Dirty Blood Series

Surviving a werewolf attack should’ve been the strangest thing to happen to me tonight. But no, the universe had other plans. Now, I’m stuck dealing with a broodingly hot guy named Wesley St. John—who seems way too comfortable with murder. Definitely a red flag, right? Wes isn’t just some guy I stumbled upon—he’s a protector, but not the friendly kind. His job is to keep the supernatural world in check, and my ignorance is making things complicated.

I killed a girl last night. I did it with my bare hands and an old piece of pipe I found lying next to the dumpster. But that’s not the part that got me. The part that scared me, the part I can’t seem to wrap my head around and still has me reeling, was that when she charged me, her body shifted–and then she was a wolf.

Wood Point Academy is not at all what I expected. For one thing, it looks like a cross between military school and Buckingham Palace. Everyone stares, the floors shine so bright you can see your reflection in them from a mile away, and no one smiles. Unless they're kicking your butt in the process.

If I had to choose one word to sum up all of my problems, this would be it. Without hybrids, I wouldn’t have to watch my best friend slowly becoming a monster. Without hybrids, I could let go of the mentality “hunt or be hunted.” CHAS wouldn’t be scouring the Earth, intent on slaughtering and using Alex to do it. Without hybrids, I wouldn’t have to be on guard that losing my temper meant losing my shape.

Forty-six. That’s how many hybrids survived the Hunter attack in the woods after I revived them with an injection of my blood. That’s how many followed me home to Frederick Falls. And that’s how many were now mentally linked to me through a blood bond. Two days. Three valium. Fourteen hours of sleep. That’s what it took to realize I wasn’t losing my mind as a result of the noise in my own head.

I thought watching my Werewolf boyfriend get arrested for murder was the worst experience of my life. But then I was knocked out and dragged off to a cell of my own by the very people who were supposed to protect me from danger. I thought being held prisoner in solitary confinement for weeks on end was the worst experience of my life. But then a visitor came, and I realized I'd been wrong all along. There are worse things than torture and death. Much worse. He wants my blood. More than that, he wants to get into my head.