The forest was alive with the scent of pine and damp earth, but beneath it ran something sharper iron and musk, the unmistakable tang of a predator on the hunt.
Elara moved swiftly through the underbrush, barefoot still, her cloak tied loosely at her waist. Dawn had come and gone, and with it the last crimson glow of the Blood Moon, but the power it had poured into her lingered like strong wine in her blood. Every step felt lighter, every sense sharper. She could hear the heartbeat of a rabbit fifty paces away, smell the faint rot of fallen leaves, feel the subtle shift of magic in the air like static before a storm.
She had left the ruined shrine hours ago, the shattered crystal now nothing more than dull black shards scattered across the altar. The spirit—whatever he had been—had not spoken a name before dissolving back into her skin. Only a promise, whispered against her ear as he spilled inside her one final time:
You will call me again, moon-child. When the moon bleeds anew.
She shivered at the memory, thighs pressing together involuntarily. The ache between them was deliciously sore, a constant reminder of how thoroughly she had been claimed. And yet she felt no shame only a fierce, burgeoning hunger for more.
A low growl rumbled through the trees ahead.
Elara froze, fingers tightening on the small dagger she had taken from the shrine's rubble. The sound came again, closer, accompanied by the snap of a twig under heavy weight. She scented him before she saw him—wolf and man intertwined, wild and dangerous.
He stepped into the small clearing where she stood: tall, broad-shouldered, with thick auburn hair tied back from a rugged face. His eyes were amber, glowing faintly in the dappled light, and when he smiled, sharp canines flashed. Leather and fur clothed him—simple hunter's garb—but there was nothing simple about the way he moved, fluid and predatory, muscles shifting beneath sun-browned skin.
A werewolf. Lone, by the look of him. No pack scent clung to his fur.
His gaze raked over her slowly, lingering on the bare curve of her shoulder where the cloak had slipped, the faint red marks still visible on her throat from the night before. His nostrils flared.
"Little half-elf," he rumbled, voice rough as gravel. "You smell like blood and sex. And something… older."
Elara lifted her chin, refusing to back down even as her pulse raced. "And you smell like you're hunting on ground that doesn't belong to you."
His grin widened. "This forest belongs to no one. Least of all exiles running from the Pale Sun's dogs." He took a step closer, circling her slowly. "I smelled you hours ago. The whole woods did. That kind of magic… it calls to things like me."
She turned with him, keeping him in sight. The power inside her stirred, warm and eager, responding to the threat and the promise in his eyes. "Then you know I'm not prey."
"Oh, I know." He stopped directly in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. He towered over her, easily a head and a half taller, and the heat radiating from his body made her skin prickle. "But you're something better. Something I want to taste."
Before she could respond, he lunged.
Elara twisted aside, dagger flashing, but he was faster than any human. His hand closed around her wrist, wrenching the blade away with casual strength and tossing it into the ferns. She snarled, bringing her knee up hard toward his groin, but he caught her thigh, spinning her until her back slammed against the rough bark of an ancient oak.
Pinned.
His body pressed full-length against hers—hard muscle and heat, the thick ridge of his arousal unmistakable against her belly. His breath was hot against her ear.
"Fight me properly, little moon-child," he growled, nipping her earlobe hard enough to draw blood. "Or surrender and let me show you what a real beast can do."
The sting of his teeth sent a bolt of pure lust straight to her core. Elara moaned, hips rolling instinctively against him. The Crimson Lust surged, flooding her veins with fire, and she felt the birthmark on her chest flare to life beneath her cloak.
Thorne that was the name that came to her suddenly, as if the magic itself whispered it stilled, inhaling sharply.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're the one. The Blood Moon's chosen."
She didn't deny it. Instead, she twisted her trapped wrist free and sank her nails into the back of his neck, dragging his mouth down to hers.
The kiss was brutal—teeth and tongues, the copper taste of blood where she bit his lower lip. He groaned into her mouth, hands ripping at the ties of her cloak until it fell away, leaving her bare to the cool forest air. Her nipples tightened instantly, aching as his calloused palms cupped her breasts, thumbs circling the stiff peaks.
Elara arched into his touch, gasping when he pinched hard enough to make her cry out. The pain melted into pleasure so intense her knees nearly buckled. She clawed at his leather jerkin, tearing it open to rake her nails down the furred expanse of his chest. Coarse hair tickled her palms, and beneath it his heart thundered like war drums.
He dropped to his knees suddenly, dragging her down with him. The forest floor was soft with moss and fallen leaves, cradling her as he pushed her thighs wide. His mouth was on her before she could draw breath—hot, wet, ravenous. His tongue speared into her without preamble, lapping at her slick folds like a starving man.
Elara screamed, fingers tangling in his hair as he devoured her. He was merciless—sucking her clit between his teeth, fucking her with his tongue, growling against her flesh until the vibrations alone nearly sent her over the edge. When he slid two thick fingers inside her, curling them to stroke that perfect spot, she shattered.
The orgasm tore through her like wildfire, her back bowing off the ground as she came hard against his mouth. Thorne drank her down greedily, licking and sucking until she was sobbing from overstimulation.
But he wasn't finished.
He rose over her, shedding the rest of his clothes with impatient jerks. His cock sprang free—thick, flushed, and knotted at the base in true werewolf fashion. Elara's mouth went dry with want. She reached for him, wrapping her fingers around the hot length, stroking firmly as he hissed in pleasure.
"On your knees," he snarled.
She obeyed eagerly, turning to brace herself on hands and knees. The moss was cool beneath her palms, the scent of crushed leaves rising around them. Thorne gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, lining himself up, and thrust into her in one brutal stroke.
Elara screamed again—this time in pure ecstasy. He was huge, stretching her to the point of pain, but the Crimson Lust turned it into something exquisite. Each drag of his cock inside her sent sparks of magic flaring along her nerves, building higher and higher.
He fucked her like an animal—deep, punishing strokes that shook her entire body. One hand snaked around to rub rough circles over her clit while the other tangled in her hair, yanking her head back so he could bite down on the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Not enough to turn her—only to mark, to claim.
The pain pushed her over the edge again. She came with a wail, inner walls clenching around him, and felt the knot at the base of his cock begin to swell. Thorne roared, hips stuttering as he forced himself deeper, locking them together as he spilled inside her in hot, pulsing jets.
The bond snapped into place like a physical thing.
Elara felt it—his loyalty, his hunger, his fierce protectiveness flooding through the connection forged by blood and seed and magic. Images flashed between them: his pack's slaughter by Pale Sun inquisitors, his years of lonely wandering, the endless ache of the beast inside him. And beneath it all, a burning need to belong again.
She collapsed forward when the knot finally receded, Thorne following her down to wrap strong arms around her trembling body. He nuzzled into her hair, licking gently at the bite mark he'd left.
"Mine," he rumbled, voice softer now. "And you're mine to protect."
Elara turned in his arms, pressing a surprisingly tender kiss to his lips. "Then protect me, Thorne. Because the Church will come for me. And when they do…"
She smiled, slow and dangerous, the Crimson Lust glowing faintly in her eyes.
"…we'll make them bleed."
Far in the distance, church bells began to toll—urgent, warning. Hunters on her trail.
Thorne rose, pulling her up with him. "Then we run together."
As they vanished deeper into the forest, naked and blood-streaked and bound by something deeper than words, the first drops of rain began to fall—washing the evidence of their joining into the earth, where it would take root and grow.
The Blood Moon's chosen had found her first wolf.
And the hunt had only just begun.