Chapter 46 The Wild Hunt
Chapter Fourty Six
The Wild Hunt
— Sunday —
“And you don’t know where we’re going?” I ask again, more out of habit than hope—I should know better by now. From the moment we left the house, Tomas went dark, his focus fixed somewhere ahead. He’s not ignoring me, but I’m also not sure he can speak. He’s shifted into his Lycan form—towering, massive, and half-wild, with claws that look like they could splinter railroad ties. Asking questions might just be a hypothetical exercise at this point.
The scent of damp earth and pine replaces the faint tang of lemon oil from the sitting room and the world feels electric, charged with moonlight and magic.
Instead of words, he grips my wrist—not my hand—and pulls me through the underbrush, his pace relentless, deliberate. The forest teems with life around us, crickets singing, leaves rustling underfoot. It feels right somehow, as though we’re joining the evening chorus, becoming part of the wild.
I know Ben was over here earlier today, “setting something up.” So, yeah, I’m curious—about a lot of things. Where are we going? What does a rut with a half-man, half-monster even look like? And mating venom—it sounds like the wolf version of being roofied, but, like… consensually? I bite back a nervous laugh because, of course, my brain chooses now to spiral into wildly inappropriate analogies.
Rut . The word feels heavy in my mind, almost too big to hold. I picture Shadow, half-shifted behind me, teeth buried in my neck, and wonder if that’s the intensity Tomas was trying to warn me about—or if this will be something entirely different. God. Can we just get started? I could sprint ahead. That would definitely get things moving .
It’s like he senses my impetuousness tipping into stupidity. Without warning, he stops, tugging me in front of him with one sharp motion. He bends low, looming over me, his features now fully Lycan—Tomas’s handsome face a fading memory, replaced by something monstrous yet mesmerizing.
The lines of his face have warped into jagged, feral angles, his jaw stretched too wide, teeth glinting like polished knives in the dim light. His nose elongates, more beast than man now, and his eyes—no longer golden, but molten orange—burn like embers, searing into me with an intensity that pins me in place. A faint snarl curls his lips, his breath hot and carrying the electric tang of old-growth forest after a storm.
I should be afraid, and part of me is. My heart pounds against my ribs, my pulse racing as his claws flex and tighten slightly on my wrist. But there’s something else too—a pull I can’t resist, an intrinsic magnetism to the creature before me. Those eerie, pumpkin-hued eyes gleam with something indecipherable, and a shiver courses through me, equal parts dread and desire.
His ear flicks forward, then swivels back—a restless motion that feels deliberate, like he’s both shielding me and deciding what to do with me. He doesn’t speak—can’t speak, I think—but the warning is unmistakable in the way his narrowed gaze sweeps over me and the woods beyond.
Then I feel it—a faint sting where his claws press into my skin. I glance down, and there they are: tiny beads of blood welling up, dark and glistening in the moonlight. My breath hitches, my throat tightens as I look back at him, expecting… something. Anything.
But he doesn’t check on me. Doesn’t even glance my way.
Instead, his nostrils flare, his head tilting slightly as if savoring the scent of my blood on the breeze. Slowly, his lips curl back, revealing more of those wicked teeth in a snarl that feels utterly alien—nothing like Tomas at all.
The thought hits like a sucker punch. What if this thing—this Lycan, this monster—doesn’t see me as a mate, or a lover, or even pack? What if all it sees is blood and tender flesh?
It’s only the cold, hard knowledge of what running does to a high-prey-drive creature that keeps me rooted in place. And make no mistake—this isn’t my mate. This isn’t Tomas. This is an Alpha predator, and I am his prey.
My pulse pounds harder, a drumbeat in my ears, as the underbrush thins and gives way to an open clearing. Moonlight spills down like silver threads, pooling over the ground in soft, surreal light. I wipe my bloodied wrist on my shorts, the keen sting a grounding jolt that pulls me back into focus.
Tomas’ beast slows, his broad shoulders rising and falling with every deliberate, measured breath.
Then he steps aside, and I see it—the heart of the clearing, where Ben’s careful handiwork awaits us. A tarp lies beneath a neatly arranged pile of blankets, a cooler sitting nearby. Two tiki torches—clearly raided from the barn—stand ready, dormant for now, awaiting a spark.
The sight steadies me, even as tension coils tight in my chest, a prickling awareness still clinging to my skin. It’s almost absurd, really—how did I go from terror, convinced I was about to die, to… this? A cooler of snacks. Who fears for their life in the presence of snacks?
My hand lifts instinctively, magic slipping free without effort. The torches ignite with a gentle whoosh, flames flickering to life and casting a warm glow that mingles with the silver threads of moonlight. That small act of magic pulls me back into myself, anchoring me in the now.
I’m not Little Red Riding Hood, not some hapless human lost in the woods. The elements bow to me, surging through my fingertips. This beast deserves a mate every bit as powerful as he is—a match in every way—and that’s exactly what I am.
When I glance back at him, the Lycan’s orange eyes glint dangerously, and something inside me stirs in response. It’s not approval. It’s something darker—a recognition that runs soul-deep. Like he’s seeing a part of me I’ve barely begun to understand.
The beast stares at me for a long moment, unblinking, and I feel it—low and deep in my chest, a hum waking in my bones. Some long-repressed part of me lifts her head and meets those Halloween eyes, bold and unafraid.
Only then do I notice the blanket on top of the pile. My fingers sink into its thick fabric—not soft, but sturdy, substantial. A Pendleton, its bold design flickering in the torchlight. A raven, rendered in sweeping lines, clutches the sun in its beak, set against an ombre backdrop that shifts from twilight blues to fiery dawn hues. The trickster. The shifter. The thief who stole the sun and scattered light into the darkness.
Tomas doesn’t talk much about his roots, but I know this story matters to him. The raven inked across his shoulder tells me that. But it’s more than just the design’s Indigenous heritage—it’s a story of transformation, of stealing hope from despair, of finding light even in the shadows.
Ben’s thoughtfulness strikes me all over again. Even knowing what tonight is meant to be, even understanding the raw, wild edge of what’s coming, he still made sure this moment was steeped in care. He thought of both of us—our needs, our stories. I won’t cry. Goddess knows what my tears might trigger in the beast standing so close, but it’s a near thing. Ben’s love—for his packmates, for me, for Shadow—is my happily ever after.
I leave the raven blanket folded and reach for the old horse blanket beneath it. I’m not about to dirty up a piece of art like that. It belongs on a wall or at the foot of our bed—not soaked in werewolf cum. Because let’s be honest, folks, that’s exactly where this is going.
Do werewolves even believe in foreplay? And while we’re at it, what kind of equipment are they working with? My eyes trail down the Lycan’s body, curiosity getting the better of me.
Holy shit. It’s too late to run now, right? Or maybe running is just a terrible idea. Because that is… intimidating.
I’ve read about angry-looking penises before, but I’ve never actually seen one until now. This one is red, veiny, and absolutely livid. And the piercings are still there—why, oh why did I think those would disappear? They seem smaller now, like someone decided to bedazzle a weapon of mass destruction. The effect is almost comical, like slapping a pink bow on a pit bull. He’s still partially sheathed, too, so it can only get bigger from here.
My eyes stray back up, and that’s when I see it—the Lycan arches a single brow, delivering two undeniable truths: I’ve been caught admiring the merchandise, and Tomas is still in there.
Before I can react, his hand moves. It’s massive, the tendons shifting beneath taut skin stretched over muscle and bone. The palm is rough—closer to a wolf’s paw pad than human skin—thick, warm, and faintly abrasive as it closes around my wrist. His fingers are tipped with long, curved claws, razor-edged and glinting faintly in the torchlight. There’s nothing I can imagine those claws being good for except violence—pure, raw destruction honed into lethal art.
And here I am, willingly putting myself in the jaws of the great white of land animals. Smart. Really smart, Sunday.
The lightest drag of those claws sends a chill racing through me. My breath hitches as he lifts my wrist to his mouth, the movement deliberate, unhurried. And—God forgive me—when those teeth graze my skin, it’s sexy as hell.
He licks my wound—a quick, animal swipe, hot and rasping, that shocks me. I freeze, the sensation teetering between pain and something far more intimate. It’s not just the wound—I feel that tongue everywhere.
I don’t pull away. I can’t. Fear should be there. Maybe it is, but it’s tangled with something darker—something that makes my pulse quicken and my breath catch. You’d think I learned my lesson with Ben’s animal, but I never claimed to be smart.
The tarp crinkles faintly beneath my shoes, the moon’s silver light spilling down, illuminating the beast before me. The Lycan tilts his head, molten-orange eyes locking onto mine, and for a moment, I see it—hunger, recognition… I hope both.
My hand twitches at my side, and I wonder if he notices. If he’s waiting for me to move. Or if he’s already decided what to take next. I don’t have to wait long. He makes a low, unhappy grumble, his claws brushing against my shirt, one sharp tip slotting at the collar.
“Hold on a sec,” I blurt, stepping back. “It might be nice to have clothes for the walk of shame home. Let me take them off first.”
His brow furrows, ears flattening, and I realize too late that it’s the word shame that’s bothering him. “I didn’t mean shame,” I clarify quickly. “Not like that. I’m just not used to running around naked like the rest of you. And, as you can see, no fur.”
His ears twitch, slowly rising, his strange eyes are steady and unblinking. The air between us shifts, heavier now, more intimate—like he’s daring me to follow through.
I grab the hem of my shirt, tugging it over my head, then slide my shorts down with deliberate ease. The fabric lands in a messy pile beside the cooler. Folding them feels unnecessary—too much like stalling, and I’m not looking for a way out. I’m really not.
With a flick of each foot, I nudge my slides off, sending them skittering in opposite directions, and I swear the werewolf snickers. My fists settle on my hips as I step forward, pressing my body against his.
“I’m still in a bra and panties,” I murmur, tilting my head up to meet those molten eyes. “Figured you might want to shred some fabric. See? I’m always thinking of my partner’s needs.”
The Lycan doesn’t respond, but his claws slice through my bra straps with unnerving precision.
I take a step back, my bare feet brushing against the cool tarp beneath me. Then another, and another, slow and measured, until rough bark presses into my shoulder blades, stopping me short. He follows, each step deliberate, the scrape of his claws against the ground raising the hair on my arms.
I let my gaze linger on his, my lips curving into a faint, teasing smile. “What’s the matter, Big Bad? Can’t keep up?”
His growl reverberates through the air, a low, rolling sound that sends a thrill racing down my spine. My breath falters as the tree bites harder into my back, the monster closing the distance like he’s deciding whether to nibble at the bait—or devour me whole.
His claws land on either side of me, sinking into the bark with a hollow crack that carries through the still night. Splinters prick at my bare shoulders, but the sting barely registers. His head dips, his muzzle pressing into my neck, crowding me back a few inches like it’s nothing. He’s just that strong.
His nose, cold and wet, trails along the sensitive skin of my neck before he exhales, a stream of hot breath that makes my nipples peak deliciously. His chest rumbles, a sound that feels more promise than threat.
My heart races, too fast and too erratic—like it understands the raw urgency simmering between us. This isn’t Tomas, the patient and deliberate Alpha. This is something wilder, something that doesn’t wait or ask—it takes.
The panties are the next casualty of his claws. Brutal yet efficient, he slices through the thin fabric with surgeon’s precision, yet somehow leaves my skin pristine.
We’re both standing in the woods, under a full moon, naked as the day we were born—except for the jewelry, the only remnants of the world we’ve left behind. That reminds me—I find the ghostly image of the ring in my mind and think, hide. It blinks out of existence, and I instantly want it back, but this is better. Now it won’t get caught on anything—or anyone.
I sigh, staring at my bare finger. Two claws gently tip my chin up.
“I’m good,” I murmur, my voice soft. “I just… I really love that ring.”
Normally, a kiss would feel natural. But here, now, with the beast towering before me, it feels… wrong, almost unnatural. No soft lips or gentle touches will do. Instead, there’s an overwhelming urge to rub my face against him, to run my tongue over his skin, to feel the weight of his need pressing against mine—panting, desperate, wild.
I need his scent on me, in me.
These aren’t human wants or human needs—they’re something older, something deeper. My magic stirs, restless and insistent, the wild part of me clawing to the surface. It builds, swelling to something unstoppable, pulling me closer to metamorphosis, closer to the edge of ruin.
Before I can fully grasp the shift within me, he sweeps me into his arms—an unlikely bride, a terrifying groom, and a threshold I’m only beginning to understand. He carries me to the center of the clearing where the moon hangs full and ripe in the sky, her light spilling down in silver streams, pooling on the earth like a decadent offering.
With a slow, deliberate drop to his knees, he pulls me close, his heat sinking into my skin like a brand. And then, as though the moment demands it—as though the goddess herself has called him to bear witness—he tilts his head back and meets her bold, temptress gaze, her wanton, fecund allure.
And then he howls.
Gooseflesh peppers my skin. Frisson, I think idly—like hearing someone singin’ about heartbreak, their voice stumbling, falling, and catching, where pain and imperfection cut deeper than any polished note ever could. It’s raw and gravelly—a sound that gets under my skin and turns electric, every follicle, every nerve ending, coming alive, twisting and reaching for him, as though my body already knows what my mind is too stunned to process.
His song rises, raw and resonant, filling the clearing and echoing into the night like the cry of a spirit unleashed. It’s not a lament of longing—it’s a song of gratitude, a declaration, and something far older. It carries the fierce, unrelenting power of a promise made under the watchful gaze of the goddess.
And I feel it. That promise is not just his—it’s ours.
The howl dies, leaving a charged silence that hums with potential. His gaze locks onto mine, molten and unyielding, and the bond between us pulls tight, trembling on the edge of breaking. My breath catches, my chest heavy, as my magic stirs, pressing against the edges of me, desperate to break free.
Then he moves.
His claws curl into the blanket beneath me as he lowers us both to the ground, careful despite the raw tension thrumming in his frame. His body is impossibly warm, a furnace against the cool night air, and when his lips—his teeth—graze the delicate skin of my neck, my vision goes white for a moment. My pulse races, but not from fear. The need coursing through me is wild, inhuman, and it’s not entirely his.
My legs wrap around his waist, and I can’t suppress a shiver at the sheer alien feel of him. His body is a sculpted marvel of power, nothing like the man I know. His waist is wasp-thin, layered with compact, rippling muscle, every inch of him built for speed and strength. Where a human’s ribcage would be flatter, his curves outward—convex and powerful—housing lungs that seem to draw in the night itself.
And below his waist, I feel the length of him lying heavy across my stomach, leaving a slick, pearlescent trail. Long and turgid, it presses against me, gleaming faintly in the moonlight, a primal promise of what’s to come.
My fingers tangle in the thick fur of his ruff, sinking into the layered texture beneath my hands. The coarse guard hairs feel rough and sturdy, like bristles meant to shield him from the world, while the softer undercoat invites me to linger. My touch is no longer timid but claiming. Mine, I think, the word striking like a drumbeat in time with my heart.
A low growl rumbles in his chest, vibrating through me, and I gasp as the sound ignites something deep and aching inside. My magic spills over, unfurling into the clearing, and I feel it in everything—The trees above us sway with it, their leaves trembling in unison. Flowers bloom in the moonlight, bursting through the edges of the tarp in a riot of color.
The Moon Goddess watches from above, her presence palpable, her approval washing over us in waves that pull and churn like the tides. Her weight in the heavens stirs more than the oceans—she pulls water, blood, desire—all of it answering her call. Her moonlight bathes us in silver, slick and shameless, binding us to her will, her rhythm, her ancient dance.
Tomas presses closer, his weight, his strength, overwhelming but grounding. The prick of his claws on my thighs contrasts with the silken warmth of his breath at my ear. He moves lower along my body, his tongue never leaving my skin, every stroke deliberate and consuming. His chest rumbles, a deep, resonant sound that feels less like a lover’s purr and more like a predator’s claim.
He doesn’t linger in the usual places that might draw a human’s touch. Instead, his instincts guide him to where my scent is strongest, where his tongue can learn me in ways his hands never could. He licks the hollow beneath my arm, the sensitive curve of my ribs, tasting me like I’m something vital. His nose presses into me, trailing lower with a deep inhale that feels like he’s breathing me into his very soul. When his tongue flicks against my belly button, a startled giggle escapes me, only to be swallowed by the intensity that follows.
He parts my legs, but he doesn’t look—not as a man would. His eyes fall shut, and his chest heaves as he inhales deeply, his mouth open, the motion full-bodied, as though he’s tasting the very essence of me in the air. A shiver ripples through him, and I feel the sting of claws, maybe drawing blood. It’s as if my scent runs through him, wild and unstoppable, and the reaction it provokes is undeniable—a deep tremor that steals his control and lays his need bare.
Then he’s on me. His tongue moves with purpose, tracing every fold and ripple with meticulous care. It’s not the familiar touch of human lips—it’s something more. His teeth, a whispered reminder of his power, stay careful, but his tongue? It’s impossibly agile, teasing, caressing me in ways that leave me breathless. There’s no longing for the familiar here—only awe at the waves of pleasure he draws from me, relentless and all-consuming.
He lets me come almost immediately—a sure sign that Tomas isn’t running this show. A low rumble reverberates through me as he hoists me up, positioning me on my knees. His cock, already a menacing presence, is now fully engorged—red and furious, glinting with the steel of its barbells. It’s apoplectic, visceral, and I find myself leaning forward, drawn to him despite the intimidating sight.
I let my tongue flick over him, tasting salt, musk, and the wild, loamy essence of the earth itself. Beneath it all, though, there’s still Tomas—the green apple tang that makes my cheeks ache, the faint smoke that pulls me toward comfort and warmth—a reminder of the man who still lingers inside the beast.
Claws tangle in my hair, scraping lightly against my scalp before shifting, becoming gentler, almost hesitant—like he’s still trying to be careful with me despite the wildness coursing through him. His movements are deliberate, intense, as he pushes into my mouth. And, much like my experiences with Ben, though he shouldn’t fit—not by any logic or law of physics—he does. It’s magic. There’s no other explanation. And honestly? I’m too lost in the raw sensation to question it.
The only warning I get is the tightening of those claws, digging into my scalp just before a furious roar erupts from him. Then he floods my mouth. And I mean floods—there’s nothing restrained about it. His cum spills past my lips, trailing down my chin as I swallow, then swallow again, struggling to keep up with the overwhelming rush. My hands slide up between his legs, fingers curling over unfamiliar textures. No smooth skin here—everything is alien, furred, and utterly foreign. My fingers find his balls, rolling them gently, eliciting a deep, guttural growl that reverberates through him and into me.
He thrusts again, deeper, insistent, and I feel another surge—thick, hot, and impossible to contain. It spills down my chest in rivulets, each sensation grounding me deeper into this surreal, electrifying moment.
I look up at him—the wolf, the Lycan, the monster—my breath seesawing in and out as I lick my lips, chasing his taste, my fingers absently rubbing his scent into my skin. The compulsion to cover myself in him, to carry him with me in every way, is overwhelming. He blinks slowly, deliberately, before sinking to his knees in front of me. One more cheek rub, one more lazy lick that ends at the hollow of my throat, and then I’m turning, presenting myself.
He doesn’t hesitate.
There’s no pause to ease me into his size, no tentative worry about whether I’m ready. His nose has already told him everything he needs to know.
When he presses into me, it’s not gentle—it’s fire meeting fire, an unstoppable force colliding with its match. The burn doesn’t destroy; it transforms, stripping away everything but this moment, this bond, this claiming.
His weight presses me into the ground, the cool earth grounding the heat of his body. Each thrust is instinctive, merciless, and all-consuming, the rhythm echoing the ancient pull of the moon above us. The forest holds its breath, the goddess’s light spilling over us, a blessing pulling at our blood, our magic, the very core of who we are.
His teeth scrape against my skin, and I realize—this isn’t just passion or instinct. This is the bond made flesh, the fulfillment of something written in the stars and carved into our souls. This is destiny, inevitable and divine.
When he bites, it won’t just mark me. It will claim me in every way. And I’m ready.
His teeth sink into the curve of my shoulder—a searing pain that blossoms into heat and light, surging through me like wildfire. My vision tilts, the world spilling away until there is only him, me, and the moon.
And then he howls again.
The sound rips through the clearing, fierce and resonant, but this time, it carries me with it. It pulls me into a vast expanse of memory and instinct, a deep well of echoes and shadows.
Something inside me breaks loose—no, not breaks. It overflows.
My magic, wild and untamed, floods outward, a torrent I can’t and won’t control. The trees seem to stretch taller, their branches clawing at the sky with an impossible hunger. Leaves burst into vibrant green before shifting to amber, falling, and budding anew—cycling through all four seasons in a single breath.
At the edges of the tarp, flowers erupt from the earth. Tiny, tentative at first, then bold and riotous, they unfurl their petals as though they’ve been waiting for this exact moment. Some creep over the tarp, merging it with the forest floor, claiming this space as sacred.
Above us, lights bloom in the darkness—fireflies born of something otherworldly. They drift and sway, glowing with the essence of my magic and the bond we’ve forged. Tiny stars brought to earth, a celestial reply to his lupine call.
And I feel it—the Wild Hunt. The ancient packs running beneath the moon, their voices weaving together like a double helix, each note twining perfectly with another. A chorus of power and unity reverberates through the night, shaking the marrow of my bones.
I’m not just me anymore. I’m a part of them—every wolf that’s ever run, every howl that’s ever pierced the darkness in triumph, pain, or devotion. The collective memory of the Hunt surges through me, a river of wild, unbroken history.
The goddess’s light pours over us, her blessing sinking into my very core as the Hunt becomes mine. Ours.
His howl shifts, soaring to a crescendo that feels like it could splinter the heavens, and I’m right there with him—our voices melding, the song of the wolves in my blood, my breath, my bones. My magic pulses outward, igniting the lights above us to blaze brighter, the flowers below bursting into bloom in a jubilant frenzy, as if the forest itself is exalting in our bond.
For the first time, I understand what it means to truly belong—not just to him, but to this ancient rhythm, this endless cycle of moon and hunt, life and bond.
The heat of his breath lingers on my neck, and my body responds before thought can catch up. It’s instinct, primal and pure. My teeth ache, pressing against my lips, sharp and unfamiliar.
I don’t hesitate. I bite him back.
Not hard, but enough to feel the bond snap into place, pulling tight around us like an unbreakable knot. My mouth fills with the tang of his skin and the seep of his blood, tinged with something dark, potent, and powerful.
For a heartbeat, I feel his wolf—furious, untamed, and now, undeniably mine.
His growl rumbles low and deep, a sound that should terrify me—but doesn’t. The earth seems to tremble beneath us, his claws sinking into the dirt, anchoring him. When his molten-orange eyes meet mine, they shimmer with something new.
Pride.
It’s raw, fierce, and unmistakable—an unspoken acknowledgment that I’ve met him on his wildest ground, and he sees me, accepts me as his equal.
Then the world tilts sideways. My head spins as the venom unfurls through my veins—a wild firestorm that strips away hesitation and leaves only pure instinct. That untamed part of me surges to the forefront, uncoiling like a predator finally unleashed.
The last thing I see before she takes over are his eyes, molten and unyielding, reflecting the wildness now mirrored in my own.