Chapter 3 - Sera #2
He just keeps that crushing grip on the gray wolf’s throat, squeezing and shaking like he’s trying to tear it out completely.
The thrashing gets weaker. More desperate. The gray wolf’s movements become sluggish, uncoordinated. Then they stop entirely.
The gray wolf goes limp, body sagging against the rock.
The blond wolf holds on for several more seconds, making absolutely sure his opponent is dead before finally releasing his grip. The gray wolf’s body slides down the rock face and crumples to the ground in a heap.
For a long moment, nothing moves except the blond wolf’s sides as he breathes hard from the exertion. Blood drips from multiple wounds—the shoulder where the gray wolf bit him, the gashes across his ribs and belly, smaller cuts on his legs and face. He’s a mess of blood and dirt and torn fur.
But he’s alive. And he won.
He lifts his head and looks directly at me.
Those green eyes lock onto mine, and something in my chest pulls so tight I can barely breathe. The feeling is overwhelming, like recognition and longing and need all tangled together into something I don’t have words for.
I know him. Somehow, impossibly, I know him.
He takes a step toward me, still in his wolf form. I should be terrified. Should be backing away from a massive predator covered in blood who just killed three wolves in less than five minutes.
Instead, I find myself leaning forward, drawn to him in a way that makes absolutely no sense given the circumstances.
He takes another step, moving slowly now. Carefully. Like he’s afraid of scaring me. His ears are forward, his posture open rather than threatening, despite the blood coating his muzzle.
Then he stops. His whole body goes rigid for a second, head tilting as he studies me with those incredible green eyes. Something passes across his face, and then he begins to shift.
The transformation is smooth and practiced, bones and muscles rearranging themselves with the kind of ease that comes from doing this thousands of times. His body blurs and reforms, fur receding to reveal skin, muzzle shortening to human features.
Within seconds, a man kneels where the wolf stood.
A very, very naked man.
I should look away. That would be the polite thing to do. The Llewelyn thing to do—maintain proper distance and emotional reserve even in situations like this.
But I don’t look away.
He’s tall, at least six-two, with a lean but powerful build.
The kind of body that comes from actual physical work rather than gym memberships and protein shakes.
His skin is tanned from spending time outdoors, darker on his arms and face where the sun hits most. Scars crisscross his torso—some old and faded to white lines, others fresh from tonight’s fight and still oozing blood.
Broad shoulders taper down to a trim waist and narrow hips. His chest is well-defined without being bulky, with just enough muscle to make my mouth go dry. I can see every breath he takes, watch his abs contract and release, follow the lines of muscle that frame his stomach.
There’s a trail of hair leading down from his navel that my eyes follow before I can stop myself, tracking lower and lower until—
Heat floods my face, but I still don’t look away. Can’t look away.
His thighs are thick and strong, built for running and fighting. And between them—
My throat goes completely dry. I’ve never been particularly interested in the male body before.
Llewelyn women are taught to be reserved about such things, to maintain detachment even in intimate situations.
But looking at him now, I understand what desire feels like.
What it means to want someone on a purely physical level that has nothing to do with logic or propriety.
I want to touch him. To run my hands over all that bare skin and feel the muscles move underneath. To taste the salt on his skin and make him make sounds that have nothing to do with fighting.
The thoughts shock me almost as much as the kidnapping did.
I finally drag my eyes back up to his face, my cheeks burning hot enough to probably glow in the dark.
Dark blond hair sticks up messily, damp with sweat and blood. His face is all hard angles—high cheekbones, strong jaw, that crooked nose. And his eyes, those vivid green eyes that I recognized even in his wolf form, are locked on mine, making my pulse race.
Around his neck hangs a pendant on a leather cord. The stone is deep black, threaded with swirls of purple—Amanzite. As I watch, it begins to glow, pulsing with magical energy that feels alive somehow.
Clothes start materializing on his body.
First, dark jeans appear, covering those strong legs and everything between them.
The fabric forms from nothing, wrapping around him like it’s being woven in real-time.
Then a plain t-shirt materializes across his chest, the dark gray fabric clinging to still-damp skin in ways that really shouldn’t be affecting me this much.
Within seconds, he’s fully dressed.
And I’m still staring at him like I’ve never seen a man before.
He stands slowly, favoring his left side where the gray wolf’s claws opened up those gashes across his ribs. Blood seeps through his shirt, creating dark, wet patches, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. His entire focus is on me.
That’s when it clicks. The historian from Raegan’s wedding. The one who caught my attention during the ceremony, whom I couldn’t stop watching, even with everything else happening. The man with the green eyes and messy hair who made something pull in my chest every time our gazes met.
Reeyan.