Page 6 of The Alpha's Fallen Spell
The wolf doesn’t hesitate. He strides forward, effortless and certain, and before the man can even scream, his throat is in the gray wolf’s jaws. There’s a wet crunch, a gurgle, and then nothing.
The clearing falls still.
I watch in silence, breath caught between pride and something colder. The wolf lets the body drop and turns back to me. His mouth, dark and dripping, is calm. Composed.
This isn’t his first kill.
He begins to circle me. Slowly. Deliberately.
I rise slightly onto all fours, a snarl curling through my chest. My muscles are tight again, rigid. Defensive. I bare my teeth, warning him back.
He doesn’t stop.
I lunge.
It’s instinct—mine, not the creature’s. I’m still caught somewhere between fear and rage, and I snap at him before I know what I’m doing.
But he’s faster.
He dodges, shoves me sideways, and slams his full weight on top of me. My body crashes to the ground. One massive pawpresses into my shoulder. His muzzle is beside my ear, and he growls. It’s not loud, but deep. Resounding.
A command I feel in my bones.
I thrash. Snarl. Claw at the ground.
He doesn’t budge.
And then, something shifts.
It’s not physical. It’s in the way my wolf stills beneath him—not out of fear, but recognition. There’s something in this beast—this male wolf—that my instincts know. Something ancient. Powerful. Unyielding.
Something safe.
But Fiona is—I am—still wary. Still bristling. Still caged in memory.
He leans closer, nose against my throat, and growls again—louder this time. Demanding. Dominant.
Suddenly, the pull begins.
It starts at my core, deep and painful, like I’m being unraveled from the inside. My spine curls, cracks. My breath stutters. My limbs spasm and twist.
He’s forcing me to shift back. Not with violence, though. With presence.
I try to resist. I fail. The change overtakes me.
The fur recedes. Bones snap back into place. Claws become fingers. My breath comes in gasps. The earth burns against my bare, bruised skin. I lie on the ground, covered in blood—mine, theirs. Cold. Exposed.
Human again.
The gray wolf stands over me, watching. Silent. Still.
I stare up at him through tangled hair and tear-streaked dirt, chest rising and falling, rage and fear warring in every corner of my broken mind.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t need to. Because whatever he is—whoever he is—I know this much: he’s not here to hurt me.
But he’s not going to let me run, either.
I don’t know how long I lie there—naked, blood-soaked, and trembling—pressed into the forest floor like I could disappear into it if I stay still enough, the ache in my limbs a dull echo of the frenzy that just burned through me. The night air brushes over my skin, chilled and damp, but none of it matters. All I can feel is his presence. Heavy. Still. Unmoving.
