The Wolf Who Was Never Meant to Be Mine

The windshield wipers were losing their fight against the rain. Cata squinted through the blurred glass, hands tight on the steering wheel as her truck crawled along the dirt road. Eleven-thirty at night, and she was still twenty minutes from home with a bed of supplies she couldn't afford and a fuel gauge hovering dangerously close to empty. Smart. Real smart, Catarina. The chicken feed alone had cost more than she'd budgeted for the entire month. But the hens weren't going to feed themselves, and if she didn't keep them alive, she'd have nothing to sell at the Saturday market. Which meant no money for lamp oil. Or flour. Or the property taxes that were due in six weeks. She should've sold the farm after Avó died. That's what everyone in São Bento do Sul had told her. Nineteen and alone on ten acres of struggling crops and a house held together by stubbornness and prayer? It was madness. But it was hers. The rain hammered harder. Cata leaned forward, trying to see past the sheets of water. The road curved ahead, winding through dense forest where the araucaria pines grew so thick they blocked out the stars even on clear nights. Something dark sprawled across the road. She hit the brakes. The truck skidded slightly on the mud before jerking to a stop, headlights illuminating what looked like a fallen branch. Except branches didn't move. Cata's stomach dropped. She sat frozen, engine idling, watching the shape on the road. It shifted again. Definitely not a branch. "Merda," she muttered. Every rational bone in her body screamed to reverse, turn around, drive the long way home through town. It was nearly midnight. She was alone. And whatever was lying in the road was big. She reached for the gearshift. The shape moved again, and she caught a flash of what might have been a hand. Cata closed her eyes. "You're an idiot." She grabbed the flashlight from under the passenger seat, checked that her grandfather's old knife was still clipped to her belt, and opened the door. The rain hit her like a slap. Within seconds, she was soaked, her hair plastered to her face as she approached the shape on the road. The flashlight beam cut through the darkness, and her breath caught. A man. Definitely a man. He was face-down in the mud, one arm stretched out like he'd been crawling. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. And blood. So much blood it pooled around him despite the rain trying to wash it away. Cata took another step, her boots squelching in the mud. "Hey. Can you hear me?" No response. She crouched down, reaching out to check for a pulse, and that's when she saw the wounds. Deep gouges across his ribs, visible through the shredded remains of his shirt. Claw marks. Four parallel lines that had torn through muscle and— He moved. Cata jerked back, nearly dropping the flashlight. The man's head turned slowly, and even in the rain and darkness, she saw his eyes open. Pale gray-green. Fevered. And wrong in a way that made her hindbrain scream danger. His mouth moved. A whisper she shouldn't have been able to hear over the rain. "Catarina." Ice flooded her veins. She'd never seen this man before in her life. Never. She was sure of it. But he knew her name, and the way he said it carried recognition that went bone-deep. "How do you—" she started. His hand shot out and caught her wrist. The world exploded. Fire everywhere. Screaming. Wolves circling a bonfire, their eyes reflecting flame. A woman's voice, cold and final: "Exile him." Blood on white snow that shouldn't exist in Santa Catarina. The taste of betrayal, sharp as copper. Rage and helplessness and the terrible certainty of being condemned for something you didn't do. Cata crashed back into her own body, gasping. She was on her knees in the mud, the man's hand still wrapped around her wrist. But his grip was weak now, trembling. His eyes had gone unfocused. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "Didn't mean... shouldn't have..." Then he went limp. Cata sat there in the rain, shaking, her wrist burning where he'd touched her. What the hell was that? A hallucination? Heatstroke? Except it was barely fifteen degrees and raining, and she didn't get visions from touching people. She should leave him. Get back in the truck. Drive away. Call someone from town. Except whoever someone was, they'd ask questions. And those wounds weren't normal. Nothing about this was normal. The man's chest barely rose. He was dying. Right here in the mud on the road to her farm, this stranger who knew her name and showed her impossible things was bleeding out. "I'm definitely an i***t," Cata muttered. She grabbed him under the arms and pulled. He was heavy. Easily sixty-five, seventy kilos of dead weight. Cata gritted her teeth and hauled, her boots slipping in the mud, rain streaming into her eyes. Meter by agonizing meter, she dragged him toward the truck. By the time she got him to the tailgate, her arms were screaming. She lowered him as gently as she could manage, then climbed into the bed to pull him the rest of the way in. His head lolled to the side, and in the dome light, she got her first clear look at his face. Maybe mid-twenties. Sharp jawline covered in stubble. A scar cutting through his left eyebrow. And those wounds across his ribs—they looked like they were already starting to close. That wasn't possible. Cata slammed the tailgate shut, climbed back into the cab, and threw the truck into gear. Her hands shook on the wheel. In the rearview mirror, the road behind her was empty. Just rain and darkness and the forest pressing in from all sides. She drove faster than she should have on the muddy road, checking the mirror obsessively. Half expecting headlights to appear. Half expecting something worse. The farmhouse appeared through the rain like a ghost: white walls stained gray with age, the porch sagging on one side, windows dark. Home. Cata backed the truck as close to the house as she could get, killed the engine, and sat for a moment in the sudden silence. What are you doing? She didn't have an answer. Just the memory of those gray-green eyes and the word Catarina spoken like a prayer or a curse. Getting him inside was harder than loading him had been. The porch steps were slick, and she nearly dropped him twice. But finally, finally, she had him on the floor of the spare bedroom, the one that still smelled like Avó's lavender soap. The wounds were definitely closing. She could see it happening, tissue knitting together in ways that defied everything she knew about human biology. Cata backed out of the room, pulled the door shut, and locked it. The old brass lock was probably useless if he woke up and wanted out, but it made her feel marginally better. She retrieved the rifle from the hall closet, loaded it with hands that had steadied somewhat, and sat down at the kitchen table. The clock on the wall read twelve-fifteen. Outside, the rain continued its assault on the roof. Inside, water dripped from Cata's hair onto the scarred wood of the table. She'd just brought a stranger into her home. A stranger with impossible wounds that were healing before her eyes. A stranger who knew her name and triggered visions when he touched her. "Brilliant plan, Catarina," she said to the empty kitchen. "What could possibly go wrong?" The house settled around her with familiar creaks and groans. She knew every sound: the way the floorboards complained in the hallway, the rattle of the kitchen window in strong wind, the particular groan of the water heater when it kicked on. So when she heard movement from the spare bedroom, she knew immediately. Cata's hands tightened on the rifle. She stood slowly, chair scraping against the floor. Footsteps. Slow, unsteady, but definitely footsteps. Then silence. The kind of silence that felt intentional. Like someone on the other side of a door, listening. The doorknob turned. Cata raised the rifle, aimed at the ceiling, and fired. The gunshot was deafening in the small house. Plaster dust rained down from the fresh hole in the ceiling. Her ears rang. "Next one goes through the door," she called out, proud that her voice didn't shake. "I don't know who you are or how you know my name, but you need to start talking." A pause. Then that voice again, rough with pain but clearer now. "Catarina. Please." "How do you know my name?" "I don't know." A thud, like someone leaning against the door. "I just do. The moment I saw you, I knew." "That's not an answer." "It's the only one I have." A ragged breath. "I'm not going to hurt you. I swear on whatever's left of my life, I won't hurt you." Cata kept the rifle trained on the door. "Then why are you trying to open a locked door?" "Because they're coming." Urgency crept into his voice now. "The ones who did this. They tracked me this far, and they'll track me to you." "Who's they?" "Hunters. From my old pack." Another breath, shakier this time. "I'm sorry. I never meant to bring this to your door. But if you don't let me out, if we don't leave now, we're both dead by sunrise." The certainty in his voice made her skin crawl. Not because she thought he was lying. Because she believed him. Cata stared at the locked door, at the rifle in her hands, at the hole she'd just put in her grandmother's ceiling. Outside, the rain fell. The forest pressed close. And somewhere in the darkness, something was coming. She took a breath. "Start with your name," she said. "And then you're going to explain exactly what the hell is happening."