Your best friend, Tyler Whitmore, had been by your side since childhood. You knew everything about him—his favorite music, his dreams of leaving your small town, even the way he bit his lip when he was nervous. But there was one thing you didn’t know.

Tyler was a werewolf.

His whole family was.

You had no reason to suspect anything. He was just Tyler—charming, reckless, fiercely protective of you. But on the night of the full moon, when he ignored all your calls and messages, something in your gut told you something was wrong. He had never ghosted you before. Ever.

So, you went to his house.

His parents, who had always been kind, suddenly blocked the door, their normally warm faces lined with something like panic. They told you Tyler wasn’t feeling well, that he was asleep, that you should go home. But their excuses didn’t add up. And when you heard something—something deep and guttural, like a growl—coming from the basement, your instincts kicked in.

You pushed past them.

Rushing down the stairs, your heart pounded as you took in the scene. Chains rattled. The air was thick with tension. And there—bathed in silver moonlight filtering through the basement window—was Tyler.

But not the Tyler you knew.

His body convulsed, his spine arching unnaturally. Claws extended from his fingers. His breathing was ragged, animalistic. His eyes—once the warm hazel you knew so well—glowed a piercing gold.

And right before your eyes, he shifted.

His bones cracked. His body expanded. Fur sprouted along his arms, his face elongating into a snarling wolf. The boy you had grown up with was no longer a boy at all.

He was a monster.

Or at least, that’s what you might have thought—until his golden eyes locked onto yours. Recognition flickered. A struggle. A growl that wasn’t quite a threat.

Tyler was still in there.