The village grew restless. By morning, rumors had sharpened into something jagged, carried on every tongue that dared to whisper. Another child missing. A trail of blood in the dirt near the old mill. Wolves, they said. But wolves did not take boys from their beds. Wolves did not leave shadows that pressed against windows, watching.
I tried to ignore it. I told myself the night had played tricks, that Dorian was only a dream lingering too vividly. But the truth followed me everywhere: the memory of his eyes, the way the lanternlight had died at his touch, the way my name had sounded in his mouth, heavier than any prayer.
By dusk, I found myself walking the forest path, lantern in hand. I told myself I was searching for calm, for answers, for air beyond the choking murmur of the townsfolk. But beneath every excuse was the deeper truth: I was searching for him.
The woods swallowed sound. My footsteps sank into the earth, muffled by leaves damp with mist. The air felt charged, as though the trees themselves leaned close, listening.
That was when I heard it—movement behind me.
I froze. The rustle of branches, the snap of a twig. Not the careful step of a man. The loping, uneven stride of something larger. My heart clutched painfully as I turned.
Two eyes gleamed from the darkness. Not human eyes.
The lantern's glow barely reached them, but I knew—too high, too wide apart. The shape beneath was massive, fur matted, teeth catching the light in jagged white.
A wolf.
No, not a wolf. Something more monstrous, leaner, taller. Its gaze fixed on me, and in that breath, I understood: it had been following me for longer than I knew.
The beast lunged.
I screamed, stumbling back as its weight crashed against me. The lantern flew from my hand, glass shattering as flames licked uselessly at the ground. Claws tore at my cloak, fangs snapping close enough that hot saliva splattered across my cheek.
And then—darkness split apart.
Dorian.
He moved faster than thought, a blur of shadow and moonlight. His hand caught the creature mid-lunge, wrenching it backward with inhuman strength. It howled, thrashing, but his grip was merciless, his eyes alight with something savage.
"Run," he snarled at me. Not velvet now, not gentle. His voice was the command of storms.
But I could not run. My legs refused. I stood rooted, shaking, as claws raked against him. He did not falter. He struck, movement too fast for my eyes to follow, and the beast screamed—a sound half animal, half human. Blood sprayed across the leaves, black in the moonlight.
I saw his teeth then.
Long. White. Too sharp to belong to any man.
The beast crumpled, shuddering once before going still. Dorian stood over it, chest rising and falling in steady control, his mouth stained crimson.
He turned to me.
The hunger in his eyes was not for the beast.
It was for me.
"Now you see," he said, voice hoarse, dangerous. "This is what I am."
I shook my head, though the truth stood painted in blood before me. "You saved me."
"And damned myself further."
He stepped closer, and I could not move away. His face was pale against the dark, mouth stained with what I dared not name. Yet when he reached for me, his hand trembled.
"You should run from me, Liora," he whispered. "I am no savior. I am hunger, wearing the mask of a man. Every time I look at you, I remember how sweet life once tasted. I am not safe. Not for you."
And yet—his hand lingered against my cheek, cold but tender, as though he had forgotten how to be gentle until now.
I should have recoiled. I should have fled back to the safety of firelit walls. But instead, I whispered the truth that had been clawing at my ribs since the night he first appeared.
"Then let me be damned too."