She had grown up hearing the warnings, to "fear those type of men who would reach inside you and feast upon your heart." Her mother had meant it as metaphor, to pay heed to those men around her who would use her kindness against her, who would kiss her with lips chapped by promise and fallacy. She had never meant the literal; the type of man who could break through skin and sternum and feast upon blood and flesh. This was never a thing to worry about, it was only the tales of nightmare, of horror film, of Halloween costumes.

Nothing could have been farther from the truth.

She had found this man, or rather, he had found her. His appearance had been innocuous enough; black-colored hair haphazardly strewn about his head, a chiseled jawline, eyes that were black-gray, and a disarming smile, complete with a hint of dimple. He gave the appearance of the guy your friends could drink with, but could also clean up and be the charming young man your grandmother always wanted you to be with.

He was also a monster. Literally. She had seen his strength the night he found her, she had seen him threaten to rip her attacker limb from limb, tossing him across the alley as if he were a mere plaything, and the way his voice had sounded, much more rough and visceral than the slight rasp he had when he had greeted her in the bar earlier that evening. He had saved her, and in turn, she couldn't escape the knowledge that the real world was not as mundane as many would hope to believe. The supernatural existed, and she ended up falling in love with one of its kind. This was no longer the territory relegated to Tokyo, werewolves existed, and one of them was named Miyavi.