“Does it feel good?” I asked, surprising myself.
He looked at me, eyes gone gold for a second. “Better than anything. But the more I do it, the harder it is to come back.”
I considered this, then said, “What if I asked you to do it now?”
He laughed, sharp and bright. “Why?”
“Because I’m practical. And we’re starving. If you can catch food, do it. I don’t care what it looks like.”
He stared, not quite believing. “You want me to change. Here?”
I shrugged again. “Do what you have to.”
He was silent for a long moment, then stood, slow and deliberate. He moved to the center of the room, as if needing space.
“I haven’t tried it with someone watching,” he said. “You sure you’re up for this?”
I nodded, feeling the pulse in my throat.
He stripped off the shirt, tossing it aside. The tattoos on his chest and arms seemed to glow in the firelight, the lines rippling as he rolled his shoulders. He braced himself, fingers splayed against the table, and took a breath that sounded like it might break him in half.
Then he changed.
It was not like in the stories. There was no neat shimmer, no flash of magic. It was ugly, and beautiful, and real. The bones moved first, reshaping, stretching. His hands curled into claws, the nails thickening, darkening. The hair along his arms and spine sprouted, spreading in a rush of black and silver. His face lengthened, the jaw widening, teeth growing long and sharp. He groaned, a noise so deep I felt it in my own chest.
When it was over, he dropped to all fours, shaking. The wolf was massive, bigger than any I’d seen, shoulder high, eyes burning gold, the scar on his cheek still visible beneath the fur. He panted, steam rising from his body, then looked up at me.
I met his gaze, heart hammering. “Moab?” I whispered.
He nodded, the gesture unmistakably human.
I smiled, relieved. “Bring something back,” I said.
He padded to the door, pawed it open, and slipped into the night.
I sat by the fire, waiting. I didn’t know how long he’d be, or if he’d come back at all. The wind outside rattled the walls, and for a moment I thought I heard the howls of a whole pack, not just one.
Time blurred. I dozed, dreaming of running through the woods, the ground rushing beneath me, the air thick with the scent of blood and pine. I woke to the sound of claws on the threshold.
He had returned. In his jaws, a rabbit, limp but fresh. He dropped it at my feet, then sat back on his haunches, watching me.
“Thank you,” I said, voice shaking a little.
I skinned the rabbit with a knife he’d left for me, hands steady despite the oddness of the scene. I roasted the meat over the fire, the smell rich and wild. He watched every movement, ears twitching, tail sweeping the floor.
I ate first, tearing strips of meat and chewing them slowly, savoring the taste. When I was done, I set the rest by his paws. He devoured it in two bites, licking the blood from the floorboards after.
We sat in silence, two animals, sated and unsure of what came next.
After a time, he stretched out on the furs, head resting on his crossed paws. I watched him, the rise and fall of his breath, the way the firelight caught in his fur.
I moved closer, drawn by something I could not name. I knelt beside him, stroked his head, fingers threading through the thick, coarse hair. He shivered, not from cold, but from the touch.
I lay back on the furs, the heat of the fire against my bare skin, and watched as he circled me, slow and deliberate. He sniffed at my neck, my wrists, my ankles. When he reached my hip, he paused, breath warm against my thigh.
A flush spread through me, equal parts fear and want. I let him nudge me, let him taste the sweat at my pulse. I was not afraid. I was more alive than I had ever been.
He moved over me, careful and heavy. His tongue, rough and hot, traced the lines of my body. When he pressed between my legs, I gasped, not in pain but surprise. He was gentle, impossibly so, his mouth exploring every inch, every hollow, every secret place.
