He kissed me, a kiss full of heat and promise and wild things, his hands tangling in my hair with just enough pressure to send shivers down my spine. When we broke apart, both breathing harder, there was a hunger in his eyes that had nothing to do with the moon.
“Later,” I promised, trailing my fingers down his chest. “After your run. I want you wild and moondrunk when you take me.”
A growl rumbled through him, vibrating against my palms where they rested on his chest. “Tease,” he accused, but his smile was wolfish and pleased.
“Go,” I urged, stepping back. “Run. I’ll be here when you return.”
He nodded, moving toward the center of the clearing where the moonlight pooled like silver water. There, he closed his eyes, face tilted up to the full moon, arms slightly extended from his sides.
The shift, when it came, was swift and fluid—far less agonizing than what I’d witnessed that night in the forest six months ago. His body flowed from one form to the other, the transition marked by a brief shimmer in the air around him, as if reality itself wavered at the boundary between human and wolf.
And then where my boyfriend had stood, there was now a massive black wolf with familiar golden eyes, powerful and majestic in the moonlight.
“Beautiful,” I said softly, approaching him without fear. “You’re magnificent, Mason.”
His tail wagged once—an endearingly domestic gesture from such a wild creature—and he butted his head gently against my hand when I reached for him.
I sank my fingers into the thick fur of his neck, marveling as always at the softness. “Go on,” I encouraged. “Run. Hunt. Do what your wolf needs to do. I’ll be waiting.”
He looked at me for a long moment, those intelligent eyes conveying emotions too complex for his canine form to express. Then he licked my hand once—a gesture that had become his wolf-form equivalent of “I love you”—and bounded away, ashadow flowing across the moonlit clearing and into the forest beyond.
I watched until he disappeared among the trees, then returned to the fire, adding another log to ensure it would burn steadily through the night. The temperature was dropping, but not uncomfortably so—perfect sleeping weather, especially with a werewolf furnace to cuddle with later.
Settling on the log, I pulled a small flask from my backpack—the good whiskey we saved for special occasions—and poured a measure into a camping cup. The liquor burned pleasantly going down, warming me from the inside as I gazed up at the stars and listened to the distant sounds of the forest.
Somewhere out there, Mason was running free, embracing his wolf nature under the full moon. The thought made me smile. How far we’d come from those early days—his fear of showing me his true self, my uncertainty about loving someone so different from anyone I’d known before.
Now I couldn’t imagine my life any other way. The monthly rhythm of the moon, the pack gatherings, the unique challenges and joys of loving a werewolf—all had become integral parts of my existence, as natural as breathing.
From the forest came a howl—deep, melodious, powerful. Mason, singing to the moon. The sound raised goosebumps on my arms, not from fear but from a primal recognition, a resonance deep in my bones.
Without conscious thought, I raised my cup to the moon in a silent toast. To us. To this extraordinary life we’d built together. To the future, whatever it might hold.
I must have dozed off at some point, lulled by the fire’s warmth and the peaceful night sounds. I woke to the sensation of being watched, a prickling awareness that had become familiar over months of living with a werewolf.
Opening my eyes, I found Mason—still in wolf form—sitting at the edge of the clearing, watching me with those luminous eyes. There was something in his posture, an energy that seemed different from his usual post-run contentment.
“Mason?” I said, sitting up straighter. “Everything okay?”
He approached slowly, something in his jaws that I couldn’t immediately identify. As he drew closer, I realized it was a small leather pouch, carefully held between his teeth.
“What have you got there?” I asked, curious and slightly confused.
He dropped the pouch at my feet, then sat back on his haunches, watching me expectantly. I picked it up, noting that it was damp with his saliva but otherwise intact—whatever was inside had been carried with great care.
“Is this for me?” I asked, though the answer seemed obvious from his attentive posture.
He made a soft whining sound that I interpreted as encouragement to open it. Intrigued, I untied the leather cord that secured the pouch and tipped the contents into my palm.
A ring. A simple, beautiful band of what appeared to be silver (though I knew it couldn’t be—silver burned werewolf skin) inlaid with a strip of dark wood that spiraled around its circumference.
My breath caught in my throat as I understood the significance. “Mason,” I whispered, looking from the ring to his wolf eyes, which watched me with unmistakable anxiety. “Is this…?”
He whined again, shifting his weight in a gesture I recognized as nervousness. Then, with a visible effort of will, he began to shift back to human form—a rare choice during a full moon, when the wolf form was usually too pleasurable to relinquish until sunrise.
The transformation seemed faster this time, or perhaps I was too stunned by what was happening to notice its duration. Within moments, Mason knelt before me, naked and slightly breathless, his eyes still glowing gold in the firelight.
“I had a whole speech planned,” he said, his voice rough from the shift. “But then the moon rose, and my wolf couldn’t wait. Apparently, he’s more romantic than I am.”
