Chapter 9: Chapter 8 - Bite

Brannok tells himself it is only prudence.

That it is dangerous for a human girl to roam a forest guarded by Fenrathi teeth and claws, that one day she might blunder into him in wolf-shape or worse, and blood would be spilled where it need not be. It would be foolish to let her stumble blind. She has earned more than that—earned the courtesy of knowing who else prowled the shadows of her chosen kingdom.

But beneath the sensible words he feeds himself lies something rawer, quieter, harder to deny. He likes her. Likes her fire, her voice ringing out when an arrow finds its mark, her unshaken poise when storms bend the boughs above her camp. She has grown into the forest as though it were stitched into her bones, and he cannot pretend he does not take pride in her victories, as though they were in some part his own.

So he tells himself this choice—this step toward revealing who he is—is not desire, not fondness, not the pull of something he cannot name. It is duty. Safety. A simple necessity to prevent a clash of claws and steel where there need be none. If they are to meet, let it be as hunter and hunter, not predator and prey.

And with that truth to himself held carefully in his mind, he decides: she has earned the right to know him.

She was crouched over her kill when he found her. A small hare, neat and swift in the taking, its pelt already half-loosened beneath her steady hands. It was no grand stag, no victory fit for boasting, but it was clean, efficient, hers. He watched her fingers work, deft and unhurried, the soft murmur of blade on sinew a rhythm all its own.

Now. Now is the time.

He drew in a slow breath and began to stir the underbrush, breaking twigs with careful weight, letting a stone clatter down the slope. Noises meant to prickle her awareness, to tug her gaze toward the treeline. He wanted her looking when he stepped into the open—wanted her full attention, her startled gasp, the proof of his presence carved in her face.

And because he did not wish her to run screaming from a wolf, he chose the safer guise: flesh and bone, towering and broad, his human form. Let her see a man first, not a beast. Let her be eased into what prowled these woods.

But she did not startle. She did not stiffen or glance around wide-eyed as prey would. Her hands kept moving, sure and unbothered, as if the snapping twigs and rustle of brush were no more threatening than a squirrel’s chatter.

A frown ghosted his lips. He stepped closer, heavier this time, letting his shadow slide long over the clearing’s edge. Still nothing. No cry. No gasp. Not even the flick of an eye.

Her blade bit neatly through fur, and she breathed out—calm, steady, unshaken—as though he were no more than another tree at her back.

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His pride in her wrinkled, just a touch. She should have flinched, should have gasped or glanced about with wide eyes. Any human would have. Any female would have.

Had she not heard him? Impossible—he had been deliberate, generous with sound. So he shifted his weight and broke a branch with sharper force, the crack echoing like bone. Still nothing.

He blinked, uncertain. Tried again. A deliberate scuff of heel against stone, a grunt low in his chest. No response.

Her knife kept its rhythm, clean, steady strokes parting fur from flesh.

A lip curled, sharp with contempt that cut even as it tried to shield bruised pride. Perhaps she was not as clever as he had thought. Perhaps his careful warding—his unseen snarls that drove predators wide of her path, his shadowed hunts that cleared the woods of rivals—had made her soft, dulled her sense for danger. She was no hunter after all. She was still prey, oblivious and blind.

He bared his teeth and made a more obvious noise this time—deliberate, clumsy, a sound no creature in its right mind could mistake for anything but a presence large and near.

Still nothing.

His chest tightened, heat sliding beneath his skin. The insult of it gnawed at him, each breath rougher than the last. She ignored him. Ignored him. His patience, his pride, his decision to show himself—met with silence, as though he were air.

Now he was angry.

He tossed a rock, hard enough that its clattering echoed down through the brush, bouncing from root to stone like the warning knock of a predator’s step. Nothing. She didn’t even lift her head.

Heat seared his chest. She was mocking him, surely. Or blind. Or both. His hands curled.

Another stone flew from his grip, louder this time, sharp against the silence. Still she bent over her kill, unhurried, unconcerned.

The fury rose swift and choking. He had a mind to rip forward in full war-shape, to drown her in the sheer terror of what stalked her, to make her understand how utterly stupid she was—ignoring every sign, every sound of danger circling close. He wanted to hear her scream. To see the fear blanch her face pale, to prove she was no hunter, only prey dressed in stolen poise.

He kicked a log, sent it tumbling, the crack of it splitting the quiet like thunder. Still nothing.

Enough.

He would end this. She would leave these woods, today, now. He had been a fool to think her different, better than the others. A fool to watch her and believe her worthy of his regard. She was human—stupid, blind, fragile. Too human.

And he was done.

He came crashing through the underbrush, the fury of his steps tearing branches, his teeth bared in a snarl. He let his human shape warp, the Fenrathi in him rising sharp in the cut of his jaw, the slant of his eyes, the feral weight in his stride. Terrible, unmistakable. He cleared the last tree and—

Pain flared white at the side of his head.

His body jerked, staggered, and he roared. An arrow had clipped the edge of his ear, pinning a ragged curl of it to the tree beside him.

She had shot him.