SERAPHINA’S POV
At thirteen—back when I was considered a late bloomer, not a wolfless weirdo—I’d decided I was tired of waiting for my wolf to appear before I could join the others on the training field.
Tired of watching from the sidelines while Ethan sparred with the older boys.
Tired of being the Alpha’s daughter who couldn’t Shift yet. (Oh, how I miss the days when “yet” was still fixed at the end of that sentence.)
Anyways, that morning, with the reckless conviction only a young teen could muster, I took the kitchen scissors and stood before my mirror.
Hands trembling, I sawed through the thick waves of hair framing my face. Wheat-blonde locks fell into the sink, one after another.
The end result was…disastrous. Uneven. Patchy. But from the right angle—and if I squinted—I almost looked like one of the boys.
The two almonds on my chest posed no problem for me.
That was good enough.
