His Human Mate

4.

Fear is a strange thing.

It doesn’t always shout. Sometimes it creeps in like fog, quiet and cold, settling deep into your bones until you’re no longer sure if the chill is outside or inside you.

That’s how it felt as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deep bruised purples and ash-blues. The warmth of the cottage walls, the safety of the fire, the quiet strength of Jack’s presence—it all began to feel too good. Too unreal. And that’s when fear began to whisper the loudest.

I couldn’t stay here.

I shouldn’t stay here.

Because if my father ever found me… if he knew where I was… he wouldn’t just come for me.

He’d burn this whole place to the ground to take me back.

And Jack—he didn’t deserve to be caught in the middle of that kind of nightmare.

The thought made me sick to my stomach. My father had always been good at finding things he wanted. Good at buying silence. Good at making people disappear. If Jack got in the way, I didn’t doubt for a second he’d be “handled” like just another problem to erase.

I couldn’t let that happen.

The decision came like a knife. Quick. Painful. Irrevocable.

I would leave tonight.

I wouldn’t say goodbye.

Even now, I didn’t fully understand Jack—why he’d helped me, why he let me stay even with his cold, careful rules. But he didn’t deserve what would come if my father found me here. And I couldn’t carry that guilt.

Evening rolled in slow and heavy, like storm clouds sitting just above the roof.

Every second felt like a countdown. My heartbeat thudded in my ears, louder than the ticking clock, louder than the fire popping in the hearth.

Jack barely spoke that night.

He called me for dinner—a bowl of soup and a chunk of dry bread he’d left on the counter. I sat quietly at the small wooden table, spoon trembling in my grip, pretending the warmth of the soup calmed me. But it didn’t. Every bite was like chewing glass through the anxiety lodged in my throat.

Jack didn’t sit. He ate standing up by the window, watching the woods like he was waiting for something. Or maybe he always did that. Maybe it was his ritual. A way of guarding the silence that surrounded this place.

When we finished, he looked at me once, just once, and nodded toward the hallway.

“Get some sleep,” he said. “Tomorrow’s yours to figure out.”

I murmured a soft “thank you” and turned away before the tears in my eyes betrayed me.

I didn’t sleep.

I lay on the bed, clothes still on, eyes wide open as the wind whispered through the trees outside. My bag—just a small one with the little I’d arrived with—sat by the door, already packed. Not that I had much. Just some gauze. The clothes on my back. And that deep, gnawing fear curling in my gut like a living thing.

When the cottage was finally silent—when Jack’s footsteps stopped pacing and the shadows grew long and deep—I moved.

Quiet as breath.

I slipped from the bed, pulled on the oversized hoodie he’d given me, and laced up the worn boots I’d found near the door. Too big, but better than going barefoot.

The floor creaked once under my weight, and I froze.

But nothing stirred.

I slipped outside, breath fogging in the cold night air. The moon was a pale sliver overhead, just enough to see by, casting silver lines over the snow-dusted earth. The wind rustled through the evergreens, whispering secrets I didn’t want to hear.

The woods loomed ahead—dark, wild, endless.

I hesitated for only a heartbeat.

Then I stepped into the trees.

Every branch that cracked beneath my foot sounded like a gunshot. Every shadow seemed to stretch, claw-like and watching. But I didn’t turn back. Couldn’t. The fear pushing me forward was heavier than the fear behind me.

If I stay, he dies.

That single thought repeated over and over, like a prayer. Or a curse.

Fifteen miles. That’s what Jack had said. I didn’t know the way. I didn’t have a map. I didn’t even have a flashlight. Just instinct and desperation.

But I’d survived worse.

The woods were thick, denser than I expected. Trees tangled like lovers and enemies both, branches curling overhead to block the stars. My breath came faster, not from exertion but panic. Every rustle in the underbrush made my heart stutter. Every snap of a twig behind me made me whip my head around, eyes wide.

It felt like I was being watched.

But I kept going.

Branches scratched my skin, thorns snagged on the sweatshirt sleeves, and the cold bit at my cheeks, but I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not when every step farther from the cabin felt like one more inch of safety for Jack.

My feet ached. My ribs burned. My body still hadn’t fully healed, and I could feel it catching up to me now. But still—I walked.

The night deepened. The cold grew sharper.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t speak.

I just kept walking.

Until somewhere in the darkness—somewhere far behind me—a voice echoed through the trees.

“Jennifer.”

I stopped.

My lungs locked.

“Jennifer!”

Jack.

His voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even surprised.

It was sharp. Controlled. Commanding.

Like he knew exactly what I was doing.

And yet—he didn’t run after me. Not yet. Just that one word. My name.

I turned slowly, breath catching in the frozen air.

I couldn’t see him. Not yet. But I felt him—somewhere in the dark.

A part of me wanted to run back. A part of me wanted to throw myself into his arms and scream that I was scared, that I didn’t want to be alone anymore, that I just wanted someone—anyone—to protect me for once.

But that was the part that would get him killed.

So I turned away.

And I walked deeper into the trees.