Her Love, Taken For Granted

And every time he saw me upset, he’d twist the knife deeper, cleverly playing the role of the victim, as if I were the one at fault. I’d shout, and he’d remain calm, pretending to be the understanding partner, forgiving me for my outbursts. His behavior was calculated, designed to make me look crazy in front of everyone else. He didn’t care about my feelings. Not really. The worst part of everything was how he always had his way of gaslighting me.

I had stopped crying over it a long time ago. What was the point? My heart had long since shriveled, the pain of caring for a man who would never change had hollowed me out.

When Ashton came home that evening, his hand clutching a soggy bouquet of roses, I didn’t even look up from my phone. He scoffed loudly, breaking the silence. "Why haven't you cooked dinner? Still mad? Enough is enough. Haven’t you always wanted me to buy you flowers? I got them, so stop sulking."

He tossed the wilting roses onto the coffee table, the petals falling apart as they hit the surface. I didn’t respond. I had stopped expecting anything from him—especially not gestures of affection that felt so hollow and unrequited.

But there was something different in the air that night. A shift, a tension. Ashton’s voice, usually smooth with disdain, held something else now, something darker.

As he reached out to touch my shoulder, I flinched. It wasn’t just the touch that made me pull away, but the feeling that crawled beneath his skin. The air around us grew heavier, like the oppressive weight of an approaching storm. I hadn’t noticed before, but his scent—it was changing. I could smell the faint hint of something wild, something primal.

He noticed. "What’s wrong?" he asked, his voice low, almost a growl.

I stared at him then, really looked at him. His eyes were darker than I remembered, his jaw tight with barely contained fury. The shift was subtle but unmistakable. And in that moment, I knew. I knew Ashton was hiding something from me, just as I always suspected he was having an affair with JoAnn.

"Ashton?" My voice was shaky. I didn’t know why I was afraid, but I couldn’t deny the fear that curled in my stomach. "What are you—?"

He laughed then, a deep, rumbling sound, the kind that didn’t belong to a man, but to something much more dangerous. "You’ve been so blind, haven’t you?" He stepped back, his posture shifting, his hands twitching at his sides as if they wanted to claw at something. He was barely holding it together.

"Ashton, what is this?" I asked again, my pulse quickening.

And then, without warning, he let out a hiss, a sound too low and feral. His hands clenched into fists, and his nails—his claws—grew longer, sharper, gleaming silver in the dim light.

I froze. The roses on the table shattered, their petals flying in all directions as Ashton’s transformation began. His face twisted in agony, his skin rippling as his muscles stretched, and in moments, the man I had loved looked at me with an angry rage in his eyes.

In his place stood a creature of nightmare. His eyes gleamed with the savage hunger of a predator, his body massive and covered in fur. The air around us crackled with energy, a kind of dark magic that sent chills through my bones. And for the first time in years, I felt something for him again. But it wasn’t love. No, it was fear—raw, unfiltered fear.

I stood there, paralyzed, as Ashton, stared down at me, his lips curling into a twisted smile. "You thought I was just a man," he said, his voice now a guttural growl. "But I’ve always been more. And now you’re going to see the real me."

As I backed away, I couldn’t help but feel a sick sense of betrayal. But this wasn’t just about betrayal anymore. This was something darker. Something much, much more dangerous.

And I wasn’t sure if I was ready to face it.