Brannok stormed from the shredded ruin of the deer, every step thunderous in his bones, his breath ragged with fury. His claws itched for bark to strip, his teeth ached to sink into something that would scream. Rage poured off him in a reeking tide, sharp enough to curdle the air. The forest itself bent away from him; foxes slunk from their dens, owls stilled their throats, even the wind seemed to draw back and leave him to his anger.
He had been humiliated. Played with. Mocked.
The little human had dared shadow himâhim, a Fenrathi in his primeâand stolen the kill from beneath his teeth like some wolf-bitch born to cunning. She had made him stumble, made him choke on blood that was not his own, left him fouled and furious in the dirt.
He snarled aloud, mind racing with punishments. He could tear down her camp, scatter every pitiful trap, drag her meager shelter into ribbons and leave her shivering on the ground. He could heap carcasses at her door until the stench drove her to madness. He could strip her tools, steal her roots, spoil her food, leave her crawling belly-low like a broken thing.
But even as fury devoured him, a colder truth cut deeper: none of it would matter. Nothing he could do would rise above what she had already done.
She had stalked him.
A human girl, thin and soft, had crept silent as any wolf through his shadows and taken the deer from beneath his charge. She had hunted the hunterâand won.
The thought seared him raw. His temper roared hotter, but under it, another current pushed slow and deep: what skill. What daring. What brilliance. She had risked his wrath, risked her life, and struck cleaner than any fang, truer than any arrow. He should have spat at her audacity, should have buried her scent in the dirtâbut he could not.
His fury snarled with admiration until the two were indistinguishable, knotted in his chest like two wolves locked jaw-to-jaw.
She was prey no longer.
She was something far more dangerous.
Brannok sank to his knees in the torn earth, chest heaving, blood roaring in his ears. The air stank of ruin, of his failure, of her victory. He had lost. That truth was bitterer than blood. He could not outmatch her nowânot with tricks, not with fury. The game belonged to her.
He clenched his fists into the dirt, meaning to crush the thought down, but it only burrowed deeper. No Fenrathi female would have dared such a thing, not to him. And yet she had.
He hated her for it.
Gods, he hated her for it.
The words lashed through him, sharp as a whip. His lips peeled back, his heart thundered. But hate alone could not disguise the truth: she had been cunning, merciless, perfect in her silence. That endless, infuriating silenceâsharper than any snarl she might have thrownâcut him to the marrow.
He tipped his head back and bared his teeth to the canopy. The sound that tore from him was too broken to be rage alone. Hate bled into something older, heavier, harder to deny.
Stolen novel; please report.
And suddenly, he knew.
The line between hate and hunger was a thin one, and he had crossed it long ago. Weeks, maybe. When she first refused him. When she turned her back instead of cowering. When she made him laugh against his will.
He had told himself it was annoyance, that he only wanted to break her silence, to force her voice into the open. But it wasnât anger that kept him circling her fire. Not spite that pulled him to the edge of her traps. Not fury that drove him to track every movement she made.
It was hunger.
He wanted herâthe voice she hid, the mind that sparked defiance, the will that would not bend. He wanted the girl who had stalked him as though she had been born with fangs.
Brannok dropped his face into his hands and let out a guttural sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a snarl. He had sworn never to want a mate, never to bind himself to one. But now he knewâhe would never want another. No other female alive could match her.
The line between love and hate was small.
He was already far past it.
He breathed deep, forcing the fire into long, even drafts until the rage dulled to embers. His ears flicked. Thereâfaint but certainâthe drag of her weary steps as she returned to her camp.
The camp he had ruined.
His jaw locked. He had shredded her work, trampled her snares, scattered her firewood, stolen what was hers again and again. He had done it laughing, pranking, proving himself clever. But now, imagining her move through the wreckage he had left, something colder slid beneath his skin.
Shame.
It seeped quiet into the cracks of his anger, heavier than pride, sharper than regret. She had worked so hard for that fragile bubble of safety, clawing her survival from nothingâand he had destroyed it.
She deserved better.
The thought rooted deep, and no shaking could dislodge it. She deserved good shelter to keep her dry. Meat to fill her belly. Warmth to ease her bones. A soft place to rest her stubborn head. She needed care, not ruin. And he had given her nothing but grief.
Noâworse. He had taken from her.
The pull in his chest sharpened, fierce and undeniable. Instinct, need, desireâthey tangled into one truth he could not unmake.
She was his, had been his the moment she crossed the border between human lands and Fenrathi wilds, had crossed into his wilds. She would never thrive while he played the fool against her. The urge to guard her, to provide for her, to restore what he had destroyedâit gnawed at him until it felt like marrow-deep hunger.
He had ruined everything she had. Like a fool.
He needed to fix it.
But she would never let him. Of course she wouldnât. Not after everything. She probably hated himâevery snarl, every trap, every cruel trick. The thought tore at him, the need to mend gnawing until it hollowed him. He needed her safe, needed her strong, needed food in her belly and warmth at her back. But if he offeredâif he came with hands open instead of claws baredâwould she even accept him?
The question froze him, heart hammering.
He wanted her to accept him. He wanted her to want him.
The realization slammed into him like a blow. Shame scorched hotter than rage ever had. A growl broke low and furious from his chest, vibrating against his teeth. What a fool he wasâbrought low, not by blade or claw, but by a human girlâs choice. Pining for her regard. Hungering for her want.
But the truth had its claws in him now, and there was no shaking free.
He needed to fix this. Now.
Brannok rose, brushing dirt and blood from his arms, forcing stillness into his limbs. His shoulders squared. His breath steadied. First step: cleanse the stink of fury and failure. He turned toward the lake, his stride long and certain, already planning the hunt ahead.
He would bring her a kill worthy of her silence, her cunning, her defiance.
If she would not take him in anger, perhaps she would take him in offering.