He sat in the dim light of the shed, watching her, silent. She looked delicate lying there, her breathing slow and steady beneath the blanket he had covered her with. She was small, her frame slight, dark brown waves spilling down the side of her rounded face and back. Long lashes cast faint shadows on her cheeks, her full lips slightly parted. She looked innocent, but he could feel the restlessness in her, even in sleep, as if she were haunted by something lurking in her dreams.

He had watched her tear brutally through her parents. Had seen the way she shifted, the fire that erupted from her body, the devastation left in her wake. It had been an accident. He knew that, knew she had lost control, that a wolf had awoken, wild and unrestrained, and no one, not even her, had been prepared. Neither had he, when he saw the flames. She was beautiful. He wasn’t sure anyone had ever seen anything like her before.

Then, there was him. He had felt drawn to her before she changed, before he even saw her. That was why he had followed her afterward, why he had kept his distance but never truly left. He had watched as she stumbled through the wilderness, getting weaker. He had silently scolded her for being loud, for being clumsy, for looking so utterly out of place in a world where she should have thrived.

He told himself he wanted to leave her, yet he never stopped watching, never stopped wanting her. He seethed at his own weakness, at his inability to stay away from her. He exhaled sharply, forcing down the frustration. And yet—he had hesitated, just for a moment, and in that moment, she had been injured. She could have died. The thought sent something dark and violent raging in his chest. He had been alone for so long that he had grown used to solitude. Used to the world spitting him out and chewing him up. He didn’t understand why she, this fierce, fragile thing, was fated to be tied to someone like him. His eyes flickered back to her, trailing over the curve of her cheek, the slight part of her lips. She smelled like cloves and vanilla—rich and warm, and for some reason, it calmed him.

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After he had chased off the mountain lion, he had brought her here. She had passed out from blood loss, and so he had bandaged her wounds, though they were already healing quickly. It hadn’t been easy dragging her along. He had thought she might shift back, but she hadn’t.

So he waited.

He had sat outside, listening, the anticipation gnawing at him, pressing down on him. He heard the shift in her breath as she woke. He heard the sound of her shuffling around, her tail swishing, a thump, clumsy, he thought, and feet padding. When she had finally, cautiously stepped from that shed, and when her eyes had met his, gods help him.

The moment she ran, it was all over. There had been no reasoning, no choice.

Only the chase.

Only her.

And now, she was his.