Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
ELIAS
For a second, I genuinely think my heart stops.
I stare at Boone, fork still in my hand, the words hanging in the air between us like smoke. His shoulders are rigid, his jaw tight, every line of his body pulled inward as if he’s braced for a blow.
It takes me all of three seconds to understand what he’s really saying.
He thinks I only like him like this. In a human shape. With human shoulders and human hands and a human face and everything nicely organized into a category my brain can file without exploding.
He thinks that when I look at him in his cryptid form, I see a monster I’m tolerating because it saved my life, while this body sitting across from me—in a towel, with bare forearms and a strong throat and the kind of chest that makes my brain go briefly offline—is the “real” object of attraction.
The realization hits like a punch. A sharp flare of indignation. Then guilt. Then a heavy, aching sadness.
I put the fork down carefully, because if I don’t focus on the simple act of setting it straight beside my plate, my emotions are going to spill out in every direction.
“Wow,” I say, and my voice comes out hoarse. “Okay. That is… a lot to unpack.”
He looks away, gaze fixing somewhere over my shoulder. “Forget I said anything.”
“I am very much not going to forget you said that,” I reply. “Boone, look at me.”
He hesitates, then slowly, reluctantly, turns his head. His eyes—still warm—slide to mine and then flick away again like the contact burns.
I swallow hard.
“I get why you would think that,” I say, because I do. “I do. I’m human. You’ve dealt with humans for a long time. I’m guessing most of them have not reacted well to seeing you at your full, eight-foot glory.”
His mouth tightens.
“But I need you to hear something clearly,” I continue. “I’m not ‘comfortable’ with your human form because it’s easier for me. I’m comfortable with it because it’s you. And I’m comfortable with your other form for the same reason.”
He snorts, low and disbelieving.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I wasn’t afraid of you in the forest,” I remind him.
“Do you remember that? Because I do. I remember standing there looking at you—really looking at you—and feeling… calm. Curious. Drawn in. My brain was screaming something about ‘this is impossible,’ absolutely, but the part of me that makes survival decisions didn’t flinch. ”
“You were concussed,” he says quietly.
“Not the time on the ridge,” I counter. “Not the moment we made eye contact between those two cedars. My head was fine that day. And yes, a rational part of my brain was waving red flags and filing emergency incident reports, but the rest of me felt…” I search for the word. “Safe.”
He exhales, pain flickering across his expression.
“And since we’re apparently throwing honesty grenades now,” I say, my own frustration rising, “let me be extremely clear: I am attracted to you in both forms. Your human one is hot, yes. I’m not blind.
But the way you move, the way you smell, the way your eyes look in the dark, the way your shoulders fill a doorway—those are all you.
And I don’t magically stop noticing them just because there’s fur involved. ”
His gaze snaps to mine again, surprised.
“I’m a biologist,” I say. “And a man. I’ve spent my entire adult life noticing bodies.
Of animals. Of people. Of ecosystems. I know when something tugs at my attention and refuses to let go.
I’m very aware that being attracted to an eight-foot cryptid is, at minimum, unusual.
Maybe even genuinely strange. There’s a little voice in the back of my head waving an ‘are you serious’ flag about it. ”
“Good,” he mutters, like he needed proof I’ve not entirely lost my mind.
“But that voice is very small,” I go on, more fiercely than I intend.
“Because there’s another part of me—deeper and louder—that looks at you and says ‘This feels right.’ And I’ve learned to trust that part.
It’s kept me alive this long. It’s gotten me out of bad jobs, bad relationships, bad situations.
And it’s telling me that you’re not just a curiosity.
You’re not just a fascinating cryptid I want to catalog. You are… someone I’m falling for.”
The words hang there. My heart thunders. For a second, I genuinely think I might throw up from sheer vulnerability.
His face has gone very still.
I take a steadying breath.
“I can’t force you to believe me,” I say. “But if the problem is that you think I only respond to your human shape, then there’s a very simple way to test that.”
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Change back,” I say.
He blinks. “Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
“You’re ordering me to shift?” he says slowly.
“Yes, I am,” I say. “By the power vested in me as the idiot who fell for Bigfoot.”
His lips twitch, even as his eyes remain tense.
“I don’t know if that’s a recognized authority,” he murmurs.
“It is in this clearing,” I say firmly. “Boone. Please. Change back.”
We stare at each other for a breath. Then he exhales, a long, resigned sound, and pushes to his feet.
“All right,” he agrees.
He steps back into the open space, away from the chairs and the table, and the air around us seems to grow denser, humming with ancient magic.
I stand too, heart pounding, and step toward the little stool I keep by the door to help with my boots. My hands shake as I drag it into position a few feet from where he stands.
If I’m going to make my point, I want to be able to look him in the eyes.
The shift is still a miracle.
Even after seeing it once, knowing what to expect, my breath catches as his body begins to change.
Bones lengthen, spine stretches, muscles swell; fur spills over his skin like a shadow pouring downward.
His features reshape, broadening, settling back into that striking, powerful face that first looked at me from between the trees.
Where a moment ago stood a towel-wrapped man, there’s now Boone as I first truly knew him: tall and massive, furred and strong, shoulders reaching far above my head, head almost brushing the lower branches.
He doesn’t look monstrous to me.
He looks… right.
He ducks his head slightly as the transformation finishes, breath steady but eyes wary.
“Happy?” he rumbles.
“Working on it,” I say.
I climb up onto the stool, the wood creaking under my weight. It lifts me enough that the height difference isn’t quite so ridiculous. His chest is now level with my face. All I have to do is tilt my chin up to meet his gaze.
“Come here,” I say. It comes out more like a command than I intended.
His brows lift. “You’re very bossy for someone whose entire existence fits into my wingspan.”
“Boone,” I warn. “Please. Come closer.”
He hesitates, then takes the last step toward me.
We’re close enough now that I can feel his body heat, a steady, solid warmth rolling off him. Up close, his fur smells like cedar and clean earth, like river fog and sunlight caught on bark. His eyes, that molten gold, watch me with a nervousness I don’t think he’s aware he’s showing.
I can see it in the tightness of his jaw, the way his fingers flex and curl at his sides.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Now I am going to ask you something very important.”
He swallows, a visible bob of that thick throat. “All right.”
“Can I touch you?”
The question seems to hit him harder than anything else I’ve said tonight.
His eyes flare. His breath hitches. For a second, he simply stands there, massive and immovable, as if scanning through every possible outcome of this moment.
Then he nods once. “Yes,” he says. His voice is rougher now. “You can touch me.”
I extend a hand, slowly, giving him plenty of time to change his mind.
He doesn’t.
My fingers meet his forearm first. The fur there is thick and warm, the muscle beneath solid as stone. I let my palm settle there, feeling the subtle tremor that runs through him at the contact.
“See?” I say, voice barely more than a whisper. “Still you.”
I slide my hand upward, along the curve of his arm, to the swell of his shoulder. His breath deepens, a low rumble resonating somewhere in his chest. I move higher, carefully, until my fingers brush the side of his neck.
He goes absolutely still.
His fur is shorter there, softer. I can feel the heat of his skin beneath it, the thrum of his pulse beating hard against my fingertips. I trace up, along the edge of his jaw, the structure of it strong and unfamiliar and fascinating.
His eyes half close.
“Elias,” he says, and hearing my name in that voice rocks me to my core.
I swallow.
“I really want to kiss you,” I say.
His eyes snap open again, wide with shock, hope, and terror all at once.
“In this form,” I specify, because that’s the point.
“Because this is how you’re most comfortable.
This is how you feel most… you. I’m aware of the differences.
I’m aware of the logistics. I’m very aware that this is not something you can look up in any normal dating manual.
But I also know what my gut is telling me, and it’s been screaming at me about you since the day I saw your tracks. ”
He stares at me, breathing hard.
“I’ve known you for less than a week,” I go on. “I know that. It’s ridiculous. I’m a man of science; I’m supposed to be wary of ridiculous. But for once, I’m going to let my gut drag my brain along instead of the other way around.”
My hand is still on his jaw. His fur tickles my wrist. My heart feels like it’s trying to punch its way out of my chest.
“If this is too much,” I say softly, “tell me to stop. I will. But if you want this even a little, then let me make it really, unmistakably clear that your species, your form—none of that is the problem. Okay?”
For a long, suspended moment, he doesn’t answer.
His eyes search mine, flicking from one to the other, as if looking for doubt.
Then he exhales, and the breath shudders. “I want this,” he says hoarsely. “More than I should.”
Relief hits me so hard I have to close my eyes for a beat. “Okay,” I whisper. “Then… bend down a little.”