Chapter 2
1956 Words
Emma
For a long moment, I was sure my brain had finally snapped and started making things up.
The thing that stepped out of the tree line was too big to be real. A wolf, but not the normal kind. This one was massive, its coat so black it swallowed my headlights. Snow dusted its back and clung to the thick fur at its neck. Its eyes caught the light and flared pale, a metallic glint that pinned me where I hung upside down, seatbelt carving into my ribs.
Every instinct I’d ever learned screamed one word: prey.
My breath hitched. I went very, very still, the way you do when a wasp lands on your arm and you don’t dare move. My heart hammered against the belt. Blood roared in my ears. So this was it. Not quietly passing out from smoke, but eaten in a ditch by a giant wolf. Fitting, really.
The wolf approached the wreck slowly, head low. Each paw sank into the snow with a soft crunch. It came close enough that I could see its breath fog in the air, hear the faint huff of it. It didn’t lunge, didn’t snarl, didn’t even bare its teeth. Instead, it sniffed along the twisted metal, circling the SUV with unnerving focus. When it reached my side, it stopped and lifted its head, meeting my gaze through the shattered window.
A shiver slid down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
As terrifying as it was, something in the way it watched me didn’t feel like hunger. It felt like… assessment. Like it was thinking.
“Go away,” I whispered, voice shredded. I wasn’t sure if I meant the wolf, the smoke, or my entire life.
The wolf huffed and stepped closer. It shoved its shoulder against the driver’s door. Metal groaned. Snow slid off the roof. The door creaked but stayed wedged. It tried again, harder, claws scrabbling on the ice. Then it shifted angle and pushed from a different spot, like it knew where the weak point was.
“Are you… trying to open it?” I choked.
Smoke thickened, burning my eyes and throat. I coughed, lungs on fire. Panic clawed higher.
“Please,” I rasped. “I don’t want to die like this.”
The wolf slammed its shoulder into the door once more. The frame had warped; the car held. It pulled back, sides heaving. Our eyes met. Something sharp flickered there—frustration, intent.
This isn’t real, I told myself. You’re concussed. Wolves don’t save people.
Then reality got worse.
The wolf stepped fully into the wash of my headlights.
And changed.
Its body shuddered, spine arching. Cracks and pops echoed in the ditch, like bones snapping into new positions. Fur rippled and shrank into skin. Legs lengthened, paws twisting into hands and feet. For a few awful seconds it was both wolf and not-wolf, all wrong angles and shifting shadows. Then it wasn’t a wolf at all.
A man stood where the animal had been.
A naked man. In the snow. In front of my ruined car.
I stared, while my brain gave up trying to compute.
He was tall—6’4”, at least—broad-shouldered, lean but solid with muscle. His chest rose and fell steadily, breath fogging in the cold. Thick, slightly wavy black hair brushed his jaw. Strong face, sharp jawline, high cheekbones. Gray eyes, the same shade as the wolf’s, locked on me with that same intense focus.
My traumatized brain chose the least important detail to fixate on: he was absolutely, unapologetically naked. My gaze flicked down, his manhood hanging heavy between his thighs, and snapped back up so hard my head throbbed.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Yep. Definitely dying.”
He moved toward the car, every step controlled and deliberate. Snow and broken glass crunched under his bare feet. He didn’t flinch. If he was a hallucination, nothing mattered. If he wasn’t, then I was upside down, trapped, in front of a man who’d been a wolf seconds before.
But when he bent to peer through the broken window, his expression wasn’t wild. He looked calm. Focused. He studied the angle of the car, the way the roof had crushed in, the seatbelt digging into me. He was assessing damage.
He hooked his fingers under the edge of what was left of the door. Long, strong hands. Muscles in his arms and shoulders tightened as he braced a foot against the frame and pulled. Metal screamed. The SUV rocked. Pain shot through my ribs, and I gasped.
He shifted his grip closer to the hinge and heaved again. With one brutal screech, the door tore free in a spray of paint and sparks.
He tossed it aside like it weighed nothing.
Cold air rushed in, dragging more smoke with it. I coughed; the room of my world tilted.
He ducked under the crumpled frame and reached for me, hands surprisingly gentle.
“I need you to stay awake a little longer,” he said, gray eyes locking onto mine. His voice was low and steady, cutting through the panic. “Can you do that?”
“I don’t… know if you’re real,” I rasped.
One corner of his mouth twitched. “Real enough to get you out.”
His fingers slid along the belt until they found the buckle. He tugged, but it held. He braced a hand near my hip and yanked, sharp and hard. The webbing snapped. I dropped a few inches; my ribs and shoulder exploded with pain. A strangled sound tore out of me. He caught me before I could hit anything. One arm under my shoulders, the other beneath my knees, lifting me clear like I weighed nothing. His skin was hot against my cold, soaked clothes.
“Got you,” he murmured.
As he backed us out of the wreck, the world blurred—trees, sky, snow, smoke all smearing together. My head lolled against his chest. His heartbeat thudded, slow and steady.
It’s a hallucination, I thought weakly. Has to be.
Black crept in from the edges of my vision. I tried to hold on. Couldn’t.
The last thing I heard was his voice, close to my ear.
“You’re going to be okay.”
***
Waking up felt like clawing out of wet cement.
Everything hurt. Not sharp pain. Just a heavy, full-body ache. I heard a steady beep. The soft hiss of air. Smelled antiseptic and something floral. Felt smooth sheets under my hands.
I forced my eyes open.
White ceiling. Recessed lights. Heart monitor to my right. IV pole to my left. Pale beige walls, not peeling hospital yellow. Private-room expensive.
“Welcome back,” a woman said, brisk but kind.
I turned my head—pain flashed down my neck—and saw a nurse by the bed. Dark hair in a bun, warm brown eyes. Beside her stood a doctor in a white coat, in her forties, tablet in hand.
“How are you feeling?” the doctor asked.
“Like I got hit by a truck,” I croaked. “Or rolled one.”
The nurse snorted softly.
They ran through the usual: my name—Emma Brooks, the date—a few days before Christmas, a light in my eyes, careful fingers along my ribs and shoulder.
“Concussion, mild,” the doctor said. “Bruised ribs and shoulder, some cuts and stitches. No fractures, no internal bleeding. You’re very lucky.”
“You lost blood and inhaled smoke,” she added. “But he—” a tilt of her head toward the corner, “—got you out quickly. If he hadn’t found you when he did…”
She didn’t finish.
I followed her gaze.
In the shadowed corner sat a man in a chair.
Dark shirt, black trousers, long legs, broad shoulders. Black hair in slightly messy waves. Strong face. Gray eyes.
My heart stumbled.
“This is the man who brought you in,” the doctor said. “You wouldn’t be here without him.”
“So you’re my good Samaritan,” I said, trying for steady.
“You could say that,” he replied.
Same low, steady voice. Same eyes.
The doctor finished with my IV. “We’ll keep you under observation. If you feel worse—pain, confusion, nausea—press the call button.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
They turned, and the man in the corner stood.
“Doctor. Nurse,” he said. He didn’t raise his voice, but it filled the space. “I’d like a few minutes alone with her.”
They didn’t argue. Didn’t hesitate.
“Of course,” the doctor said. “We’ll be right outside.”
The door clicked shut.
I stared at it. “Wow,” I said. “Either you tip outrageously, or that’s the fastest I’ve ever seen medical staff abandon a patient with a stranger.”
“It’s a private facility,” he said. “They know I’ll call if I need them.”
“Still creepy,” I muttered. “Okay. Ground rule: if you’re here to harvest my organs, at least lie to me about it.”
“I’m not here to harm you,” he said calmly. “You’re not in danger.”
He came closer, stopping beside the bed. Up close he felt even larger, like the room had shrunk around him.
“Do you remember what happened?” he asked.
I opened my mouth to say yes—then hit a wall.
“I remember the crash,” I said slowly. “Hanging upside down. Smoke. Thinking I was going to die. Then… nothing.”
“Try,” he said, softer now. “Humor me.”
Something in his tone threaded through my fog. I took a breath.
“The seatbelt,” I said. “I couldn’t get it loose. There was smoke. Glass. I was… terrified.”
“What else?” he asked.
My brain hesitated on the next part. Logic told me to shut up. The truth pushed anyway.
“There was a wolf,” I whispered. “Huge. Black. It came out of the trees and started trying to open the door.” I laughed weakly. “Which is how I knew I was dying. That’s not real life. That’s my brain shorting out.”
He didn’t smile. “What else?” he repeated.
“I passed out,” I said quickly. “That’s it.”
“Close your eyes,” he said. “Tell me what you see next.”
I should have refused. Instead, I let my eyes shut.
The wolf came back instantly. Snow on its fur. Its shoulder slamming into the door. Smoke thickening.
Bones cracking. Fur sliding away. Limbs stretching. A man in the snow. His hands on the door. Metal screaming. His arms catching me as the belt snapped. His chest under my cheek, warm and solid. His voice: You’re going to be okay.
My eyes flew open.
I stared at him—his hair, his jaw, his gray eyes.
“It was you,” I said. My voice shook. “The wolf. The man. That was you.”
My pulse hammered.
“That can’t be real,” I whispered. “Wolves don’t turn into men. Tell me it was just my brain misfiring. Because if it wasn’t, I’m losing my mind.”
For the first time, something like resignation flickered across his face.
“You’re not losing your mind,” he said quietly.
He held my gaze, steady as a heartbeat.
“Everything you remember,” he said, “is true.”
- Writer
