Jax will hunt me like prey that needs killing.
I double back on my trail, climb a tree whose branches overhang a small creek, and position myself where I can watch the forest floor. The bark is rough under my hands, and my arms already shake from the climb. I'm stronger than I was a week ago—the transformation has started, subtle but present—but I'm still mostly human. Mostly vulnerable.
The forest goes quiet. That unnatural silence that means a predator is near.
I hold my breath.
Something moves in the shadows below. Black as midnight, liquid darkness flowing through the underbrush. The panther scans the ground, the trees, every possible hiding spot.
Rafe.
He's the most dangerous of the four—silent, patient, lethal. If he finds me, there's nowhere to run. Panthers can climb trees faster than I can blink.
His head swings toward my tree. Golden eyes lock on mine.
My heart stops.
We stare at each other across twenty feet of space. I see intelligence in that gaze, calculation. He's assessing me—not just my position, but my choices. The fact that I climbed instead of running. The fact that I'm watching him instead of freezing in terror.
Slowly, deliberately, Rafe dips his head. A nod. Recognition.
Then he turns and melts back into the shadows, disappearing so completely I almost believe I imagined him.
I let out the breath I've been holding in a shaky exhale. I'm still breathing. Still alive.
I wait five minutes before moving, giving Rafe time to disappear, then drop from the tree and head deeper into the forest. My arms burn from the climb, and blisters are forming on my palms from scrambling over rocks and rough bark. But I'm alive. Still in the game.
The second encounter comes at the stream.
I'm wading through ankle-deep water, using it to mask my scent, when I feel the ground vibrate. Not the impact of footsteps—something deeper. Seismic.
I look up just as the grizzly crashes out of the tree line.
Grayson is enormous in bear form—over seven feet tall, with claws that could gut me with one swipe. He's not running. He doesn't need to. He's just walking toward me with the inevitability of a landslide.
I back up, feet slipping on wet rocks. There's nowhere to go—the stream banks are too steep to climb quickly, and he's blocking the downstream route.
He keeps coming.
My back hits a boulder. I'm trapped.
Grayson stops ten feet away. His dark gaze—surprisingly intelligent for a bear—studies me. He huffs out a breath, and I smell fish and earth and pine resin.
Then he turns his head to the left, deliberately, showing me the gap in the trees I'd missed. An escape route.
He's letting me go.
I don't question it. I bolt for the opening, scrambling over rocks and roots, my heart hammering so hard I taste copper. Behind me, I hear the bear huff again—almost like laughter—but he doesn't follow.
Two encounters. Two reprieves. How long will my luck hold?
Kian finds me when I'm climbing a ridge.
I hear him before I see him—a low, rumbling sound between a growl and a purr. The sound a predator makes when it's playing with prey.
I turn, and the tiger is there.
He's four hundred pounds of muscle and fang, orange and black stripes that should make him visible but somehow blend perfectly with the dappled forest light. Amber-gold fills his gaze, amused and calculating.
