Forbidden Temptation

Chapter Five

Seraphine's POV

The jingling of the stream brought me back: the thin, clear sound of water touching the stones. Then the cold. The bone-deep chill rising from the earth. I was lying among the roots of the fallen pine, my body full of bruises and burning wounds. When I moved my arm, a sharp stab shot from my shoulder to my ribs, and my lungs protested with a painful, short sigh.

“Slowly,” my wolf rumbled. “Don’t jerk. Breathe with me.”

In, out. After a few deep breaths, the world gained clear shapes: dry leaves, moss, the ash-gray light of morning. A bird cleared its throat outside, then fell silent.

I wanted to sit up. I dug my palms into the ground, but the first attempt sent such a sharp spasm through my stomach that I had to lie back down. I rested my forehead on my forearm. The quiet presence of my wolf held me.

The second time, I tried more carefully. I turned onto my side, slowly stretched my legs, then half-propped myself up on my elbow. The weight of the wet cloak held me. I slowly crawled toward the stream—on all fours, like a hurt animal.

I knelt by the water. I plunged my hands into the stream. The cold was sobering. I drank in small sips so it wouldn't burn my throat. I washed my face; my skin first screamed from the cold, then calmed down. I washed away what was left on my thigh. I wrung out the edge of the cloak, then draped it over myself.

That's when I first felt that strange, internal movement deep in my chest. Not pain. More like a fine current, as if a thin thread was tightening inside me, slowly pulling me forward. Not strongly—just as a sign.

My head turned in that direction. The pull did not stop. It was like the tide: it rises slowly, and suddenly you can feel it. To the right of the fallen den’s mouth, down the slope.

“Do you feel it?” my wolf asked.

“Yes. Like something is calling me. Like a route.”

“Not the pack’s,” it said. “Something else. The Earth’s.”

The pull was patient. It waited. It didn’t demand.

“We can’t go there,” I whispered. “We are too weak. We have no idea what is waiting for us.”

“We can’t go back either,” my wolf replied. “We know that.”

I slowly moved along the stream. The stones were slippery, but they gave me support. A branch snapped behind me—just a squirrel. The pull kept its direction constantly, patiently.

“If you go home, you die,” my wolf said. “If you go toward what calls you, maybe you have a chance.”

That sentence stopped me for a moment. Then I carefully stood up. My ankle twisted, but my body obeyed.

I started in the marked direction. There was no path. Just that soft, inner tension in my chest that guided me back whenever I strayed. My wolf was watching both inside and around me.

The sun broke through the clouds. The pine branches were covered in golden light. At one point, the pull grew stronger, and the wind felt different against my arms. Thin, lengthwise scratches ran along the tree bark.

“It is here,” my wolf said. “The Border.”

“I can’t see it.”

“You don’t have to see it. You have to feel it.”

I instinctively stepped back. The thread in my chest trembled gently.

“What happens if we cross it?”

“It will be different,” it replied. “But you must pass through that different if you don’t want the now to end.”

I took the first step. Nothing dramatic happened, just a fine shiver ran through my hips. I moved further in. A distant, deep roar appeared behind the stream’s jingle.

“It will keep you awake,” my wolf noted. “Pay attention.”

I paid attention. The rhythm of the pull matched my breathing. Soon, I reached the edge of a clearing. Tall, black-trunked trees stood on the other side.

“We need food,” my wolf said. “And you need to bandage your belly.”

It was right. I tore a strip from the cloak lining and wrapped a tight bandage around my abdomen. The pain slowly dulled under the pressure. I took out some tea leaves from my pocket and slowly chewed them.

At the rocky section, the pull became more urgent again. I saw a spot of blood on a stone—not mine. It was fresh. A wolf’s, but not our kind.

“We are not alone,” I said.

“No,” my wolf replied. “And the pull leads there. We cannot avoid it.”

Stepping out from behind the rocks, I reached a higher ledge. A valley stretched out below me, with fog or smoke in the distance. The air gained weight—not an Alpha’s dominance, but something deeper. An earth sound.

The thread in my chest gently vibrated to this.

Near a fallen beech trunk, I saw a fresh track: a large, heavy paw. The scent was not aggressive, rather watchful.

“Let’s go,” I said. The fear hadn't vanished, but it no longer paralyzed me.

My wolf didn't speak, but I felt the slight rubbing of its fur inside. My foot stepped forward. The air became wetter, thicker.

I walked until the afternoon. I found shelter behind a low, rocky ridge. The pull inside me quieted, but the wolf was still listening.

“When we get there… what will happen?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” it answered. “But I know what is behind us, and what is now. That is enough.”

The last light of the sun tilted away. I leaned my head against the stone. All that remained beneath my abdomen was my own heartbeat and the deep, fine tremor in my chest. The grief quieted. Beside it, a new path opened: the one pulling toward the unknown.

“We heard it,” my wolf growled.

And I knew: somewhere in this wild, unfamiliar land, another rhythm was waiting for us.