They raped me. I survived. I moved on. I wanted someone else to be the animal I didn’t want to become. I could have cold-bloodedly stalked into their goth mansion months ago. I would have enjoyed mutilating and torturing them, killing them slowly. Savored every minute of it. Painted my face with their blood, reveling in my dominance. But it wouldn’t have been a sheepdog that walked out that gothic, towering front door. It would have been a wolf. “Wolves don’t kill with hate,” Barrons says. “They kill because it’s what they do.” “What are you saying?” “Only humans kill with hate. When you kill,
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