Page 60 of To Carve A Wolf

Through snow and shadow and wind that cut like knives, I followed her. I didn’t need a trail. Her scent was stronger now—richer, sharper. Not masked by rune magic or the stink of fear. It curled through the forest like smoke, and my wolf knew. He pulled at my insides like a tether, snarling, hungry, ready to run.

By nightfall, I found the cave.

I dismounted, silent.

Snow crunched beneath my boots as I stepped closer. She was curled up by the fire, small and shaking, her cloak thrown half off, skin slick with sweat. Her hair clung to her face, lips pale and parted. Her scent hit me like a hammer—unfiltered, wild. Her wolf was near the surface, I could feel it, breathing in rhythm with mine.

My steps were slow. Deliberate. Controlled.

But inside, everything in me was unraveling.

She was going to run to the witch. Let her carve her skin again. Let her silence the very part of her that had finally clawed its way to life.

“You were running,” I said, voice low. “To the witch. So shecould carve your fucking skin again.”

Her head snapped up.

She grabbed a rock—pathetic little thing—and threw it at me with trembling fingers. It landed at my feet with a dull thud.

I stared down at it. Then looked at her.

“Really?” I asked, voice cold. “That’s all you’ve got?”

She grabbed another rock—larger this time—and hurled it at my head with all the fire she could summon. I caught it mid-air with one hand. The force barely stung. My fingers closed around it, and I crushed it against the cave wall. Stone split, shards falling at my feet.

Her eyes widened.

She tried to mask it, but the firelight betrayed her. I saw the sweat glistening on her brow, the trembling in her shoulders, the too-shallow breaths. Her body was turning against her, and she knew it.

“Don’t you fucking come near me,” she rasped, voice cracking like ice.

“Or what?”

I stepped forward.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. She was already burning up, and I could smell it now—raw and sweet, thick in the back of my throat. Not the polished scent of a broken omega. No. This was wild, instinctual, real. Her wolf was close, prowling just under the skin, dragging her into the very state she’d spent her whole life trying to erase.

“You tried to kill her,” I said, my voice low but shaking with anger. “Tried to bind her in chains, bury her in pain. And now look—she came out to play.”

I crouched in front of her and she flinched.

“Guess what,stray,” I growled. “My wolf wants to play with her.”

Her breath hitched.

I grabbed her chin—not hard, just enough to make her look at me. Her eyes met mine, wide and furious, and still burning with that same defiance I’d been choking on since the day I dragged her out of that village.

“You can hate me all you want,” I whispered, my mouth close to hers. “Curse me. Fight me. But by the time this night is over, you’ll be on all fours in front of me.”

She spat in my face.

I wiped the spit from my cheek with the back of my hand, slow and deliberate. My jaw clenched. I let the silence stretch, heavy with the crackling of the dying fire and her shallow, angry breaths.

She was shaking. And still—still—she looked at me like she’d rather die than bend.

Good.

I leaned in, voice low, curling around her like smoke. “You think spitting in my face makes you strong?” I said. “You think I’ll let that slide, after everything? After the way you played with the bond. After you tried to run back to that wich.”

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