A Blooming Star

ESTELLA

I stared at them, still unable to accept that they were now a part of me. Even my new shoulder-length haircut didn’t make them look any better.

They were a dark fuchsia, which seemed like a good idea at the time. Aunt Lydia said they suited my face.

Normally, I’d have Sarah with me for this, but I hadn’t told her yet.

I knew what she’d say—that I looked too human now.

And she’d be right.

With my height, strength, and speed, I already stood out among the werewolves I’d grown up with. Now, my glasses made me stick out even more.

And of course, this had to happen just days before my sixteenth birthday. Perfect timing!

To be honest, I’d started noticing my vision getting worse earlier in the summer. I didn’t tell anyone, but Max noticed. He’s a doctor, but it’s more than that.

Max always noticed things about me. He was the first to know about anything that happened to me. He even knew about my first period before my aunt did.

Sure, it was embarrassing, but he’s a doctor, and I needed something for my cramps. It’s not like he saw me naked or anything.

One day, he was driving me home from school, and I misread a sign. I saw eighty-eight instead of sixty-eight, and he knew right away that something was wrong.

Before I could argue, he took me to the pack hospital for an exam, then called one of his human doctor friends and made me an appointment.

I tried to convince him it wasn’t a big deal, even made a lame joke about the numbers being similar on purpose, but he wasn’t having it.

And that’s how I ended up with my fuchsia glasses.

There was a knock on my bedroom door, and I jumped.

Even though I usually left it slightly open, everyone was polite enough to knock before coming in.

I appreciated that, especially knowing how nosy parents and guardians can be.

I’d heard from other kids my age that they’d started locking their doors to keep their parents out.

Maybe I’d feel the need to do the same someday, but for now, I just glared at Max through the mirror. He was leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets.

“Just say it. I look terrible,” I grumbled.

He chuckled and shook his head. “No, sweetheart. You look adorable.”

“I’m not a kitten, Max!” I protested, standing up from my chair.

“You sure sound like one,” he teased, then his expression turned serious. “What are you wearing?” he asked, straightening up.

I didn’t even need to look down. I knew what I was wearing. “Your T-shirt,” I replied casually.

It was a habit I didn’t want to break.

Aunt Lydia tried to get me to stop by buying me pajamas twice a year, but the closest I got to wearing them was using the bottoms when I wanted to visit other rooms in the house.

I never stopped sleeping in Max’s T-shirts, and every few years, I’d “borrow” a couple of new ones to replace the ones that had worn out.

Fun fact: they still looked ridiculously big on me.

And no, I hadn’t told him about my closet raids, but I’m pretty sure he knew. So it wasn’t really stealing.

“You should wear more than that when you let people in your room,” he scolded, and I could feel my cheeks heating up.

But I tried to brush it off. I always did.

“I’m wearing shorts underneath, and besides, only you, Sarah, and Cal ever come into my room,” I replied nonchalantly.

“You let Caleb see you like this?” he frowned.

“Cal’s like my brother, and need I remind you that he’s seen me in less when we go swimming?”

“Do you swim in here, Estella?” he asked sternly, and I looked down, shifting uncomfortably.

“Well, do you?” he pressed, stepping into the room.

“No,” I mumbled. “But if anyone should be worried about it, it’s Uncle Julian, so I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of it.”

“It’s not a big deal,” he replied. “But Caleb is at a difficult age.”

“You mean he’s horny?” I chuckled.

I couldn’t help it. Adults always say teens are at a “difficult age” when they really mean we’re moody, horny, or both.

Usually, Max isn’t shy about expressing himself. That means he’s either uncomfortable with the subject (which is rare for Max) or he’s irritated.

I wouldn’t say angry—he doesn’t get angry easily—but…

Yes, I remember the rogue he killed, but that was a one-time thing. Generally, he’s a calm person.

“Where do you learn these words?” he demanded.

“I’m almost sixteen, Max!” I reminded him, rolling my eyes. “We all talk like this. You talk like this.”

“First, don’t roll your eyes at me. I’m not your uncle.”

“You act worse than him,” I muttered.

“Don’t interrupt me. And since you brought it up, I’m overprotective because I care about you.”

“Well, maybe you should stop spoiling me, because it’s all going to change when you find your mate,” I said.

“I’ve told you not to worry about that,” he said, sounding frustrated.

“How can I not? You’re going to find her and then…”

“Estella, I’m telling you for the last damn time. I don’t want you stressing over me finding my mate or leaving you. It’s not going to happen.”

“Which part?”

“I won’t leave you,” he said again, moving closer.

I looked up at him, hoping my blush hadn’t deepened. Not that it could get much worse.

“You won’t?” I asked softly.

He gently stroked my cheek, and I felt like I might pass out. I tried not to lean into his touch, but it was getting harder.

You see, I knew I loved Max pretty early on. But it was only in the last couple of years that I fully understood I was head over heels for him.

You might think it’s because of his looks, and you wouldn’t be entirely wrong.

Max is easily the most attractive man I’ve ever laid eyes on. Tall, muscular, with light-brown hair, blue eyes, and a smile that could stop traffic.

Plus, he’s twenty-eight but looks more like twenty-three, and he’s a doctor, which drives women wild (though that’s a touchy subject for me, so I try not to think about it too much).

But he’s more than just a pretty face to me. I’m not sure I can put into words what he means to me, so I’ll just say this: there’s nothing about Max that I don’t love, even when he’s driving me crazy.

I can’t help but love him. It’s as simple as that.

That’s a problem for me, considering he’s supposed to have a mate out there somewhere. I know, and I’ve tried to convince myself it’s just a teenage crush, but it’s not working. Not yet, anyway.

I’ve even tried to be interested in other guys, and Sarah has done her best to help me with that, but no dice.

The thing is, there are plenty of good-looking guys at our school (and by the way, my friend who hates humans still goes to human high school with me, even though he swears every year will be his last).

I can appreciate those guys, too, and I admit that sometimes I catch myself checking them out. That’s what eyes are for, right? To appreciate beauty.

But none of them affect me the way Max does.

“I won’t,” he said, pulling me back to reality. “And you should know by now that finding a mate isn’t my top priority.”

“Like hell it’s not!” I shot back, stepping away from him in anger and, yes, jealousy.

I know he still sleeps around, and I’ve smelled other women on him more than once.

I don’t even go looking for their scents, they just hit me, making me wonder what kind of perfume they’re wearing that I can pick it up with one sniff.

Believe me, it’s hard to act nonchalant when your stomach is in knots and your heart feels like it’s about to shatter.

“Estella,” Max warned.

“What?” I retorted. “Isn’t it true that you’re always with different women?”

“Not always,” he corrected me. “I do it when I feel like it, and I’m not the type to settle down.”

“A manwhore,” I muttered under my breath.

Big mistake. Sometimes I forget that Max is actually a werewolf. Honestly, he’s the most human person I know. More human than most humans, if that makes any sense.

So, it’s not unusual for me to let something slip without realizing he can hear it. Like just now.

He closed the gap between us and looked down at me, his face calm. But his jaw was tight, so I knew he was angry, and I was in what we call “deep shit.” Maybe?

“I dare you to say that again,” he challenged.

I swallowed hard. Well, since the damage was already done…

“I called you a manwhore,” I said, meeting his gaze defiantly.

“You’re turning into a brat with a dirty mouth. Does your uncle know you talk like this?”

“My uncle has three kids who talk like this,” I reminded him. “Besides, I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true, did I?”

I knew I was pushing my luck.

“You’re too young to talk like that, think like that, and know about things like that,” he grumbled, closing his eyes for a moment.

“If you think I’m still a kid, you shouldn’t care if I walk around in just a shirt. You never used to care about what I wore.”

“I didn’t say you’re a kid, but at sixteen, you’re not old enough either.”

“For what? Sex? Most girls I know start at this age, and they teach us about it at school,” I pointed out, and I saw his face harden.

“Most girls can do whatever they want,” he growled. “You will be careful.”

“So you don’t care if I have sex, you just want me to be careful? Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he wears a condom,” I said, trying to hide the hurt in my voice.

“Enough!” he shouted.

Then, he stepped back and looked away.

“I don’t have the right to forbid you from doing anything, Estella,” he said more calmly.

“You don’t care, then. Cool.” I shrugged, but I felt like crying.

“Why do you always have to twist my words like this?” he sighed.

“I’m not twisting anything,” I said. “When you decide whether I’m old enough or too young to do things, let me know.”

Yes, I was annoyed. I was growing up, and in his eyes, I was still a kid, even though I’m more mature than most people my age in a lot of ways.

I turned my back to him and crossed my arms over my chest. I needed to cool down. I knew that.

I heard him approaching. By the way, my hearing is sometimes really good, especially when it comes to Max and the people I care about.

It’s not as good as a werewolf’s, but it’s not bad. I wish my eyesight was as good, but no such luck. I’m stuck with these damn glasses.

Anyway, what was I saying? Right, Max. He came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders.

I was mad enough to keep from dissolving into a puddle just because he was touching me. But when he kissed the top of my head, it became a bit more challenging to stay composed.

“You look lovely with those glasses,” he murmured.

Okay. Now I was ready to melt. Into a puddle.

MAX

Believe it or not, I hadn’t noticed three years had slipped by. All the signs of her blossoming into a woman were there.

She had navigated junior high, experienced her first period, and everyone was commenting on how she was maturing into a beautiful young woman.

I was there every day, picking her up from school, overseeing her training sessions that never stopped during these years.

I knew she had a certain maturity from early on, but I failed to see her physical changes.

Maybe it was easier for me that way. Less distracting.

But when I walked into her room and saw her wearing only my T-shirt, the reality hit me hard.

Up until then, physical attraction between us hadn’t been an issue for me. I knew it was harder for her, and Julian never missed a chance to remind me of his niece’s crush on me.

Not that I needed reminding. But since I saw her as a child, I was able to brush it off.

Now she was nearly sixteen.

Sure, she was still too young for me to consider anything more than a platonic relationship, but I knew it would be hard for me to avoid certain thoughts.

Her face was as pretty as ever, and the combination of glasses and shoulder-length hair made her look a bit younger than she was, but it suited her. That is, if you didn’t look past her neck.

Below that, she was changing to the point that my T-shirt no longer made her look cute but sexy.

I know this sounds creepy, but try telling that to my wolf, who is starting to get restless.

I won’t pretend I wasn’t affected by seeing her like this because I was. Innocently touching her would be nearly impossible, and I would have to avoid it as much as I could.

How I would do that without hurting her feelings, I had no idea. Until yesterday, she was still thirteen in my mind.

I had to tread carefully, yes, but no one who knew our history would ever misinterpret my affection for her. Now it was different, for me, more than anyone.

For instance, when I stroked her cheek, and she leaned into my touch, I felt the urge to kiss her for the first time, and not on her forehead.

In the past, this thought was nowhere near my mind. I would hug, kiss, or cuddle with her as if she were a sister or a niece if I had one.

Needless to say, I can’t tell her she’s starting to affect me. Whether she’s growing up or not, she’s still too young to handle the truth about us.

It might seem easy to tell her since she’s already infatuated with me, but it’s not.

Telling her now would be like taking away all her choices, leaving her with only one: to be with me for a lifetime, forsaking her human nature entirely and becoming like me.

According to my kind’s philosophy, this would guarantee a happy ending. Would I be satisfied with it? No.

If she chooses me, I want her to do it consciously. I want her to understand what she’s sacrificing and what her other options could be.

My perspective might seem open-minded, but in truth, it’s tinged with selfishness.

If I reveal the truth too early, I’ll never know if it was her teenage hormones, the bond of destiny, or genuine emotions that kept her with me.

Does it matter? You might ask. It does. To me, it does. I’ll never stop saying that I want to control my destiny. Everyone should.