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His whole body ached.

He rolled his shoulders, nestling down into the nest—

That was not a nest.

Soft cushions cradled his sore muscles, their plushness unfamiliar against his skin. A warm blanket was draped over him, thick and slightly worn, carrying the faintest scent of lavender and something floral. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, its embers glowing, casting long shadows that flickered across the wooden walls.

And then there was the smell.

Sweet, citrusy, tinged with honey.

His stomach growled.

Veyr's eyes shot open.

The room was dim but cozy, the candlelight softened by the haze of his lingering exhaustion. His body protested as he pushed himself upright, the soreness of his transformation still deep in his bones. For a moment, he was disoriented, the unfamiliar setting pressing in on him.

Then he remembered—Amerie.

He turned his head and found her standing by the small table near the fire, her delicate hands working deftly as she ladled something into a wooden cup. Her golden hair was loose, cascading down her back, glowing in the firelight. She hummed softly, unaware of his watchful gaze.

"You're awake," she said without turning around. "You sleep like the dead."

Veyr blinked. "I—" He paused, voice rough. He swallowed, then tried again. "How long?"

Amerie turned, holding out the cup. "A full day. I thought you were going to sleep straight through winter."

He stared at the cup, then at her. "What is it?"

"Tea. Honey and lemon. It'll help with the ache."

His fingers brushed hers as he took the cup. Her skin was warm, steady, so unlike the trembling fingers of those who had ever dared to be this close to him.

He took a sip. The sweetness clung to his tongue, and despite himself, he sighed.

"See?" Amerie smirked. "Not everything I give you is meant to poison you."

Veyr huffed, setting the cup aside. "Yet."

Amerie sat across from him, resting her chin in her palm as she studied him. "You seem... calmer."

He rolled his shoulders again, testing the weight of his body. "I heal fast."

"Not just that," she said, tilting her head. "You were different last night. Sharp. On edge. Like a wolf still sniffing out danger."

Veyr didn't answer. He didn't have an answer.

Because she was right.

Something about this place, about her, settled him in a way he didn't quite understand. The air in her home was different—warm, unthreatening. He was used to the sharpness of the wild, to the ever-present tension of being hunted. But here, there was nothing but the soft crackling of fire, the scent of honey and herbs, and the quiet rhythm of Amerie's presence.

It was...unnatural.

And yet, he didn't move to leave.

Amerie seemed content to let the silence stretch, her fingers tracing lazy circles along the rim of her own cup. Then, after a moment, she asked, "Tell me about your kind."

Veyr stiffened.

His grip tightened around the cup, but he didn't lift it. "What do you want to know?"

Amerie shrugged. "Everything."

A short, humorless laugh left him. "That would take more than a night."

"Then start with something small."

Veyr exhaled through his nose. His instinct was to brush her off, to change the subject, to let silence take over. But...she had helped him. She had not recoiled. She had given him a place to rest.

And—more than that—he was tired of being the only voice in his own head.

So he spoke.

"We are bound to our pelts," he began, fingers brushing the fur draped over his shoulders. "Without them, we are vulnerable. Weak. We cannot shift, cannot become what we were meant to be."

Amerie nodded, waiting for him to continue.

"Some of us are born with them already woven into our skin. Others..." He hesitated. "Others must take theirs."

"Take them?" Amerie asked, curiosity flickering in her blue eyes.

Veyr clenched his jaw. He had already said too much.

Before she could press further, movement outside the window caught his eye.

His breath stilled.

Across the village square, standing in the golden wash of lantern light, was her. Rowan Ashwood.

His father's murderer.

His father's pelt, worn across her shoulders like a trophy. His lungs emptied all at once, a silent, violent exhale. The world shrank around him, the warm glow of the room replaced by a rising red haze.

Fail to finish what you have started, and death will not come as mercy.

The witch's words slammed into him like a blade to the chest.

His fingers dug into the blanket, his heartbeat hammering against his ribs. His body knew what to do. The wolf inside of him surged forward, demanding blood, demanding retribution. His limbs tensed, his muscles coiling, preparing to shift—

A hand.

Warm. Steady.

Touching his wrist.

"Veyr." Amerie's voice was soft, grounding. "Not here."

His head snapped toward her, his breath coming sharp and uneven. She wasn't afraid—not of him, not of the storm raging beneath his skin.

"This is not the time," she said gently, and he caught her hand moving to one of the pouches hanging from the  belt cinched around her waist. "Not the place."

His fingers twitched. His nails—claws—had already begun to lengthen.

Amerie's other hand came up, resting lightly against his cheek. A whiff of something herbal infiltrated his senses, and the beast within recoiled. The touch stunned him. He went still.

"Breathe," she whispered.

And he did.

His chest rose and fell in a shuddering exhale. The burn beneath his skin dulled, the sharpness of his instincts receding just enough for him to think again.

She was right.

This was not the time. Not the place.

But the fire inside him needed release.

And before he could think—before he could stop himself—he surged forward, capturing Amerie's lips with his own.

She gasped softly, but she didn't pull away.

Her fingers curled against his jaw, and for the first time since the curse had bound him, since the hunt had begun, Veyr felt like something more than just a monster.

Her lips were warm—softer than he had imagined, softer than anything he had ever touched. There was no hesitation in her, no fear, only the quiet surrender of someone willing to meet him where he stood.

Veyr had never known softness. His life had been one of sharpened edges and jagged wounds, of hunger and loss and fire that burned in his veins. But here, now, she was something different. Something delicate, something steady.

Amerie's fingers pressed lightly into his jaw, tilting his face just enough to deepen the kiss. Her breath mingled with his, tasting of honey and citrus, and a low sound rumbled in his chest before he even realized he had made it.

She yielded beneath him, leaning in, letting him take what he needed—what he craved. But she was no wilting flower, no fragile thing that trembled under his touch. She kissed him back, slow and deliberate, like she was trying to memorize the shape of his mouth, the weight of his presence.

His hands found her waist, hesitant at first, then firmer, pulling her closer as though anchoring himself to her. Her body was warm beneath his palms, the curve of her hips fitting against him like she belonged there.

He had never held something so carefully.

His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out the rest of the world—the lingering scent of Rowan outside, the fire crackling in the hearth, the low whistle of wind against the windowpane.

All that remained was her.

His lips traced hers slowly, savoring every second, every sigh that escaped her throat, every brush of her fingertips against his skin. His body ached for something deeper, something more, but he fought against the primal urge clawing at his ribs.

For once, it wasn't the hunger of the wolf that consumed him.

It was her.

Amerie broke the kiss first, though she didn't move far. Her forehead rested against his, their breaths mingling, her fingers still tangled in his hair.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, voice barely above a whisper, she asked, "What was that for?"

Veyr's hands tightened against her waist, grounding himself in the warmth of her. A low rumble resonated from his chest, eyes shut to keep out the world, and he gently pushed her away.

"I have to go."

WC: 1336