Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
BOONE
Three mornings have passed since my idiocy reached previously uncharted heights, and I’m still mentally kicking myself hard enough to bruise.
I should have blurred.
My Phasing Blur should have kicked in the instant Elias looked directly at me.
That’s what it does: It keeps humans from seeing more than a fuzzy shimmer, a heat-haze silhouette, a convenient smudge their brains happily explain away.
It’s instinctive. Automatic. Part of the built-in survival magic that’s kept my kind hidden for millennia.
But when Elias turned and looked right at me—looked into me—there was no blur. No distortion. I just stood there like a lumbering idiot in the middle of the open woods with my entire eight-foot self on display.
Worse, I held eye contact. Held it like some needy stag in mating season.
Why didn’t my instincts protect me?
I know why.
Nature Sense—my ability to feel disturbances in the forest from miles away—doesn’t just pick up danger.
It picks up… resonance. Presence. Intent.
And Elias has always registered differently from every other human I’ve ever sensed.
As if his existence hums on a frequency my instincts lean toward rather than away from.
Which means on some deep, ancient, inconvenient level of my being, I didn’t want to blur. My core instincts—supposedly designed to protect my species—chose the worst possible moment to take a day off.
Out-freaking-standing.
I scrub both hands over my face and let out a groan that scares a squirrel off a nearby branch.
And then there are his words.
I’ve tried not to replay them, but they replay themselves anyway, curling around my ribs with every memory.
I keep thinking about you.
If you’re out there, I won’t run.
The idea of a hulking creature with russet fur and glowing amber eyes… I don’t know what that says about me.
By the roots of the oldest redwood, when he said that—when I listened from the trees like an absolute menace—it took every ounce of self-control I possess not to go to him. He believed it. Believed me. Believed in what he saw.
For a terrifying, intoxicating moment, I almost believed too. That all of this—whatever gravitational nonsense exists between us—meant Elias might actually be meant for me.
Me. A sasquatch who spends his nights debugging enchanted fiber lines and yelling at Akai for trying to upload GIFs that break the server.
A bird snapping a branch overhead pulled me back to my senses just in time, and I bolted into the forest before my traitor instincts talked me into making the biggest mistake of my life.
Today, I swear I’m going to continue to be smart.
Responsible.
Distant.
I have work to do anyway. The Solstice Bash in Yellowstone is barely six weeks away.
Most humans would need weeks to walk 874 miles across three states.
I can do it in about a quarter of that time—even less if the winds favor me and the rivers stay low.
I always go early, visiting a few favorite spots, checking the regional Network relays, making sure the protections are stable.
Normally, I look forward to the trip.
This year, the thought of leaving while Elias is here makes my gut twist unpleasantly, like the roots of an old tree being forced sideways.
“Enough,” I mutter, slamming a panel closed in frustration. “Work. Focus.”
And for several hours, I manage it.
Until the scent hits me.
I pick up the hunters’ scent long before I hear them—gun oil, sweat, old leather, cheap jerky, and arrogance. It hits my senses like a slap.
Humans. Deep in protected land. Armed.
My hands curl into fists automatically.
This forest is sacred. Protected. Alive. And these idiots have stomped into the middle of it with rifles and bad intentions.
A growl simmers low in my chest as I slip between the trees, keeping to the shadows. Their footsteps carry through the brush—crunching carelessly over fallen branches, snapping twigs, scaring every creature within a half-mile radius.
I follow them silently, listening.
“There were tracks,” one mutters. “Huge ones.”
“You think it’s that… creature?” the other whispers.
My fur bristles. Creature. They never say “animal.” Hunters like these don’t see wildlife; they see trophies.
“Doesn’t matter,” the first man says. “If it moves, it’s worth something.”
So that’s their mindset. Great.
My irritation hardens into protective anger, sharpened by weeks of accumulated frustration. And honestly? This is exactly the kind of day where I need a constructive outlet for my rage.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Let’s go for a walk.”
I circle around, breaking a few branches loudly. The men snap to attention.
“What was that?”
“Over there—move!”
I let them chase the sound. Then I throw another noise in the opposite direction—a heavy thud, like a massive body landing from a jump. Their breathing picks up, adrenaline spiking.
“Holy—did you see that?”
“No, but it’s big.”
I should feel guilty for scaring them, but I don’t. Humans with guns deserve to be uneasy out here. They came into this forest to dominate it; they can leave with their tails tucked.
I lead them in wide loops, deeper into the woods and far from Elias’s station. My Nature Sense stretches outward, feeling Elias safely back at camp—calm heartbeat, steady presence, no disturbances near him.
Good. He needs to stay put and stay safe.
I rustle a shrub loudly, letting just the shape of my silhouette slip through a gap between trees. It’s only a flash, enough to spark imagination but not enough to confirm anything.
The men stop dead.
“Jesus,” one breathes. “That wasn’t a bear.”
“No kidding.”
“This isn’t right. Something’s watching us.”
They’re finally picking up on what the foxes and deer figured out hours ago.
Time to send them home.
I snap a fallen log with one hand. The crack is loud enough to reverberate off the hillside. Birds explode into flight. The hunters scream and backpedal so fast they nearly fall.
Then one of them does the stupidest thing possible.
He raises his rifle.
“No,” I snarl quietly, “don’t you dare—”
He fires.
The crack of the gunshot tears through the air so violently the forest seems to flinch.
Pain ignites in my side, hot and immediate. The bullet slams into my ribs, ripping through muscle and embedding somewhere deep. My vision flashes white around the edges.
I stagger, gripping a tree trunk to keep myself upright.
The hunters freeze.
“Did… did you hit it?”
“I don’t know!”
An enraged sound rips from me—somewhere between a roar and a warning, instinctual and furious. Every animal within hearing distance goes silent.
The men scream and run.
Good. Run until your lungs burn. Run until your legs buckle. And do not come back.
I push off the tree, breathing through the pain. My healing kicks in, but the process is slow while the bullet is still inside me. I need to get it out. I need to get home.
Then everything gets worse.
Because through my pain, through the haze of adrenaline and fury, I feel a presence approaching fast.
Light footsteps pounding the trail. A sharp, elevated heartbeat. A familiar scent of sweat, pine, and human warmth.
Elias.
No.
No, no, no.
He heard the shot. He came running into danger.
I try to move, but my knees nearly buckle. My healing has closed the worst of the bleeding, but not enough. I need three more minutes. Just three to finish sealing the ripped muscle so I can stand without collapsing.
Branches crunch behind me.
“Hello? Is someone—”
Panic spikes through me so intensely my vision blurs.
Elias is too close. He’s coming toward me instead of away. The hunters’ scent is still fresh. What if they doubled back? What if he walks right into their path? What if—
His footsteps are almost on top of me now.
I force myself to hide behind the fallen log, but the effort sends a lance of agony through my ribs. My breath stutters. The world wavers.
“Is anyone hurt? I—I heard—”
Then, as if nature itself is done giving me hiding places, Elias steps into the small clearing.
He stops as if turned to stone. His eyes widen. His breath catches. And we just… stare at each other.
Time folds in on itself.
I can’t move, can’t speak, and I definitely can’t blur my form.
The wind shifts, brushing my fur—and his gaze snaps to the wound along my ribs.
Concern floods his face. Not fear. Not disgust. Concern.
He takes a shaky step toward me. “Are you—” He swallows. “Oh my chloroplasts!”
My heart slams so hard I feel it in my teeth.
He should scream, should run. He should faint or pray or throw something at me.
Instead, he drops into a low crouch, palms out, as if approaching a wounded animal—even though nothing about me looks remotely safe or small.
“It’s okay,” he whispers, voice trembling. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The absurdity of that nearly makes me laugh, even as blood drips onto the dirt.
Me, the massive cryptid with claws longer than his fingers. Him, kneeling, breath shaking, eyes soft, trying to soothe me.
“It’s okay.”
I’ve survived centuries. I’ve outrun hunters, storms, magic, and time itself. Nothing has ever undone me the way those quiet words do.
His cheeks are flushed from running. His hair is wind-tossed and tangled. His eyes are wide but steady, the amber in his brown irises catching the late-morning light, mirroring mine in a way that makes my instincts rumble with recognition.
He takes another careful step closer.
My breath hitches. He doesn’t run.
And then he opens his mouth to speak.