Good Girl

Leah Clearwater was a good girl—always attending church gatherings, always taking an active role in conducting lessons, always discussing His miraculous works, always arranging fundraisers, always participating in school activities, always receiving the highest grades, always running for student council, and always pleasing her family members and her friends and her boyfriend with her tranquil disposition. She was a good girl, complete with the polished hair, the glossy, pink lips, the long, fluttering eyelashes, and trendy clothes—always appropriate length, of course.

Leah Clearwater was a good girl.

Until her boyfriend disappeared and pursued her cousin; until he declared his undying affection for her cousin. Until her father died and her brother transfigured into a huge, hulking beast and her anguish prompted her to turn into a roaring monster. Until she cut her hair to her chin and her features hardened with grief and she unconsciously tore all her pieces of clothing and learned of her infertility and that damn imprinting process.

She was no longer a good girl; she never attended congregations concerning church, nor did she fundraise, nor did she have heated debates over the existence of her Lord, nor did she participate in school activities, nor did she receive the highest marks, nor did she run for student council, nor did she please her family members and her so called friends and her cheating ex-boyfriend. She was the complete opposite with her tousled locks, chapped lips, steely, glowering gaze, and cropped clothing, which only covered the necessities.

Leah Clearwater was not a good girl.

She simply was not.

But when she met him, her status did not matter. He simply smiled, welcoming her despite her blatant revulsion with the imprinting process, wordlessly praising and cherishing her for her speed and strength and her warrior-like characteristics; he comforted her when she could no longer breathe properly, when she could no longer function and could only replay those damn memories of sweaty, nervous hands intertwined with her own, of playful banter, of fresh kisses, and butterflies swarming the pit of her stomach. She would shrill and bellow and cry to the top of her lungs, but he would merely encircle her in his arms, allowing her to greedily absorb his warmth and find solace in envisioning swarthy arms encompassing her instead of pale ones.

Leah Clearwater was not a good girl.

But it no longer mattered anymore.

She was too shattered to care. Much too shattered.