Page 33 of Love, Clumsily
Finally, he pulled into a small clearing and cut the engine. The silence of the forest enveloped us immediately, broken only by distant bird calls and the rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze.
“This is far enough,” he said, still staring straight ahead. “No one comes out this far. We’ll have privacy.”
I nodded, looking around at the dense trees surrounding us. “What now?”
He turned to me, his expression serious. “Now I lay out the rules, and you promise to follow them. This isn’t negotiable, Julian. If we do this, we do it safely.”
“Okay,” I agreed, understanding the gravity of the situation. “What are the rules?”
“First, you stay near the truck. Don’t follow me into the trees when I shift.” He pointed to a fallen log at the edge of the clearing. “Sit there. Don’t move from that spot unless I tell you it’s safe.”
I nodded. “I can do that.”
“Second, I’ll approach you in wolf form, but slowly. Don’t make any sudden movements. Don’t run—that triggers predatory instincts, even in a controlled shift.”
“No running,” I confirmed. “Got it.”
“Third,” he continued, his voice dropping, “if at any point you feel afraid—truly afraid, not just nervous—say the word ‘stop.’ I’ll hear you, and I’ll back off immediately.”
“What if I don’t want you to stop?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood slightly.
He didn’t smile. “This isn’t about what you want, Julian. It’s about your safety. Promise me you’ll say it if you need to.”
“I promise,” I said, sobered by his intensity.
He nodded, seemingly satisfied with my agreement. “There’s one more thing you should know. When I fully embrace my wolf—when I let go completely—I’m… different. My wolf sees you as my mate, but it’s a possessive, primal understanding of that concept. It might be… intense.”
“I can handle intense,” I assured him. “I’ve been handling you for months now.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Not like this. You haven’t seen me like this.”
Before I could respond, he opened his door and got out of the truck. I followed, the cool evening air raising goosebumps on my arms. The forest seemed to close around us, ancient and watchful.
Mason led me to the fallen log he’d indicated. “Sit here. Don’t move.”
I sat, trying to project a calmness I didn’t entirely feel. Not because I was afraid of Mason, but because I understood the significance of this moment for our relationship. Everything hinged on what happened next.
Mason stood before me, his expression solemn. “I’m going to go into the trees to shift. It’s… not a pretty process when I don’t hold anything back. I don’t want you to see it this first time.”
I nodded, though part of me was curious. “Okay.”
He hesitated, then bent down to press a kiss to my forehead. “Remember your promise. If you’re afraid—truly afraid—say ‘stop.’”
“I will,” I assured him again. “Now go. Let me see you.”
With one last searching look, he turned and walked into the forest, disappearing among the trees. I sat on the log, listening to the sounds of the forest and waiting.
At first, there was nothing unusual—just the rustle of undergrowth as Mason moved away from me. Then I heard it: a low, pained growl that raised the hair on the back of my neck. It was followed by sounds I couldn’t quite identify—cracking, tearing, a muffled cry that was part human, part animal.
The shift, I realized. I was hearing Mason transform, and from the sounds of it, it was indeed not a “pretty process” when done without restraint.
The noises continued for what felt like a long time but was probably only a minute or two. Then silence fell, so complete it seemed the forest itself was holding its breath.
I waited, my heart pounding in my chest, eyes straining to see into the deepening shadows beneath the trees. The sun was setting, painting the clearing in gold and amber, but leaving the forest in gathering darkness.
A twig snapped—deliberately, I thought. Then another. Mason was coming back, but slowly, making enough noise that I wouldn’t be startled.
I sat very still, remembering his instructions not to make sudden movements. My palms were sweating, but not from fear—from anticipation, from the weight of this moment.
