His Winter Wolf

Grace

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I didn’t realize the wolves in the woods were werewolves until Jack Culpeper died.

It happened in September of my junior year, and for days afterward, he was all anyone in our small town could talk about. Jack had never been a saint while he was alive—far from it. He was the kind of guy who thrived on attention, who never did anything without a self-serving reason. His most notable accomplishment was driving the most expensive car in the school parking lot, even fancier than the principal’s. But after his death, Jack was instantly elevated to something near sainthood.

People had always whispered about the wolves that roamed the woods at the edge of town, but Jack’s death brought that unease to the surface. His was the kind of story that grew bigger and bloodier with every retelling—each one a little different, a little more gruesome. He had been attacked in the woods. No, he had been dragged from the road and torn apart. No, he had been eaten alive.

By the end of the week, everyone was afraid to set foot outside after dark.

At home, it took longer for the panic to settle in. My mother didn’t usually watch the news, and my father was rarely home long enough to absorb what was happening outside his office. But eventually, the town’s fear crept into our house like a slow-moving shadow, thick and suffocating. It wasn’t as though my mother hadn’t always been wary of the wolves—after all, I’d been attacked by them once, six years ago—but she had spent years convincing herself that what happened to me had been a one-time event.

She had repeated it over and over again, like a prayer. Wolves are peaceful creatures.

Now, though, she seemed unable to ignore the news reports, no matter how much I wanted her to.

I found her in the kitchen, watching the television from the corner of her eye while she obliterated a pile of mushrooms on the cutting board.

“It was so close to here,” she murmured, as if saying it out loud would make it more real. She stabbed her knife toward the TV screen, where a news anchor was speaking in that overly serious voice they use when they want to sound sympathetic. A blurry, black-and-white photo of a wolf hovered in the corner of the screen. The hunt for the truth continues, the anchor said solemnly.

I rolled my eyes. They had been reporting the same story for days, recycling the same footage, the same speculation. They couldn’t even get the simplest details right. The wolf in the photo wasn’t even the same species as my wolf. His coat was the wrong color, his eyes the wrong shade.

Mom kept slicing, her movements jerky. “I still can’t believe it. Just on the other side of Boundary Wood. That’s where they found him.”

“Or where he died,” I said, not looking up from my homework.

Mom frowned, her knife pausing mid-slice. “What?”

“He could’ve passed out by the road. Maybe the wolves didn’t kill him. Maybe they just dragged him into the woods.”

She gave me a long, weary look. “They attacked him, Grace.”

I sighed, glancing out the window. The woods were dark and endless, the tree trunks pale as bones in the fading light. Are you out there? I wondered. Are you watching?

“Mom,” I said carefully, “you’re the one who told me, over and over again—wolves are usually peaceful.”

She exhaled, shaking her head. “Right. Peaceful.” She slammed her knife down. “Maybe they should just trap them all and dump them in Canada or something.”

I tensed at her words, but I didn’t argue. The thought of never seeing my wolf again made my stomach twist.

For years, I had watched the wolves, memorizing their faces, learning their patterns. I knew the lean, sickly brindle wolf that lurked on the outskirts, his eyes wild and his coat ragged. I knew the black alpha, powerful and steady. And I knew the white she-wolf, the one with restless energy, always watching.

And, of course, I knew him.

My wolf.

I’d watched him for years, through autumns and winters, through snowfall and cold, brittle mornings. I had spent every summer aching for his return, waiting for the first frost, when I knew I would see those gold eyes again.

I had dreamed, once, of becoming a wolf myself. Of running through the trees beside him, of leaving behind the human world and vanishing into the wilderness.

Now, I couldn’t imagine a life where he wasn’t in it.

The phone rang, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“Hey,” Rachel said when I answered. “What’s up?”

I sighed, glancing at the TV. “Just making dinner and trying to ignore the news.”

Rachel groaned. “I know. It’s so over-the-top. It’s like they want us all to be paranoid. And you, of all people, don’t need to hear this wolf-hunting garbage. Has Olivia called you tonight?”

I shook my head. “She’s probably out taking pictures. There’s a meteor shower, isn’t there?”

Rachel laughed. “Of course. Olivia never misses a chance to photograph hot asteroid action.”

I smiled, but my mind was already drifting back to the woods.

Rachel was still talking. “Listen, my parents said if I want to go somewhere for Christmas break, they’ll pay for it. I was thinking maybe Olivia and I could come over tomorrow and help me pick a destination? And maybe—if it’s somewhere really cool—you could come, too?”

I hesitated.

Christmas meant snow. Christmas meant clear, cold nights and golden eyes watching from the trees.

Christmas meant him.

“Grace,” Rachel said, exasperated, “you can’t tell me you don’t want to get out of this place.”

I swallowed. “I didn’t say no.”

“You also didn’t say omigod yes. That’s what you should have said.”

I laughed. “I’ll come over. But I have to go now.”

“Yeah, yeah. Bring cookies. Love ya. Bye.”

As soon as I hung up, I grabbed my coat and stepped outside.

The cold wrapped around me instantly, sharp and biting. I didn’t bother with my hat—I knew my wolf sometimes didn’t recognize me when I wore it.

I walked across the yard, heart pounding, the cold grass crunching beneath my boots.

Then—I saw him.

He stood at the tree line, his nose twitching toward the piece of meat in my hand. The last light of sunset glowed behind him, painting the sky in violent pinks and oranges. His coat was thick, storm-gray, his eyes bright gold.

But there was something else.

Dried blood on his muzzle.

My breath caught.

“Did you kill him?” I whispered.

He didn’t flinch. He just watched me, still and silent.

Then—slowly, impossibly—he closed his eyes.

The grief in that small movement was unbearable.

Cautiously, I crouched, dropping the meat. He didn’t back away.

I reached out, fingers brushing his thick ruff.

He pressed against me with a low groan, solid and real and mine.

For a moment, nothing else existed.

Then—movement.

The white she-wolf, watching from the trees.

My wolf stiffened, a growl rumbling through him. She stepped closer, eyes flicking between us, full of something unreadable.

Still growling, my wolf pushed against me, guiding me back toward the house. I obeyed, retreating up the steps.

As soon as I shut the door, the she-wolf lunged, snatching the meat. But her eyes weren’t on him.

They were on me.

My wolf hesitated at the tree line, golden eyes catching the light.

I pressed my palm against the glass.

The distance between us had never felt so vast.