“I often think I’m a fraud or a failure,” he said through a tight throat. “Like everyone hates me or there’s no point to my existence. Or that I’m not enough of a man or a werewolf, that there’s something wrong with me for not enjoying brawling or hunting or one-night stands.” Intrusive thoughts that played like a song on repeat, and the frustrating part was that even though he knew they weren’t true—well, sort of knew, most of the time—that didn’t stop them from ringing through his head.
