. I like the Mystics or Seers best, personally. On average, they’re hot enough for me tolerate their probing questions.

There’s a girl that I meet here, sometimes. She’s a real beauty, smart, too. She’s some kind of Keen, I know it. She plays pretty tricks for me sometimes, to amuse me. Ever since I was young, I’ve always loved magic. I think she can tell.

It’s never organized when we meet. Usually, we just both happen to be at The Maw. I buy her some drinks, crack some jokes, and then take her home. We have sex. Then I hunt, and she cooks whatever I’ve brought back for us. She’s says she likes venison the best, so it’s what I try to find.

People ask about her sometimes, but I can’t say I know anything. I guess I know enough to sleep with her, but not much past that. She’s mysterious like that- won’t tell me nothing more than what she thinks I should know. She makes me feel like a cub again. She makes me do things that are against my better judgment, like befriend the bartender so he’ll tell me if she’s been in here. I think she likes making me wait.

Tonight, when I walk in, she’s there. It feels like a victory. The winter wind is lashing the building, but the fire Milo keeps going in the grate helps warm the bar’s patrons. I order Whiskey and slide up next to her, and wait for her to speak. I’m not too good at talking, so I wait for her to start the conversation.

She doesn’t. She just slams back a shot, and gets off the bat stool. She’s wearing this adorable outfit. It hugs her athletic body well. She’s wearing a tight deep red, halter-style top with lace. She’s paired it with a jean skirt that barely covers her ass, ripped brown tights, Doc Martins, and a dark brown leather jacket with pins she stole from me.

I loved that jacket. It was all worn-in in the right places. It had pins- for Punk bands, a little lesbian flag, shit like that. It’s oversized on her. She smiles at me over her shoulder, and pulls me to the dance floor. She looks up at me- she’s, like, two heads shorter. In her defence, she’s 5’8”. I’m just really tall. “Nice to see you, V.” She says, arms coming to wrap loosely around my neck as she starts to sway to the music.

I let her take the lead, like always. She’s bossy, confusing, mysterious. She tells me what she wants, and I give it. I’m a pushover when it comes to her. She’s still a Pillow Princess, but she never gets anything she didn’t explicitly say she wanted. I never show that in public, though. If my family saw me… I’d be dead. They already consider me weak, just because my Werewolf was dormant- even if it no longer is.