Prologue

JUNE, ONE YEAR EARLIER

Pain hums gingerly through my fingertips. I glance down, pressing the pad of my thumbs against each fingernail, applying whatever pressure I can that might help ease the odd throbbing I woke up with this morning.

The pressure in my skull does nothing to help, while my stomach twists and flips, and the only thing I can think of is that I must be coming down with the flu.

I sigh, rubbing my eyes then reach for my phone. The time on the screen reads just past two in the afternoon. My parents are probably at the beach house by now. They gave me the responsibility speech and explicitly told me "no parties" before they took off this morning. So, I'm keeping the party small .

In my defense, they know I'm "explicitly" terrible at following rules.

The chime from the doorbell rings throughout the house, and I tug at the ends of my hair as I pull the door open. I already know who waits on the other side.

Golden brown eyes and a crooked smile greet me amidst mounds of plastic bags: Jesse, my best friend since he shared a package of Oreos with me in the first grade. A little over a year ago he became more than that, before I ended things.

It should have been awkward, resuming our friendship after having an intimate relationship, but it wasn't, which makes everything harder now.

Including telling him that my plans to go to Boston College with him have changed.

I could say it was a last-minute decision, but that would be a lie. I never really wanted to go to Boston with him. I wanted to stay in New York, but during the course of our relationship, and even after, Jesse was so ecstatic about our going to college together, I couldn't break his heart twice.

But I have to. I might be somewhat of a liar and an explicit rule breaker, but I hate letting people down. And now I have to let my best friend down...again.

"Are you going to let me in? "

I blink, his voice luring me from my thoughts. "Yeah," I shake my head, "sorry."

"Where should I put everything?"

"Kitchen," I gesture in a general direction, though there's no need. Jesse could find his way around my house with his eyes closed.

I've never entertained the idea of us getting back together, but now and then, like when he stands too close, my head conjures up warm, rumpled sheets, bare skin, and…

"Rhi, what's wrong?"

I'm caught blatantly staring into space while he unloads bags of cups and napkins and bottles onto the kitchen table, his face twisted into a mask of concern.

I tug at the ends of my hair again, deciding that a half-truth is better than an outright lie. "I'm not feeling great."

Jesse dumps the remaining contents out of the rest of the bags before walking over to me, a crease furrowing his brow. "Uh oh. Miss Perfect Attendance can actually get sick?" His mouth curves.

I should use this time to confess my change of plans, but curiously, I'm drawn to that upward motion of his lips. Since I broke up with him, I haven't thought about him that way, but his presence suddenly saturates my thoughts. I'm definitely coming down with a virus.

"It's nothing." I wave my hand in dismissal, heading over to examine the contents of the bags. "I'll take some aspirin and be good as new for tonight."

Tell him, my brain urges.

Jesse joins me, releasing red cups from their plastic wrap. "Good." The half smirk remains. "I'd hate for you to miss your eighteenth birthday party."

I finally face him, offering a challenging stare. He stands nearly a foot taller, light brown hair curling against his temples. Something stirs in the pit of my stomach, a strange sort of hunger that is unfamiliar to me. Not the kind of hunger I felt once for him… I brush the uncanny feeling aside even as my fingertips throb in pain.

"Over my dead body," I answer.

Hours later, I stand–well, lean–against the doorframe in between my kitchen and living room, nursing my cup filled with whatever alcoholic concoction Jesse made me. I survey the room as my head pounds, my stomach tightens, and my fingertips ache. So much for feeling better.

My entire house is a buzz of raucous laughter, high-pitched giggles, and rap music. I'm pretty sure a game of flip cup is happening in my dining room, judging by the cheers and clattering of plastic. I wince as I spot a couple I don't know head up the stairs and mentally pat myself on the back for remembering to lock all the bedroom doors.

"Are you going to just stand in the kitchen all night, or are you actually going to enjoy your party?"

I turn from my post and find Jesse, his wide smile visible beneath the lip of a cup as he takes a sip. He flips an unruly strand of hair out of his eyes and settles in next to me.

"I think those two over there are enjoying the party enough for all of us." I motion towards the foyer next to the stairs, where two girls paw each other against the wall. Shadows cloak most of their actions, but I swear one of them is missing their shirt.

Jesse squints, then his eyes widen. "Is that Taylor?"

I frown. "Taylor…as in… your Taylor?"

He glances at me, his mouth a tight line. It's moments like this when he seems too close for comfort, where the scent of his cologne tickles my nostrils, and my brain betrays my heart and allows the memories to resurface.

"She's not my Taylor," he says with a hardened jaw, hand tightening around his cup.

"That's pretty obvious." I smirk and bring the cup to my lips, taking a small sip.

Big mistake.

The alcohol is abrasive, and either there is too much of it in this mixed drink or my taste buds are too sensitive. It burns my mouth and the back of my throat. I brace my free hand on the wall beside me as Jesse draws his gaze from Taylor back to me.

"Whoa," he catches me around my waist, "how much have you had to drink?"

I lean my head back and close my eyes, very aware of his hand placement. "That was my first sip of the night."

My head is pulsing, my vision swimming, and I want to say that Jesse's cologne is making me nauseous, but it's doing the opposite.

I blink. Jesse's features mimic his earlier concern. He takes the cup from my hand and places it on the countertop in the kitchen. As he turns back to me, he brushes a tendril of hair away from my face.

"Rhi, what's wrong?"

I swallow thickly. "I still don't feel well. "

That's an understatement. Aside from my pounding head and aching stomach, there's that odd throbbing in my fingertips and a sudden, insatiable craving for Jesse's lips on mine. And then that craving turns into something ominous when a pang of hunger pierces my abdomen as I imagine what his blood would taste like if my lips pierced his skin.

No. I'm definitely not feeling well.

I push Jesse away, run past him and up the stairs to the bathroom. I don't even bother to knock as I throw open the door and lock myself inside. My stomach clenches again, my head pulses, and I glance down just in time to see a dark stain on my jeans.

Well… shit. What an opportune time for my period to show up for the first time ever.

My friends told me how lucky I was that I didn't have to deal with the headaches, fatigue, nausea, and all the other symptoms they complained about once a month. Still, it always made me feel like an outsider. I knew I wasn't the only "late bloomer." But from the time I was thirteen, I waited for it, and it never came.

At least there's one good thing that comes from this: it explains why I'm not feeling well. Though, it's hard to account for the still-throbbing of my fingertips or that weird urge I got for Jesse.

I take care of my needs and rush down the hall to my room to change. I feel better as I descend the stairs, knowing the aspirin I took in the bathroom will alleviate a few of the symptoms.

Jesse greets me at the bottom of the steps. "You okay?"

"I'm fine." I put on my best smile. It wavers when my traitorous eyes find his lips and again, I wonder what he tastes like. I yank my gaze away only to trace his bicep where the sleeve of his shirt meets his skin. He's put on a bit more muscle in the last two years, and my mouth waters as I picture running my fingers along his upper arm, nails slicing into his flesh –

What the fuck is wrong with me?

"You don't look fine." He reaches for me. I nearly knock him over as I swerve to avoid his touch, afraid of what I might do to him if we make contact.

I'm barreling through the crowded living room when a hand snags my elbow.

"Rhi! There you are!" Casey, part of our friend group, grips my arm in her drunken state. She wobbles as I try to wrench my arm free. I still as she leans into me, the smell of vodka heavy on her breath, her black hair tickling my cheek. "I saw you with Jesse," she says, giggling. "What's going on with that?"

What's going on with that? I think I might want to eat him doesn't seem like a wise thing to say .

"Uh, nothing, Case." I pry her fingertips from my arm. "I just really need- ouch!" I clutch both my hands into my stomach. A sharp, biting pain reverberates through all ten of my fingertips.

A hand touches my shoulder. "Hey, Rhi."

I turn towards Jesse, afraid of what horrible thoughts will cross my mind when I look at his face. Except when I lift my gaze, it's Jesse's eyes that are wide with horror.

"Rhi," he whispers, "you're bleeding."

Blood drips from my clenched hands onto the gray carpet, staining the floor in small droplets. I slowly open my hands to find the cause of the bleeding.

My nails are no longer nails…

They're claws. At least two inches long, they curve to a sharp tip, blood leaking from my nail beds.

I whirl, streaking past some unknown party guests, taking the stairs two at a time until I find myself back in the bathroom.

The stinging in my fingertips draws my attention to my hands, and I lose a shuddering sob, dropping my head between my knees.

What the fuck is wrong with me?