The red wolf circles wide, looking for an opening. Smarter than his partner. I keep them both in my sightline, backing towards the treeline so neither can get behind me.
That scent drifts through the clearing again.Honey and warmth and something that makes my wolf whine.
I lose focus for half a second. Half a bloody second. That’s all it takes.
The scarred wolf hits me from the left while my head is turned. His claws rake across my ribs, three parallel lines of pain that punch the air from my lungs. I feel skin part, muscle tear, the wet heat of blood soaking into my fur. The force sends me staggering sideways, and the red wolf is on me before I can recover, teeth snapping at my hindquarters.
Pain brings me back. The scent vanishes from my awareness, replaced by adrenaline and fury and the narrow, focused clarity that takes over when the only thing that matters is not dying. I twist, catch the red wolf’s foreleg in my jaws, and bite down until I hear bone grate. He tears free and limps backwards, blood dripping from the wound.
The scarred wolf comes again. I meet him head-on this time. No finesse. Just weight and teeth and the savage determination of a wolf defending his territory. We go down together in a tangle of claws, and I take more hits across my shoulder and flank, but I give worse than I get. My jaws find the thick muscle of his neck, and I clamp down, bearing him to the ground with my full weight.
He struggles. I hold. My blood drips onto his furand the earth beneath us, and I can feel my body already working to close the wounds even as I fight. The scarred wolf goes still, then limp, submitting with a low whine that vibrates against my teeth.
I release him, and he runs. The red wolf is already gone, a trail of blood marking his retreat towards the road.
I stand alone in the clearing, sides heaving, and take stock. The gashes across my ribs are deep enough that I can feel cold air where it shouldn’t reach, and my left shoulder is stiffening where a secondary strike caught me. Blood runs freely down my flank and patters onto the dead leaves beneath me.
I need to get back to the village. Need to shift, find somewhere to clean up, let my body do what it does. But the clearing tilts gently around me, and my legs aren’t as steady as they should be.
That scent is back. Closer now, or maybe I’m imagining it. No. Not imagined.Mate.
My wolf latches onto it with desperate, violent need. That’s not a word my wolf has ever used before.
I make it to the fallen oak, and my legs decide they’re finished. I go down hard on my side, the impact sending a fresh wave of agony through my ribs. I should shift. I should drag myself somewhere less exposed. I should do a lot of things, but my body has made its decision, and it doesn’t involve any of them.
The last thing I’m aware of, before the grey closes in completely, is that scent growing stronger. As if whatever carries it is moving towards me through the trees.
My wolf turns towards it the way a compass finds north.
Chapter 5
The Wounded Wolf
Phoebe
My phone ringsat half past six, dragging me from the first proper sleep I’ve had in weeks. I fumble for it in the grey pre-dawn light, noting the unfamiliar local number.
“Mistwood Veterinary Surgery,” I mumble, trying to sound more professional than I feel.
“Dr Clarke? This is Ben Whitmore. I’m sorry to call so early, but I’ve found something in the woods. An injured animal. It’s... well, it’s bad.”
I sit up, instantly alert. “What kind of animal?”
“I’m not sure. It’s large, and there’s a lot of blood. I didn’t want to get too close, but I don’t think it’s going to last much longer.”
I’m already reaching for clothes. “Where are you?”
“Up on the fell, about two miles past the village on the old logging road. There’s a footpath marked with a wooden sign. You can’t miss it. I’ll wait for you at the trailhead.”
I hang up and pull on yesterday’s jeans and the thickest jumper I can find, because the weather up here has a bite to it that London never prepared me for. My emergency kit is already packed by the front door. I grab it, shove my feet into wellies, and pause just long enough to fill a travel mug with instant coffee from a kettle that doesn’t boil all the way. Lukewarm and bitter, but I drink it anyway, one hand on the steering wheel as I navigate the narrow lane out of the village.
The old logging road is exactly where Ben described it, rutted and overgrown but passable. I park where the tarmac gives out and find him waiting by a wooden signpost, hands stuffed in his waxed jacket, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
“Thank you for coming,” he says. The relief on his face tells me he half expected me not to.
I sling my kit over one shoulder and follow him along a narrow forest path. He’s a wiry man in his fifties with the weathered look of someone who spends most of his time outdoors, and he sets a pace that has me slightly breathless.
“I walk this route most mornings,” he explains overhis shoulder. “Check the rabbit snares, look for storm damage. Never seen anything like this.”
