Hailey
The sound is the only thing that exists. A growl so deep it feels like the world is tearing itself apart at the seams. It vibrates from the mossy ground, up through the soles of my boots, and settles in my bones. It is a promise of utter annihilation.
The colossal wolf does not lunge. It does not charge. It moves with a terrifying, liquid grace, beginning to circle the clearing. Each pawfall is silent, deliberate. A predator that has no need for stealth. Its presence is a physical weight, pressing the air from my lungs.
My hand hovers over the leather pouch at my hip. Yarrow for wounds. Nightshade for a quick end. What a foolish thought. What herb could possibly work against a creature carved from midnight and rage? My grandmother’s teachings were for the natural world. This is something else entirely.
His eyes, those two burning gold lamps, never leave mine. They are not the flat, hungry eyes of a beast. They hold a terrifying intelligence, a depth of awareness that feels ancient. He is not just looking at me. He is dissecting me, peeling back layers of skin and bone to see the soul cowering inside.
I force myself to stand still. My heart is a trapped bird, beating its wings raw against the cage of my ribs. But I will not run. I came here to meet my fate. To run from it now would be to give Joric his victory. I will die on my feet.
“Get it over with,” I whisper, the words stolen by the cold night air. I don't know if he can hear me. I don’t know if he can understand.
The growl changes. It falters, a note of something else creeping in. Confusion? Pain? He stops his circling, standing directly across from me. He lifts his massive head and tastes the air, his black nose twitching. The sound in his chest is a low, tormented rumble now. It is the sound of a war being fought within.
This is not the behavior of a simple predator. This is something far more complex, and far more terrifying.
The wolf takes a hesitant step forward. And another. He is closer now, close enough that I can see the faint silver scars that trace patterns through his jet black fur. Close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off his body.
Then he lets out a sound that is not a growl, but a guttural whine of agony. His body tenses, muscles bunching into stone. He collapses onto his forelegs, a tremor running through his enormous frame.
I take an involuntary step back. Is he sick? Wounded? Is this some trick?
An awful sound fills the clearing. The sharp, wet crack of bone breaking. It is followed by another, and another. The wolf’s body begins to contort, to twist into shapes that are unnatural and horrifying. I want to look away, to scream, but I am paralyzed, a statue of ice in the moonlight.
Fur seems to melt away, receding into skin that is pale in the moonlight. The enormous paws elongate, fingers stretching from the pads with more sickening cracks. The powerful haunches reshape themselves into human legs. The long, wolfish snout shortens, pulling back into the planes and angles of a man’s face. The transformation is not magic. It is a violent, brutal, physical tearing apart and rebuilding of a living thing.
Where the monster stood, a man now stands. He is on one knee, his head bowed, his breathing a harsh, ragged panting. He is naked. His body is a tapestry of scars, old and new, pale lines crisscrossing over a landscape of raw, masculine power. Even kneeling, he is immense.
Slowly, he pushes himself to his feet. He is towering. A giant of a man, built with the same savage grace as the wolf. His hair is as black as the wolf’s pelt, long and untamed, falling around a face that is ruggedly, intimidatingly beautiful. A sharp jaw, a straight nose, a mouth that looks like it was made for snarling.
He lifts his head, and I stop breathing. The eyes are the same. They are a man's eyes, but they burn with the same eerie, intelligent golden light. They are the eyes of the Alpha King.
My mind is a white noise of panic. This is not possible. Shifters are not real. They are tales to frighten children, warnings about the deep woods. They are not supposed to be real.
“What… what are you?” The question is a thread of sound, barely audible. My voice is not my own.
He takes a step toward me. His golden eyes are locked on mine, and the expression in them is a terrifying mix of fury, desperation, and something else. Something that looks like a man who has been starving for a century and has just found his first meal.
I should run. I should scream. But my feet are rooted to the earth. The knives strapped to my legs feel like children’s toys.
He does not speak. He just walks, closing the distance between us until he is only an arm’s length away. The heat from his skin washes over me. He smells of pine, and damp earth, and something wild and musky that is purely him.
“You,” he says. His voice is a low growl, the sound scraping from his throat as if the words are unfamiliar, painful. It is the first word he has spoken, and it sounds like an accusation.
He is fighting himself. I can see it. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles white. The muscles in his jaw are knotted tight. He is holding himself back with a control that seems to be costing him everything.
He closes his eyes for a moment, and when they open again, the battle is over. A raw, primal need has won.
In a movement too fast to follow, his hand shoots out and closes around my arm. His grip is iron, not meant to injure, but to possess. To hold. A brand of heat sears through the thin fabric of my gown, and my tunic, all the way to the bone. The shock of it, the sudden, violent contact, makes me gasp.
He pulls me forward, a single, effortless tug that brings me stumbling against his bare chest. I am a doll in his grasp. My head only comes to his shoulder. I am surrounded by him, by his heat, by his scent. My mind screams in terror, but my body is frozen solid.
He lowers his head, his face close to mine. His wild black hair brushes against my cheek. I can feel his breath, hot and ragged, against my skin. His golden eyes burn into me, staking a claim so absolute, so final, it terrifies me more than the wolf’s fangs ever could.
He ignores my shock. He ignores my fear. He speaks one last word, his voice a guttural command that echoes the deepest growl of the beast he was moments ago. It is not a request. It is a statement of fact. A declaration that changes my world, my fate, everything I thought I knew.
“Mine.”
