The sound of it—wet, violent—echoes off the trees.
They circle once.
Then clash again.
Gravel sprays. Wood creaks under the force of their bodies slamming against the porch supports. The attacking wolf fights dirty—fast lunges, quick retreats—but the larger one doesn’t give ground. It crowds the space, forces the angle, drives the fight downhill toward the tree line.
“Jesus,” I mutter.
The black wolf lands a crushing bite to the other’s neck. Not deep enough to kill, but enough to send the message.
The attacker yelps—sharp, furious—and wrenches free. For a split second it holds its ground, lips peeled back, eyes bright with something that looks almost calculating.
Then it turns and bolts for the trees.
Gone in seconds.
The clearing drops into sudden, ringing quiet.
I brace a hand on the porch post and try to get my breathing under control. My shoulder burns where the claws caught me, warm and wet beneath the torn fabric. The bear spray lies useless near the steps.
“Great,” I say hoarsely. “Just great.”
The black wolf stands between the trees, chest heaving once, twice. Even still, it looks enormous—easily the largest wolf I’ve ever seen outside of fossil reconstructions. The white streak across its chest catches the porch light, stark against the dark fur.
It turns its head slightly and looks directly at me.
There’s nothing feral in the stare.
My skin prickles.
“Okay,” I say carefully, pushing off the railing. “You’re the one who helped. Noted. Appreciated. If you could just?—”
The wolf shifts.
I’ve seen animals move fast. I’ve tranquilized mountain lions mid-charge. I’ve watched wolves pivot on a dime during pack hunts.
This is not that.
Bones ripple beneath fur. The shape collapses inward and reforms in a blur that makes my brain stall out halfway through processing it. The black coat retracts like liquid shadow, folding into skin that shouldn’t be there a second later.
I don’t breathe.
Where the wolf stood, a man straightens slowly to full height.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair falling slightly long across his forehead. Storm-gray eyes that lock onto mine with unnerving focus.
It’s him.
The man from the trail.
For one disorienting second, my brain refuses to connect the dots.
“...No,” I say quietly.
He steps forward once, placing himself squarely between me and the tree line. Close enough now that the porch light catches fully on him—and my brain, unhelpfully, chooses that exact moment to notice something else.
He’s completely naked.
