Learning

CONNOR

I lunged.

Not to scare her but to slide low, my paws skidding through pine needles before my shoulder ducked and body coiled just so.

She shrieked anyway—half fear, half laughter.

Gods, that sound.

Staring, she heaved her chest, her green eyes suspicious until I nudged her again, gentler this time. I brought my snout to her hip before dipping my front legs. I huffed, cocked my head, and placed my ears forward.

~Come on,~ I thought, wishing I could speak, wishing we could mind-link.

She hesitated before reaching for me with shaky hands. Her fingers tangled in my fur as soft gasps slipped out. Quickly, her grip found confidence. I basked in the sound of her laughter. This time, it wasn’t the hollow, bitter laugh of someone breaking.

This was different; it was joy—real, cracked, crooked, and perfect.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked. “Get on your back or something?”

I huffed again and nodded.

She giggled then shrugged. “Okaayyy.” She swung one leg over.

The motion was clumsy, uncertain. But she held on. And I ran.

Wind howled through the canopy with the fury of an unchained beast as we tore past trees older than memory. It was madness, freedom, and a feral high that made her laugh with wild abandon.

Moss, wet stone, and damp earth passed underfoot while wild laughter and heavy pants filled the hills. Ferns kissed her calves, her hands tangled tighter in my scruff, and I climbed.

When I veered onto the ridge, she whooped—the sound of someone tasting freedom for the first time.

“~Mine~,” my wolf howled. “~Ours~.”

I took her through high trails, down ravines, and along the spine of the mountain where the world cracked open into an endless blue sky. And then I looped back, finally stopping at one of our caches beneath a massive cedar near the back of the pack house.

Lowering myself, I let her slide off. She panted, her cheeks flushed. I padded toward the stash and shifted. She didn’t turn away as the grotesque ballet of bones snapping and muscles slithering under skin began.

Folding a giant wolf into a man-shaped suit wasn’t elegant, but the shift didn’t shake her the way it had before.

Once dressed in black joggers and a hoodie, I sat cross-legged facing her. The cedar trees whispered overhead, with wind weaving through their ancient limbs in hushed conversation.

“You were scared before,” I said. “Back in the clearing, when I shifted.”

She nodded. “I wasn’t expecting to feel anything.” She looked down at her lap. “To feel like…that.”

“Like what?”

“Like a threat. Like a memory I’d buried clawing its way to the surface and deciding to live again.” Her voice was thin, brittle. “I’ve only ever experienced the wolf when they made it come out. When it hurt me.”

My heart twisted.

“They injected me with things,” she whispered. “Blue serums, red powders… I can’t remember it all. They set up simulations. Made people fight me. Sometimes I lost. Other times not. I’d wake up tasting blood, feeling shame and not knowing who I’d torn apart.”

~No wonder she can’t shift.~ Her wolf had been nothing but a weapon to them, something to fear and cage.

“What does it feel like for you?” she asked, her eyes suddenly searching. “Your wolf?”

I took a breath, grounding myself in the loam and needles beneath us. “It’s like mainlining the universe through your rib cage. Peace and power, a second heart beating in sync with something ancient and unknowable.

“When I shift, it’s not something else taking over, it’s still me, but in a different skin. My wolf and I don’t fight. We talk, listen, push each other.” I looked at her. “It’s a relationship. Like a marriage.”

She blinked. “A marriage?”

“Not always perfect, sometimes messy.” I grinned. “It takes trust. Communication. Connection.”

Willow looked down at her hands. “I’ve never talked to it.”

“That might be where we start.”

She tried again to shift. I saw her focus, her effort, and the tension in her jaw. But nothing happened.

“What about partial shifting?” I asked. “Claws? Fangs?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never even felt it coming. It always just happened.”

I nodded slowly before standing. “All right. I’ve got another idea.”

She looked up. “What kind of idea?”

“Come with me.”

WILLOW

Connor didn’t say another word as we walked.

I followed him through the woods, my steps shaky and breaths shallow. The scent of cedar and damp moss, however, grounded me.

~At least I was right about something~, I thought, knowing instinctively the woods were indeed where I belonged. Whether it was these exact woods, though, was yet to be seen.

When the trees parted, they revealed a low building tucked into the hillside. It was timber framed, glass walled, and surrounded by garden beds and the faint sound of laughter—which hit me like a punch to the solar plexus.

I froze.~There are children here.~ ~Actual children.~

Connor opened the door, turned, motioned me inside, but then registered my expression. “What’s wrong?”

But I wasn’t listening to him, only to the kids’ voices echoing from deeper inside the building. And it was real laughter, not the kind you faked under the threat of needles and restraints.

My throat clenched. “There were always two, I remember. A boy and a girl. The first ones were older, and then one day the boy was replaced by a younger boy, almost my age. The same with the older girl. We did everything together. They were my best friends until…”

“Willow, I’m so sorry.” Connor placed a hand on my shoulder.

“No, I’m sorry. I just haven’t seen”—I sniffled and wiped away a tear—“other kids for a long time.”

Connor’s eyes softened. “Are you all right? Should we go?”

After I told him I was okay, I breathed through the emotions and followed him into the building.

“You’ll want to take your shoes off,” he said, and I obeyed, curling my toes against the smooth wooden floor.

Sunlight warmed the interior, and when we turned a corner into the main room, it took everything in me not to crumble right there.

Kids were everywhere, some as young as five or six and others in their teens. They were scattered in clusters around the room, drawing, reading, and playing. I locked my eyes on a girl with ink-black curls and a crooked smile, maybe eight or nine years old.

She threw back her head and howled, the noise wild and gleeful, and the other kids joined in.

Some strange cocktail of joy and vertigo and grief I didn’t have the tools to name washed over me. I didn’t realize I’d stopped moving until Connor’s hand brushed my arm.

Tingles erupted on my skin, both calming me and bringing me back to the moment.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s meet them.” He released me, and we went deeper into the room.

Once they noticed us, the kids threw themselves at Connor. Admiration filled their eyes, and the word ~alpha~ danced on their lips like a prayer.

A tall woman with streaks of silver in her dark hair straightened as we approached. She looked equal parts kind and intimidating—someone who could make you feel safe, yet still make you do things you didn’t want to.

“Willow,” Connor said, “this is Asha. She’s teaching the younger pups today.” After Asha and I exchanged a nod, he turned toward her. “I was wondering, would you mind if Willow joined the lesson?”

Asha smiled at me. “Of course. There’s always room.”

The smaller kids gathered around us without hesitation. Asha led us through a few gentle stretches, then told everyone to lie down or sit cross-legged, whatever felt safest. I chose to sit, my back straight and palms on my knees.

“Close your eyes,” she said, her voice a gentle current. “Breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Feel the wood beneath you. Let it hold you.”

I did as she said, despite the flicker of unease in my belly. Stillness had never been safe; it was where the pain crept in. Reflexively, I reached out to each body part and sinew and nerve ending. Where did it hurt this time?

But I remembered that wasn’t needed, not here and not now—never again, hopefully. So, I shifted my focus to the world around me.

At first, all I felt was the usual static—as well as tight muscles and a nervous flutter in my chest. But after some time passed, something settled deep inside me. My thoughts slowed, and my body calmed.

“Now,” Asha said, “I want you to picture a door. On the other side is your wolf. You don’t need to force anything. Just listen. See what comes. Your wolf is part of you. You are not separate, only distant. Invite them closer.”

The sounds of the room fell away, replaced by a stillness broken only by the wind through the trees.

~A door.~

In my mind’s eye, I saw it: tall, dark, old wood etched with marks I didn’t recognize. My heart drummed behind my ribs.

And then I felt it—a presence, warm, patient, watching.

Pressing against my chest from the inside, something within me woke up. Something primal, humming at a frequency right beneath the skin, an old rhythm, old magic.

~There you are~, I thought.

There was no reply, but a knowing.

I realized I’d felt this before. At the edge of dreams, during storms, and in the bath after I’d met Connor when something deep inside me had stirred. When my wolf had made it known she liked him, recognized him somehow.

And now, she was closer than ever.

“I think,” I whispered, “she’s been here all along.”

Suddenly, the bell rang; the classes were over.

I opened my eyes—but to a changed world.

It slapped me full in the face: Every color had been turned up past human limits. The potted plant across the room seemed ready to sprout legs. I could hear a gnat blinking. Could smell fear, hormones, cinnamon, and fur. It was beautiful.

It was almost too much.

And Connor, he smelled of cedar, cold night air, and something molten and ridiculous that short-circuited my higher reasoning. My wolf didn’t just approve—she purred.

He stood near the door with his arms crossed, smiling as the kids dispersed. I moved toward him before I realized it was my wolf pushing me. But she wasn’t forceful. In fact, the pull to him felt natural, magnetic, like gravity had changed.

Connor watched me with knowing sapphire eyes. Damn, he was handsome.

“What are you feeling?” he asked, his voice soft and full of amusement.

I swallowed. And then I laughed. Quiet and a little bewildered, I analyzed my emotions. “Actually,” I began, a smile spreading across my lips, “I’m hungry.”