Page 28 of Moonlit Desires

"Failure?"

"He believes he failed your mother," Thorne says simply. "And now he fears he will fail you too."

Before Lyra can question him further, a snarling sound echoes through the trees ahead—wet, guttural, and unmistakably hungry.

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The creature bursts from between silver trunks like a nightmare given flesh—all leathery hide and jagged teeth, something caught between wolf and boar yet belonging to neither species. Its eyes gleam red in the dim light, pupils vertical slits that fix on Lyra with predatory intent. It launches itself toward her, powerful haunches propelling its massive form through the air, jaws gaping to reveal a double row of serrated teeth designed for tearing flesh from bone.

Lyra has no time to scream, no time to run. Her body freezes in primal terror, muscles locking as death hurtles toward her.

Then Thorne is between them, his body already changing. The transformation happens too quickly for Lyra's eye to track—one moment he stands as a man, the next his form blurs, flesh and bone rearranging themselves with sickening cracks and fluid motion. His spine elongates, shoulders broaden, limbs stretch and reshape as golden fur erupts across his skin like fire catching dry tinder. His face—that briefly handsome, troubled face—elongates into a muzzle filled with teeth as sharp and numerous as the attacking beast's.

The collision is violent and immediate. Thorne meets the creature in midair, his partially transformed body absorbing theimpact with a growl that shakes the very ground beneath Lyra's feet. They tumble together in a tangle of fur, leathery hide, teeth, and claws—a chaos of predatory motion that tears gouges in the forest floor and snaps underbrush like kindling.

Thorne fights with primal grace, his movements neither fully wolf nor fully man but something more terrifying than either. His jaws snap at the creature's throat while clawed hands—hands still recognizable as once human—rake across its armored hide, seeking vulnerabilities between the plated sections. His golden eyes burn with ferocious intelligence, tactical awareness guiding the beast's raw power.

The creature is no match for Thorne's fury but compensates with vicious cunning. It feints, then twists unexpectedly, its razored tusks slashing toward Thorne's exposed flank. He shifts just enough to avoid disembowelment, but the attack opens him to the creature's claws. They tear into his side, carving furrows through fur and flesh alike. Silver-tinged blood spatters the moss, glowing faintly where it lands.

Thorne doesn't cry out. Instead, his lips pull back in a snarl that exposes teeth designed for rendering flesh. He lunges forward, jaws closing on the junction where the creature's neck meets shoulder. The crack of breaking bone echoes through the forest, followed by a high, keening wail unlike any sound nature intended.

The creature thrashes, desperate now, its red eyes wide with an emotion Lyra recognizes even in its inhuman face—fear. Thorne's grip doesn't falter. He shakes his massive head once, violently, then releases the creature with a threatening growl that promises worse should it choose to continue the fight.

It doesn't. The beast scrambles away, leaving a trail of dark ichor as it disappears between the silver trees, its unnatural wail fading into the depths of the forest.

Thorne remains standing for three heartbeats, chest heaving, golden fur matted with blood both his and not his. Then his legs buckle. He collapses to the forest floor, body already beginning to shift back—bones retracting, fur receding, the beast melting away to reveal the man beneath. The transition appears agonizing, his features contorting with each change, muscles spasming beneath skin that can't decide what form to take.

When it's done, he lies half-transformed—mostly man, but with patches of golden fur still covering portions of his body, claws retreating to fingernails, fangs shortening to merely pointed canines. His golden eyes remain entirely wolf, watching Lyra with a mixture of pain and wary anticipation.

Blood seeps steadily from the wound in his side, staining the torn remains of his shirt. The gashes are deep, four parallel furrows that expose muscle and hint at the white of ribs beneath. Each labored breath he takes sends a fresh rivulet of silver-tinged blood down his flank to pool on the forest floor.

Lyra kneels beside him, her initial shock giving way to concern. Her hands hover over the wound, uncertain where to begin. "You're hurt," she says, the obvious statement all her stunned mind can produce.

Thorne's laugh is more grimace than humor. "Astute observation, princess."

Her hesitation lasts only a moment before determination takes its place. She tears at the hem of her own shirt, ripping a long strip of fabric free. It's hardly sterile, but it's better than nothing. "Hold still," she commands, voice steadier than her hands as she begins to bind the wound.

Thorne winces as she presses the makeshift bandage against the gashes, but makes no sound of protest. His eyes never leave her face, studying her with the intense focus of a predator—or perhaps, she realizes, with the wariness of someone who expects rejection.

"Why?" he asks as she works, his voice rough with pain. "Why help me? You've seen what I am."

Lyra tears another strip from her shirt, exposing a sliver of midriff to the cool forest air. "I've seen what you are," she agrees, tying the new bandage over the first to create more pressure. "You're my guardian. You protected me."

"That's not what I mean." His hand catches her wrist, claws not fully retracted, though his grip remains careful. "You saw the beast. The monster. Why aren't you afraid?"

She meets his gaze without flinching, those golden eyes so unlike any human's. "Because it's not a monster that's bleeding on the forest floor right now. It's not a beast that's looking at me with fear of rejection." Her free hand moves to cover his where it grips her wrist. "It's just you, Thorne. All of you."

Something shifts in his expression—surprise, then a vulnerable hope so raw it makes her chest ache. "Most can't see past the fur and fangs," he says quietly. "Even at Court, they tolerate my presence only because Kael vouches for me."

"Then they're fools," Lyra says with unexpected heat. "What I just saw wasn't mindless savagery. You knew exactly what you were doing. You controlled the beast."

"Not always," he admits, releasing her wrist as another spasm of pain crosses his features. "Sometimes... sometimes it controls me."

Lyra finishes binding the wound as best she can, the white fabric already blooming with silver-tinged stains. "Can you stand? We need to get you back to the Court."

Thorne nods, though his face is pale beneath the remaining patches of fur. With her help, he struggles to his feet, swaying slightly before finding his balance. He's heavier than she expected, solid muscle even in his partially human form. When his arm slips around her shoulders for support, she feelsthe unnatural heat of him through her thin shirt, his body temperature several degrees warmer than any human's.

"Lean on me," she instructs, fitting herself against his uninjured side.

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