Aiden
The forest smelled like wet pine and possibility.
I stripped on the back terrace—boots first, then shirt, jeans, boxers last. No ceremony. No show. Just shedding human skin like it was too small to hold me anymore. The shift came easy, bones cracking and reshaping in that familiar burn that felt more like home than any house ever could.
My wolf was bigger than most. Black as oil, eyes still steel-grey, scars showing white through the fur on my left shoulder. I shook once, hard, and felt the power ripple down my spine.
She was still human when I turned.
Standing at the edge of the stone steps in that grey dress, arms wrapped around herself like the wind might steal her away. Hair loose now, dark waves catching the late-morning light. Bare feet on cold stone. Looking at me like I was the monster under her bed finally stepped into daylight.
"Shift," I said. Voice deeper in this form, rougher.
She hesitated.
I took one step closer. Low growl rumbling in my chest—not threat, not yet. Just reminder.
Her eyes flicked to the tree line, then back to me. I could almost hear the thoughts spinning behind them: Run? Fight? Submit?
She chose none of them.
Closed her eyes. Breathed deep. Let the change take her.
Her wolf was smaller than mine. Sleek. Silver-grey with black points on ears and tail, like someone had dipped her in ink. Eyes the same hazel as her human ones—wide, wary, furious. She shook out her coat, paws silent on the stone, then lifted her head and met my stare straight on.
No cowering. No tucked tail.
Good.
I turned and loped toward the trees. Didn't look back to see if she followed.
She did.
We ran.
Not fast at first. Testing. Her paws light and quick behind me, keeping pace but not closing the gap. Smart. She wasn't trying to outrun me—she was learning the rhythm, the terrain, the way my muscles bunched and released.
The pack lands opened up around us—thick evergreens giving way to rocky ridges, streams cutting silver threads through moss, old hunting trails worn into the earth by generations of wolves who'd killed and fucked and died on this ground.
I pushed harder.
She matched me.
Wind tore past us. My lungs burned clean. Hers too—I could hear it, the quick pant, the steady drum of her heart.
Half a mile in I veered sharp left, leaped a fallen log, landed soft, kept running.
She followed without missing a beat.
Another mile. Uphill now. Steep. Rocks loose underfoot.
She slipped once—paw skidding on wet stone. Small yelp.
I slowed. Just enough.
She recovered. Pushed past me. Took the lead for three strides.
I let her have it.
Then I surged.
Caught her flank with my shoulder—not hard enough to knock her down, just enough to remind her who was bigger. She stumbled, rolled once, came up snarling.
I stopped. Turned. Faced her.
She lowered her head, ears flat, lips peeled back over sharp white teeth. Hackles raised. Growl low and vicious.
Beautiful.
I stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate.
She held ground.
I circled her once. Sniffed the air around her—fear-sweat, adrenaline, the sharp sweet tang of her heat that wasn't quite there yet but close. My wolf liked that. Wanted it.
She snapped at my muzzle when I got too near her shoulder.
I laughed—low, rumbling sound that wasn't quite human.
Then I shifted back.
Human skin. Human height. Human voice.
"Enough."
She froze. Fur bristling.
I crouched down to her level. Naked. Unashamed.
"Shift back."
She didn't.
I reached out, fingers sinking into the thick ruff at her neck. Not pulling. Just holding. Firm.
"Shift. Back."
Her body shuddered. Bones popped. Fur receded. Until it was Gabriella again—human, panting, on all fours in the dirt, hair tangled with leaves, cheeks flushed, eyes blazing.
She looked up at me.
No words.
Just hate. And something else. Something that looked dangerously like hunger.
I stood. Offered my hand.
She stared at it.
Then—slow, like it cost her everything—she took it.
I pulled her up. Close. Bodies almost touching. Heat rolling off her skin.
"You run well," I said quietly.
She didn't answer.
"But you still run from me."
Her chin lifted. Defiant.
"Not anymore," she whispered.
Liar.
I smiled.
Grabbed her wrist. Spun her. Pushed her back against the nearest tree—rough bark biting into her shoulders.
She gasped.
I kissed her then. Hard. Teeth clashing. Tongue claiming. One hand in her hair, the other sliding between her thighs—finding her wet, swollen, ready despite everything.
She moaned into my mouth. Small. Broken. Real.
I pulled back just enough to speak against her lips.
"Say it."
She shook her head.
I pressed two fingers inside her. Slow. Deep.
She arched. Whimpered.
"Say it."
Her nails dug into my arms.
"I hate you," she breathed.
I curled my fingers. Hit that spot.
She cried out.
"Say it."
Her head fell back against the tree. Eyes squeezed shut.
"You own me."
Louder.
"You own me!"
I kissed her again—slower this time. Almost tender.
Then I stepped back.
Left her there—panting, trembling, legs barely holding her up.
"Shift," I said again. "We're not done running."
She stared at me like she wanted to tear my throat out.
Then she shifted.
Silver-grey wolf. Eyes still burning.
I shifted too.
We ran again.
But this time she stayed right beside me.
Not behind.
Not ahead.
Exactly where I wanted her.
For now.