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"When I look at my hands long enough, my blood starts to boil."

Molly Sheridan accepted certain fundamental truths. That wanting things was pain, that desire was an open wound, red and raw, a window the world could use to come inside and hurt you.  Abandoned, her mother clearly didn’t want her. Adopted, her parents didn’t make a great show of things either. She didn’t blame them, it just seemed to be sort of the way of things. When she didn't immediately shed her awkward social skin on entering high school, she figured that's all there was to it--she'd never find a place to call her own. 

Then a pack of werewolves told her she was one of them, and suddenly it all made sense. She finally had a reason why her whole life had felt so wrong. Better yet, she would finally have a place to fit in.

Turns out, she’s the wrong type of werewolf, too.