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The Lonely Wolf

To phase the first time: disorienting. Horrible. Terrifying. Painful. To become a monster: sickening. Strange. Agonizing. Estranging. This we know from Jacob. Must it not have been so much worse to be Sam? He did it all... and he did it all alone. A story in the perspective of the first of our beloved werewolves, Sam Uley. From shortly before the time of his first phase to his marriage to Emily Young.

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11. Chapter 11

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“Welcome home, Sam,” she says, and then laughs bitterly. “Look how nice I dressed up to meet you.”

“Leah, are you all right?”

“Yeah. I’m hugging the toilet for fun.” Her sarcasm soothed me somehow. I recognized my Leah in it, and was thus a bit reassured. Though, ordinarily, she’d rather die than be caught in such a humiliating situation… but at least she could react normally.

“What’s wrong?”

She rolls her eyes. “Vomiting, obviously.”


She struggles to her feet. Her eyes bore into mine, accusing, furious. “I was worried about you. You were gone all night, so I called Emily and Sarah. We went out for drinks. I got drunk, came home, and threw up my guts all night long… because of you.”

“I’m so sorry.” I wince. “Leah, I swear it, if there was anything I could do…”

“That was sarcasm, you idiot. Wow. No, I did not get stoned. In fact, I have never been drunk in my whole life, and I’m only eighteen- no one’s gonna sell me booze. But it is your fault.”

I cross the distance between us and take her in my arms. “Leah, I love you.”

“I know that. Otherwise… never mind.”

“What? Otherwise what?”

“Otherwise this would be a much bigger problem than it is,” she says, reluctantly.

“What would be? What’s the problem?”

Silence. She stares into space, her eyes vacant. Though her chest is pressed against mine as I hold her in my too-hot hands, I can feel her as she moves one hand down, drifting almost without any thought on her part to rest on her stomach. I feel the breath leave her lungs, so closely do I press her against me. I can feel the sweat on her back, smell the exhaustion and illness on her clammy skin.

“Tell me, Leah. You can tell me.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Why not?”


“Leah, if you won’t tell me, at least tell me why you won’t!” I exclaim, frustrated. She looks, and feels, quite ill, and I hate not knowing why, not knowing how to make her better… my stomach, ironically, is sick at the very thought.

“Oh, yeah. I mean, we’re such an open, sharing couple. We tell each other absolutely everything. It’s not like you’ve ever kept a huge, enormous, awful secret from me. It’s not like you don’t trust me with what’s hurting you… why, Sam?” the sarcasm breaks. I see uncharacteristic tears in her eyes, and I cradle her against my shoulder. “Why don’t you trust me?”

“I do, with my life, Leah… but it isn’t my secret to tell.”

“That makes everything so much better, doesn’t it… Sam… Sam… I need to know… know you’ll be here for me…”

“Of course. Forever,” I promise idly, puzzled. “Why?”

“Because… I’m… I’m…” she gasps and breaks away from me, both hands on her stomach now, facing the bathroom wall and not my curious gaze. She is silent for a moment.

“Tell me, please. I don’t deserve it, I know but…”

She sighs, drawing in a shuddering breath. “Sam, I’m pregnant.”