Page 10 of Stalked

A rustle in the trees. A shift in the wind.

The werewolves were close.

Someone sucked in a sharp breath beside him. Toby didn’t turn. He could feel them watching from the darkness. His pulse slammed against his ribs, every instinct screaming at him to run now—but the hunt hadn’t begun. Not yet.

A figure stepped forward from the trees, broad-shouldered and impossibly still. His voice was calm, impassive. “You know the rules. Once you enter the woods, you run. If you’re caught, you belong to the wolf who catches you. At dawn, the contract is fulfilled. No outside interference. No leaving the woods before sunrise. No second chances.”

Toby swallowed hard. He thought of bills and eviction notices, of hunger and cold. He thought of claws and teeth, of losing.

Of what it would mean to be caught.

That part had been harder to wrap his head around than the money. The werewolves weren’t hunting for sport. They wanted to unleash their primal instincts—and there were humans willing to let them.

He had never belonged to anyone. Never been wanted in a way that wasn’t transactional. Foster homes, food banks, distant relatives who took him in just long enough to collect a check—everyone in his life wanted him to either make himself useful, or get out of the way.

Love had been a luxury, a thing for people with fewer scars, fewer sharp edges. He didn’t know what it would mean to be desired. To be wanted. To be caught.

The idea twisted something deep in his gut, fear tangled with something dangerously close to hope.

The only werewolves that Toby knew were the ones at the Academy. Caleb and his pack of rich-boy assholes, strutting through campus like they owned it. Smug. Entitled. Always looking for an excuse to remind everyone they were stronger, faster, better. They’d shove past him in the halls, sneering about his height, his build, the way he dressed. They’d never needed a real reason. Toby was human. That was enough.

Toby had assumed all werewolves were the same. Drunk on their own power. Self-important jerks who thought respect was something they could take, not earn.

But… then he’d met Mason.

Heat crept up Toby’s neck at the memory. Those eyes. Green, sharp, unwavering. The way Mason had looked at him—not through him, not like he was something small, something lesser, but like he saw him.

The handshake. Firm, warm, steady. Electricity had snapped through Toby’s body the second their hands met, so strong it had almost made him draw back. He didn't like losing control, being distracted. In a world of werewolves, he had to stay sharp.

But Mason had just stood there, calm, controlled, commanding. He didn’t need to posture. Didn’t need to prove a damn thing. The entire room had bent around his presence without him lifting a finger.

So different from Caleb. So different from anyone.

Toby exhaled slowly, flexing his fingers before brushing them over his palm—the same spot where Mason’s skin had met his. The heat had lingered there all day, along with the scent.

Cedar. Leather. Raw power. Toby hadn’t been able to shake it since.

"Get a grip," he muttered to himself. He shoved his hand into his pocket, forcing his thoughts back to reality.

Mason Blackwood was dangerous—just another wolf in designer clothing. Alpha or not, he was cut from the same cloth as the rest of his kind. Arrogant. Entitled. Viewing humans as lesser creatures to be tolerated at best, hunted at worst. The fact that he wore his power with quiet authority instead of Caleb's juvenile aggression didn't make him any less of a threat.

If anything, it made him more dangerous.

Toby shifted his weight, trying to ignore the way his heart raced when he remembered those dark eyes assessing him. Calculating. Seeing too much.

But then the official raised his hand. Toby stopped thinking, all memories of that intense encounter vanishing in the night's cold moonlight.

The whistle blew.

Chapter five

Toby

Theforestexplodedintomotion.

Toby ran. The cold air burned in his lungs, his sneakers barely finding purchase on the damp earth as branches lashed at his arms. The others scattered around him, breaking off in different directions, but he couldn’t focus on them—only on the pounding of his own heartbeat and the knowledge that something was chasing him.

Not to kill. Not to maim.

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