They walked at dawn.
Mist clung to the ground, coiling around their ankles as if the forest itself was reluctant to release them. She kept the fur cloak tight around her shoulders, fingers digging into its coarse warmth. Every step away from the cave felt unreal, like she was leaving behind a wound that had not yet decided whether it would bleed or scar.
He walked beside her.
Always beside her.
Not ahead. Not behind.
Close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the weight of his presence pressing against the edge of her awareness. He said nothing. He did not need to. The silence around him was thick, deliberate, as if the world itself was listening when he breathed.
She caught him watching her when he thought she would not notice.
His gaze was different now—not openly hungry, not wild. It lingered with intent, heavy and unblinking, tracing the line of her throat, the way the fur shifted when she moved. There was restraint in him, and that restraint felt more dangerous than hunger.
The baby dragon padded along at her heels, occasionally bumping into her leg with a soft, warm nudge. Its presence grounded her. Alive. Real. Something innocent in a world that had stripped innocence bare.
The town appeared by noon.
Stone walls rose from the earth like old scars, weathered and cracked. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys. The sight should have brought relief.
Instead, her stomach tightened.
Eyes followed them the moment they passed the gates.
Guards stiffened, hands moving to weapons as they took in the man at her side—his height, his scars, the way his gaze swept over them without fear. Chains clinked as two stepped forward, blocking the road.
"And what are you?" one demanded, voice sharp with suspicion.
The wolfman did not answer.
The silence stretched.
The guard's eyes drifted to her next. They lingered too long. Too openly. She felt it like a hand against her skin, invasive and unwelcome. His gaze dipped to the torn edges of her cloak, the glimpse of leg beneath the fur.
Disgust twisted in her chest.
She did not move.
She did not need to.
The air shifted.
She felt it before it happened—the sudden tightening of the space between breaths, the way the world seemed to pull inward. The wolfman stepped forward once.
Just once.
The guard reached for his sword.
He never drew it.
The sound was dull, final. A body hit the ground. Blood darkened the dust in a spreading stain that made the remaining guards stumble back in horror. No roar. No frenzy. Just precision.
She stared.
The wolfman turned to her immediately, as if checking whether the violence had touched her. His eyes searched her face with something like concern.
Something twisted in her chest then—not fear, not relief, but something heavier. Something that bound.
The remaining guards fled.
Whispers followed them as they walked deeper into the town. Doors closed. Curtains shifted. She felt watched from every shadow, every window. Desire mixed with fear in the air, thick and suffocating.
At the adventurer's guild, the wolfman finally spoke.
His voice was low. Rough. Like stone dragged across bone.
"A name," the clerk said, trembling.
He gave one.
It did not sound human.
She did not repeat it.
They were given a room on the edge of town—cheap, quiet, forgotten. The innkeeper avoided looking at him. Avoided looking at her too, though his eyes flicked back when he thought she wasn't watching.
That night, the room felt too small.
She sat on the bed, dragon curled against her side, its warmth seeping through the thin mattress. The wolfman stood near the door, arms crossed, watching the shadows as if expecting them to move on their own.
"You don't have to stand there," she said finally.
Her voice surprised her. It sounded steadier than she felt.
He looked at her then. Really looked.
The silence stretched again, thick with unspoken things.
He moved slowly, deliberately, lowering himself to sit on the floor instead. Close enough that their knees nearly touched. She could feel him there, solid and undeniable. The air between them felt charged, alive with something neither of them named.
His gaze dropped to her hands.
They were shaking.
His fingers hovered near hers, close enough that she could feel the heat of his skin. He did not touch her. That restraint again—tight, aching.
"You are not prey," he said.
The words were simple. Heavy.
She swallowed.
"Then what am I?"
His jaw tightened. His hand closed slowly into a fist.
"Mine," he said after a long moment. Not possessive. Not cruel. Stated like a truth he had only just accepted himself.
The word settled over her like a brand.
She should have recoiled.
She didn't.
Outside, the town breathed uneasily, unaware of the thing it housed within its walls. Unaware of the ancient gaze that had turned toward it, measuring, remembering.
She lay awake long after the room went dark, aware of him beside her, aware of every breath he took, every subtle shift of muscle. Desire pulsed through the air like a second heartbeat—unfulfilled, coiled tight, waiting.
Somewhere deep inside, something ancient stirred.
And the town slept, ignorant of the shadow it had welcomed in.