Page 11 of The Hunt
Claws. Teeth. Slick.
I was created to fit my seven-foot wolf like a glove.
Tight. Unbreakable. Strong.
He is my ruin. I am his fate.
Pausing beside a fallen birch, my gloved fingers brush across the rough bark as I crouch. My small claws extend then, pushing through the tips, slicing the fabric with ease as the air suddenly thickens. A shiver runs down my spine—half magic, half instinct—as I carve a circle into the tree.
“Mother Gaia, wake his beast,” I whisper, pulling a small sash from the pocket of my dress. It’s a mixture of salt and ash, and I sprinkle a few pinches over the marking. “Let the wolf inside tear free and hunt me with holy hunger.”
The words are a prayer and command—a plea to unleash the monster I love. The fallen snow around the circle moves, subtle light pulsing faintly beneath the surface as energy builds. I feel the answer slice through our bond.
The spell doesn’t just stir him; it stirs the bond between us—stretching, tightening, and burning. His howl in the distance is raw and powerful. A calling to his female, and my lips curve in satisfaction.
The spell hums again, and my vision ripples. Flashes of a vision flood my mind.
Xadiel’s silhouette is framed by shadow and the aurora’s light, a growl rumbling in his chest.
His breath on my throat.
The snap of bone and then pleasure tangle so tightly it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.
And beneath it all—hunger. Thick and consuming. His rut.
My pulse stutters, magic burning through me as the image sharpens. His eyes are pitch black with just a golden ring around the iris, the beast inside clawing to the surface. It’s not a warning, but a promise.
Magic and impulse collide.
The sight hits like lightning, fast and turbulent, then it vanishes, leaving behind a delicious ache in its wake. It’s intoxicating, alive, and humming with an invitation to welcome and accept our fate.
I smile. “Tonight, he hunts for me.”
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a parchment I’d prepared earlier. Old and wrinkled, the paper reminds me of the ones my parents used over a century ago, while the ink carries a woodsy and mint note—same as him.
My pulse quickens as the scent settles over me, my adrenaline kicking in as I begin to write. The words flow in a rhythm older than my ancestors.
To my king of fangs and moonlight,
If you wish to claim your witch, seek the hollow where the wind hums low and history remembers your name. There I’ll wait for you…
Desire on my lips and promise of sin beneath my cloak.
Find me before dawn,
Little Moon
The words shimmer faintly, the tethers of my magic signing my oath while my now bloodied thumb seals it. Crimson magic binds my promise, the bite mark on my thumb barely visible as I place the note down for him to find.
But I’m not done.
I’m not making this easy for him.
I whisper an older spell, one passed down from generation to generation by the oracles of my coven. It’s a mirage. A veil of illusion. The snow around me glows then stills, and the scent I’ll leave behind remains thick in the air—my warmth and heartbeat stitched into the parchment.
To my male, it will feel as though I’m here. Waiting. Watching.
“I saw this, my love.” Tapping the paper a final time, I stand with a smile. “The moment you find this note, breathe me in…the hunt begins.”
