I fled to these mist-choked pines to vanish.
Mapping trails that swallow men whole, chasing silence to drown the loneliness gnawing my bones.
I craved maps that lied less than people ever did.
Until his scent hit me like a fever dream, wild and inescapable, turning every shadow into his territory.
That first night, his eyes burned through the gloom, a feral alpha shifter whose growl rattled my defiance loose.
I should've run harder.
Instead, my body arched toward him, traitorous heat blooming where isolation used to live.
He circles me now, all savage muscle and bared teeth, promising protection that feels like chains.
One claw-tipped hand pins my wrist against moss-draped bark, and I fight the ache to yield, to let him drag me into his world of blood oaths and hidden glades.
Our pull twists enmity into something obscene.
Bodies slick and heaving in a shadowed tree hollow, crimson blood moon painting our frenzy.
I clutch my satchel like a lifeline, but his claim seeps in, feral rut erasing my edges.
He whispers ruin against my throat, the beast who could shield me from hunters stalking these woods.
Or break me beyond mending.
Freedom's all I've got left, that fragile thread of self I clawed from years alone.
Surrender to him means pack wars and heats that devour sanity, my trails forgotten in his obsession.
I deny it with every ragged breath.
But what if the monster hunting my steps isn't the one with fangs?
