Page 50 of Who Let The Wolves Out?

And then he nods.

Just once.

Then he bolts into the trees—fluid, fast, more shadow than solid.

And I stand there in the storm-washed woods, blinking back tears I don’t even understand.

Because I just watched the boy I think I might be falling for tear himself in two.

And all I could think was—I’m not scared of you.

Not even a little.

I should stay put.

That’s what any reasonable person would do after watching a manbecomea wolf in front of them.

But I’m not reasonable.

Not when it comes to him.

I take off after him, flashlight beam bouncing off tree trunks and glinting off slick leaves. I follow the deep pawprints he leaves in the soft earth, the way they scatter through the underbrush like a trail laid just for me.

The woods are alive with stormlight and wind and the pounding of my heart.

And somewhere in all of it—Jason.

He doesn’t run in a straight line.

He weaves. Stops. Circles back.

Tracking.

He’s in full control, but there’s nothing human about the way he moves now. It’s wild. Fluid. Animal.

But not feral.

Not dangerous.

I can see the care in the way he navigates the terrain. The purpose in every low snarl, every twitch of his ears.

And watching him…

Itterrifiesme.

But it also sparks something else.

Something just as fierce.

He’s beautiful like this.

Not in the way I thought beauty worked—not clean lines and tidy features. No, Jason’s beauty now is in the way he commands the woods, the way he bends but never breaks under the weight of what he is.

The storm flashes again, and for a split second, I see his silhouette ahead of me—ears raised, fur slick with rain, head high as he scans the clearing.

I duck behind a tree, breath stuck in my throat.

Because for that moment, he doesn’t look like a boy I kissed under stars.

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