Chapter Eleven
1034 Words
Lila’s POV
The full moon hangs fat and silver over the clearing like it’s waiting for us to notice.
The pack has been restless all day, snapping less, laughing more, eyes brighter than usual. By dusk the energy is electric. Everyone shifts in waves: some early, some waiting until the moon crests the ridge. I feel it too, deep in my bones. The suppressants are mostly gone now. My wolf isn’t curled small anymore; she’s pacing, eager, pressing against my skin like she wants out.
Tonight, she gets her way.
The hunt starts at moonrise.
Sarah gives the signal. A low howl ripples through the pack, and we move as one, twenty wolves pouring into the forest. I shift last, hesitating at the edge of the clearing. My bones crack and reform, fur rippling over muscle. When it’s done I’m smaller than most, auburn coat catching the moonlight, but I feel strong. Alive. For the first time in years, my wolf isn’t fighting me. She’s running toward something.
Darius finds me immediately.
He’s massive, black fur, storm-gray eyes glowing. He doesn’t circle or sniff. He just falls in beside me, shoulder brushing mine, a low rumble in his chest that vibrates through my ribs. Guiding. Protecting. Claiming space around me so no one else gets too close.
We run.
The forest blurs. Pine needles kick up under paws, wind tears past my ears. The pack spreads out, hunters fanning wide, trackers pushing ahead. Jace and Cole flank the lead, silver and dark coats flashing. Kade is somewhere up front, white fur almost luminous under the moon. Ronan shadows the edges, unseen but felt.
I lose myself in it.
The rhythm of paws. The scent of deer ahead, warm blood, fear-sweat, grass crushed under hooves. My wolf doesn’t think; she hunts. We close in on a young buck separated from the herd. It bolts. We chase. Heart pounding, lungs burning, joy so sharp it hurts.
Darius stays glued to my side. When the buck cuts left, he nudges me right, steering me into position. When a branch snaps too close, he shoulders me aside without breaking stride. Protective. Possessive. Every brush of fur against fur sends sparks down my spine.
We take the kill together.
I lunge for the throat at the same moment he does. Our jaws close almost in sync. Hot blood floods my mouth. The buck goes down hard. The pack circles, howling triumph. I lift my head, muzzle red, and meet Darius’s eyes. His tongue swipes once across my cheek, quick, intimate, tasting the kill on my fur.
Something inside me cracks wide open.
Back at the clearing, we shift human again. Naked, laughing, covered in dirt and blood. Someone tosses me a blanket; I wrap it around myself and drop onto a log near the roaring bonfire. The feast is already laid out, roasted venison, bread, ale, wild berries. Music starts, someone with a battered guitar, drums made from hollow logs. The pack dances, eats, drinks, sings off-key.
Darius sits beside me.
Close.
His thigh presses against mine. Heat pours off him like a furnace. He doesn’t ask permission, just reaches over, tears a chunk of meat from the haunch in front of us, and holds it to my lips.
“Eat,” he says. Voice rough from the shift.
I take it from his fingers with my teeth. His thumb lingers on my lower lip a second too long. My pulse jumps.
He doesn’t move away.
Other males notice.
A younger wolf, tall, sandy-haired, cocky grin, starts toward us with two mugs of ale. He gets three steps before Darius’s head turns. Slow. Deliberate. The growl is low, barely audible over the fire, but it carries. The kid freezes. Then backs off without a word.
Darius turns back to me like nothing happened.
“You’re pack now,” he says quietly. “Pack protects its own.”
His hand settles on my shoulder, broad palm, warm through the blanket. Fingers curl slightly, possessive without being rough. I should shrug it off. I don’t.
“You don’t have to warn them away,” I murmur.
“I do.” His thumb strokes once along my collarbone. “You’re not theirs to look at.”
The words land low in my belly. Heat pools there, slow and insistent. I shift on the log; his thigh presses harder against mine.
His other hand finds my hair. He gathers a strand, tucks it behind my ear. Fingers linger at the nape of my neck, light, teasing. Every touch is deliberate. Controlled. But I feel the tremor in them. The restraint.
“You ran with us tonight,” he says. Voice drops lower. “You took the kill. You didn’t hesitate.”
“I felt… free.”
His fingers tighten in my hair. Not pulling. Just holding. “You are.”
Someone tosses another log on the fire. Sparks explode upward. The pack howls again—joyful, primal. I feel it echo in my chest.
Darius leans in. His breath brushes my temple.
“No one touches what’s mine,” he murmurs. “Not while I’m breathing.”
The blanket slips a little. His hand slides down my arm, slow, burning trail, until his fingers lace through mine. He squeezes once. Hard. Possessive.
I don’t pull away.
I can’t.
The contact is addictive. Skin to skin. Heat to heat. Every brush of his thumb across my knuckles sends another wave through me. My wolf whines low, wanting closer, wanting more. I clench my thighs together under the blanket.
He notices.
His eyes darken. “You feel it too.”
It’s not a question.
I swallow. “Yes.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. He doesn’t kiss me. Doesn’t push. Just sits there, holding my hand like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
Around us the pack dances. Laughs. Howls at the moon.
But right here, in this pocket of firelight, it’s just us.
His thumb strokes my wrist once, slow circle over my pulse point.
“You’re safe,” he says again. Like a promise. Like a claim.
I believe him.
And that terrifies me almost as much as it thrills me.
- Writer
