I inspect the perimeter of Fern’s cottage, searching for any sign of movement in the shadows. The street is quiet. A few houses down, someone’s porch light flickers on. A dog barks in the distance. Nothing unusual. Nothing that should set off every alarm in my head.
But the scent doesn’t lie.
I circle the cottage once, then twice, before I check behind the bushes and along the tree line at the edge of her property. The smell grows stronger near her bedroom window and then fades as I move toward the front of the house. He stood here. Watching. Waiting.
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
I should go. That’s what she wants. That’s what I told myself when I walked out her front door thirty seconds ago, and that’s what I told myself two nights ago when I left her sleeping in the forest.
Both times, I was running from something I didn’t know how to face.
The truth is, I don’t know how to be around her without wanting to consume her. The bond between us tugs so hard, and everything inside me feels the need to claim her, protect her, and never let her out of my sight. But she doesn’t want that. She made it clear just now, sitting in her armchair with her coffee and her fury and her walls built so high I couldn’t see over them.
I hurt her. I know I did. And I don’t know how to fix it.
When I woke up beside her in that clearing two nights ago, the bond was so overwhelming I could barely breathe. She was curled against me with her hair spread across the moss and her breath warm on my chest, and every part of me wanted to wake her with my mouth on her skin. To take her again right there in the morning light. To mark her so thoroughly that no one would ever question who she belonged to.
And that need terrified me.
So I ran. I told myself I was giving her space. Giving her time to work through what happened between us without me hovering over her. But the truth is, I was a coward. I didn’t know how to face her in the daylight and see regret in her eyes.
I didn’t go far, though. I’ve been watching her from a distance ever since. Making sure no threats get close and that she’s safe, even if she doesn’t know I’m there.
She thinks I abandoned her. She thinks I took what I wanted and disappeared.
Maybe that’s exactly what I deserve her to think.
But I also can’t leave her alone with a predator circling her home.
I climb back up the porch steps and knock on her door.
Silence. Then footsteps, and the door swings open, and Fern stares at me with red-rimmed eyes and a scowl that could curdle milk.
“What now? I thought you ran away again.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Just like you did in the woods.”
The accusation lands exactly where she aimed it. I deserved that. I deserve worse.
“I need to tell you something.”
“You’ve said plenty already.”
I glance over my shoulder at the quiet street. “Can I come back in? Just for a minute.”
She squints at my face for a long moment, and I watch the war play out behind her eyes. Part of her wants to slam the door in my face, but part of her is curious despite herself.
Finally, she steps aside.
I move past her into the small living room. The coffee cups are still on the table where we left them. The armchair where she sat still bears the imprint of her body. Everything looks exactly the same as it did five minutes ago, but the air feels different now.
“Well?” Fern closes the door and leans against it with her arms still crossed. “What’s so important that you couldn’t just leave like I asked?”
“There’s a human scent outside your cabin. I caught the same smell in the woods a few days ago near our eastern border.”
Her face goes pale. “What?”
“Someone’s been watching your place. Recently. The smell is strongest near your bedroom window.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
