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The woods called to her.

Amerie Rosarot did not know why, only that each time she found herself near the tree line, her feet ached to carry her deeper inside. The villagers whispered of beasts that roamed the shadows, of curses and creatures with eyes like burning coals.

Rowan Ashwood, the leader of their village, cautioned all against entering the woods. Tales of her father's former glory, of the beasts he had sundered, echoed like the clang of a bell in the back of Amerie's mind. Oh, yes, she knew of Jameson's wretched wars against those they did not understand.

But Amerie had never feared the forest.

Not truly.

With her crimson cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders, she stepped off the well-worn path, drawn by an unseen pull. The air was rich with the scent of pine and damp earth, laced with the faint sweetness of late-autumn berries. Leaves, golden and rust-red, crunched softly beneath her boots as she wandered.

A faint breeze played with her golden hair, strands catching the fading light like spun gold. She tucked it into her hood. Her mother had always said she was too beautiful to walk the woods alone, that her wide blue eyes were too trusting, her hands too gentle

But Amerie had never sought protection.

She sought understanding. The whispers of the wind, the language of rustling leaves—she wished to know what they meant.

Tonight, the woods did not feel empty.

A prickle ran down her spine, an unspoken warning, a shift in the air that made the small hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She stilled, listening.

A twig snapped.

Amerie's breath hitched. Slowly, she turned her head, scanning the thick underbrush.

Nothing.

The silence stretched long and heavy.

Then—movement. A shape, low and sleek, barely more than a ripple in the darkness.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Eyes. Pale silver, gleaming like moons amidst the shadows. Long, unnatural fingers curled around the trunk of the tree it hid behind. Claws, a sickly yellow, dug into the bark. Their silent, eerie tapping made her heart drop.

A beast, half-hidden among the trees, its massive frame coiled tight, muscles bunched as if ready to spring. Its fur was dark, streaked with white, a thing of nightmares and ancient stories.

A wolf—larger than any she had ever seen. Otherworldly, it hunched over, standing on muscular hind legs that were barely covered in fur.

Amerie took a step back. The creature's head lifted, nostrils flaring as it scented the air. Its gaze locked onto hers, sharp and knowing, and something in its posture shifted—from predator to hunter.

It lunged.

Amerie ran.

The forest blurred around her, trees rushing past as she sprinted, her breath ragged in her throat. The wolf was behind her, too close, the heavy thud of its paws shaking the ground. Slobbering, wet snarls mixed with the pounding of her heart in her ears. It moved like liquid shadow, gaining ground effortlessly.

No human could outrun such a beast.

Her fingers scrabbled at the pouch tied to her belt, instincts overriding fear. She carried herbs—always. For protection, for healing, for reasons she could never quite explain.

Lavender. Sage. Balm to quiet the restless mind.

She fumbled, tore a handful free, and threw it behind her. The scent burst into the air, thick and cloying.

A snarl cut through the night, raw and strangled. It sounded almost...human?

Amerie skidded to a stop, chest heaving. She turned just in time to see the great wolf stagger, its massive frame trembling. It let out a low, agonized growl, claws raking against the dirt as if trying to fight something unseen. Its silver eyes locked onto hers—no longer just an animal's, but something deeper. Something human.

The change came violently. The beast's limbs twisted, bones snapping, fur receding as flesh took its place. The ground seemed to swallow his pain, the agony of transformation shaking through him in waves. The pelt he had worn like a second skin peeled back, revealing a man curled on the forest floor, gasping, shaking.

Amerie stared.

He was young. Barely older than she was. His dark hair clung to his sweat-damp skin, streaked with dirt and remnants of his change. His hands, still trembling, dug into the ground as if grasping for something solid to hold onto. Scars lined his arms, old and new, stories written in flesh.

Slowly, hesitantly, she stepped forward.

He lifted his head, silver eyes dazed but sharp, searching hers. He opened his mouth, as if to speak—but no words came. Only a ragged, shuddering breath.

Amerie swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around her bundle of herbs. A wolf who was a man. A man who had been a wolf.

Rowan would kill her if she knew she had brought one of the creatures to the village. It was a sobering thought, but her heart compelled her to do the right thing. Who would know?

She crouched beside him, voice barely above a whisper. "You're hurt. Let me help you."

The wind carried her words between them, and thank heaven, the beast did not chase her.

It listened.

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