Six weeks later

I knew it was a dream. His voice in my ear, telling me to let go, to be who I really was, to let my wolf be free. His arms around me, stroking my stomach and trailing down teasingly to that spot where I needed him so desperately. He was killing me softly, coaxing me to bend to his will, to belong to him entirely. I knew this man, Negan. My mate. A chance encounter put him in my path. This was just a dream. But as his lips descended onto mine, I couldn't help but marvel at how real this felt, how real his touch felt. If this was just a dream…why not give in to my desire? Why not belong to Negan?

The shrill of my alarm pulled me out of my dream. I turned it off, but laid in bed for another moment, staring blankly at the ceiling. I dreamt about him again. Hell, I had dreamt about him nearly every night since that night we met. Every time, it seemed to be more vivid, more pleasurable. I couldn't get him out of my mind.

Sighing, I got out of bed, giving my cats a scratch and some food before going to the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror, hardly recognizing myself. I looked exhausted. I knew the reason for it, the eyes and smile that replayed over in my mind. It had been a long six weeks.

I brushed my teeth, put on some light makeup, and brushed out my hair. As I went back to my room, the scent of eggs and bacon filled the space. My brother Cameron was awake.

That night, when I had come home nearly at midnight dressed in someone else's clothes, my brother had been so worried sick, he didn't mind the fact that I was beer-less. We hadn't talked about it since that night, but I know he noticed the change in my behavior.

I pulled on a pair skinny jeans and a graphic tee, not really having the energy to dress up after another dream filled night about Negan. I grabbed my bag and went to the kitchen, where my brother was happily frying his last few pieces of bacon. He turned when I entered the room.

"Morning, Carse," he said. "Bacon?"

I shook my head. "Just eggs." I had lost my abnormally large appetite since that night. My brother shrugged and put some eggs on a plate at the table. I sat and picked at my breakfast, looking at my older brother.

He was nearly six feet tall, long and lanky, with brown wavy hair and nearly the same blue eyes as me. But they weren't the same, because we weren't really related. I was adopted by his parents when I was five, never knowing my real family. After the accident, my adoptive brother and I had been moved to California, taken in by a bustling Mexican American household that taught us all we knew. Cameron and I were opposites; where I was reserved and thoughtful, he was outgoing and reeked of spontaneity. He was a musician, as was I in another life, and worked creating music in a studio. He has charming, charismatic, and a total ladies man. But he was more than that. My brother was my keeper, my best friend. He was all I had. That didn't change when he started drinking excessively at the death of his best friend. Or when he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder in the same year. It didn't change with his mood swings, that were often taken taken out on me, that made me develop an excessive sense of self loathing at my life choices. Or when his disorder was too much to handle and he had to stop working, leaving me to take care of the household expenses, him included. Because to me, he was still my brother. I loved him with all my heart. Still, he didn't know what I was. It was something I kept from him, thinking he was safer not knowing that his sister used to turn into a wolf. I would have done anything to keep him safe—

"So what's his name?" He asked, pulling me out of my trance. I'm sure I paled at his question.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I lied.

He chuckled and leaned over the table, spatula still in hand. "Carson Ann Gardner, I've known you your whole life…I know everything about you. And I know that you love food and never deny yourself of the goodness in life that is bacon. You've been distracted and distant, ever since that night you came home looking like you had been thoroughly fucked."

"Cameron, Jesus Christ!" I exclaimed at his statement, on the many list of things I did not want to talk to my brother about.

He lifted his hands and spatula in defense. "Hey, I was just happy that you were getting some in like the first time— well ever. But seriously, who is he?"

I sighed, looking down at my uneaten eggs. I couldn't keep dodging this.

"He's just someone I met at work," deciding not to be completely honest.

He wiggled his eyebrows. "Is he your Great?"

I stood up. "Okay, it's actually time for me to go to work now," deciding I did in fact want to avoid this conversation altogether.

As I walked out the door, my brother yelled, "He must be your Great if you're this sensitive about it!"

I tried to focus on my work for the rest of the day, but my mind kept drifting back to Negan. He had called me his mate, and I couldn't help but wonder if there was a connection to Greats. I didn't know anything about werewolf mating, but I did know the bedtime story that Cameron's grandpa had told us before he passed away.

One summer, before the accident, we were staying with Grandpa Nate a few weeks before he passed away. That balmy summer night, he told us the story about Greats. According to him, every person has one great love of their life. They would have Goods, people who were okay but didn't quite measure up, Bads, people who were just horrible for you, and Greats. When you met your Great, you knew from the second you looked in their eyes that they were the one for you. You felt instantly drawn towards them, needing to be around them. My brother held onto that story for years, hell, he still does. It was something that I never thought had any truth to it…but after Negan, I'm not so sure anymore.

As I clocked out for the day, bidding an unenthusiastic farewell to my coworkers, I made a decision. When I got inside my car, I couldn't help but let out a chuckle. That smug bastard…he knew. He was right.

Fuck it, I thought. I'm going to find Negan.