Chapter Seven
~ Liam ~
I ran until my lungs burned, until my legs threatened to collapse beneath me, until the night air tore at my throat with each desperate gasp. I couldn't stop, couldn't slow down, and couldn't risk being caught.
The word "bite" echoed in my head like a death sentence, drowning out everything else Rooster had said about mates and bonds and belonging. All I knew was that I had to get away, had to put as much distance between myself and that word as possible.
Branches whipped at my face as I crashed through the underbrush.
The forest was a blur of shadows and moonlight, trees looming like sentinels in my peripheral vision.
I didn't care about stealth now. Didn't care about being silent or unseen.
The careful habits of fifteen years abandoned in my blind panic to escape.
Rooster's words played on repeat in my head, his gentle voice describing something that felt like violence to me.
"Claiming happens during intimacy. It's a bite, right here.
" The memory of his fingers touching that spot where neck meets shoulder sent another surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
I stumbled over an exposed root, my ankle twisting painfully as I caught myself against a tree trunk. The rough bark scraped my palms, but I pushed off immediately, ignoring the sting. Pain didn't matter. Nothing mattered except distance. Space. Safety.
Every breath tore at my chest, each footfall sending jarring impacts up my spine. How long had I been running? Minutes? Hours? The forest seemed endless, trees and undergrowth melting together in the darkness. My vision blurred, tears or sweat or both stinging my eyes.
I'd been stupid to think I could trust him. Stupid to believe that someone would offer food, shelter, kindness without wanting something in return. And what he wanted was to bite me. To claim me. To own me.
My foot caught on another root and this time I went down hard, sprawling across the forest floor. Dead leaves and pine needles cushioned my fall, but the impact still knocked the wind from my lungs. I lay there gasping, my body finally refusing to continue its mindless flight.
A sob escaped me, the sound strange and unfamiliar to my own ears. I couldn't remember the last time I'd cried. Tears were weakness. Weakness got you noticed. Noticed got you hurt.
I dragged myself to the base of a massive pine tree, its trunk wider than I could wrap my arms around.
My back pressed against the rough bark as I pulled my knees to my chest, making myself as small as possible.
The position was familiar—the same way I'd huddled for warmth and protection on countless nights alone.
Gradually, as my breathing slowed, I became aware of other sensations. The gentle pressure of pine needles beneath me. The cool, resinous scent of the tree at my back. The soft rustling of branches overhead despite the still night air.
I pressed my trembling hands against the tree's bark, feeling the subtle vibrations beneath my fingertips. Not audible sound, but something deeper. A language without words that I'd understood since childhood.
Safe here. Safe with us.
The tree's message wasn't in English or any human tongue. It was a feeling, an impression that formed in my mind as clearly as if it had been spoken aloud. I closed my eyes, letting my awareness sink into the connection.
Afraid-one. Heart-racing. Be still.
Around me, other trees joined the silent conversation, their needles shifting with deliberate movements. I felt the forest awakening to my presence, recognizing me as they always had. Plants didn't judge. Didn't demand. Didn't bite.
Known-to-us. Protected.
My golden eyes blinked open, scanning the darkened forest. My body remained tense, ready to bolt at the first sign of pursuit, but the trees were forming a different message now. They bent slightly inward, their branches creating a canopy above me, a living shelter against the night.
The pine I leaned against seemed to shift, its bark softening imperceptibly where it touched my back. Not physically changing, but somehow accommodating my presence, welcoming me into its space.
Long-alone. Not-alone now.
I shook my head, rejecting the tree's assessment. I was alone. Had been since I was seven years old. The brief connection with Rooster had been an illusion, a momentary weakness on my part. Humans—even shifter humans—couldn't be trusted.
But even as I thought this, images of Rooster flashed through my mind. His patient teaching as I learned to use a fork. The careful way he'd always given me space, never crowding me. The food he'd left without demands or expectations.
And that moment in the yard during the attack—his gentle touch on my face, the unexpected tenderness in his voice as he'd called me "baby boy." No one had ever touched me like that. Like I was something precious rather than something to use or discard.
Red-fur-man searches. Calls your name.
I tensed again, my hands pressing harder against the pine's bark. Could Rooster have followed me? Tracked me into the forest? The thought sent my heart racing once more, but the trees immediately responded, their energy shifting to soothe my panic.
Far away. Not here. Safe now.
The branches above me rustled more insistently, drawing my attention upward. Through gaps in the needles, I could see stars scattered across the night sky. They seemed impossibly distant and cold, reminding me of how small I was in this vast world. How insignificant.
Yet the trees remembered me. Recognized me. Even after months or years of absence, they always knew me when I returned to the forests. Their roots spread for miles beneath the soil, connecting in ways humans couldn't understand. They were the closest thing to family I'd ever known.
Rest now. Watch over you.
I felt the subtle movement of roots beneath me, shifting through soil to create a nest of sorts around where I sat. Not restraining me—never that—but forming a protective circle, a boundary between me and potential threats.
I exhaled slowly, some of the tension finally easing from my muscles. My hand moved to my shoulder, touching the spot where Rooster had indicated the bite would go. The spot that had triggered my panic and flight.
What was happening to me? In fifteen years of solitary survival, I'd never let anyone get close enough to matter. Yet somehow, in just one night, the red-haired cook with gentle hands had slipped past my defenses. Had made me care enough to fight for him when he was attacked.
Had made me feel something I couldn't even name.
I leaned my head back against the pine trunk, too exhausted to sort through these unfamiliar emotions.
The trees continued their silent communion, branches swaying in rhythmic patterns above me.
Their presence was the one constant in my chaotic life—the one thing I could always count on when humans failed me.
As my eyelids grew heavy, I wondered if I would ever find my way back to the clubhouse. Back to Rooster. Or if I would simply disappear into the forest as I'd done so many times before, becoming just another shadow among the trees.
I don't remember falling asleep against the pine tree, but the nightmares found me anyway. They always did when I let my guard down. I curled tighter into myself, arms wrapped around my knees as if I could physically hold the memories at bay.
But they came anyway, washing over me in waves of remembered terror. Not dreams, not imagination—my actual past, preserved with the cruel clarity of a child's memory.
I was six, maybe almost seven, sitting cross-legged in our small backyard garden.
My father had planted tomatoes that year, and I'd been fascinated watching them grow from tiny seedlings to sprawling vines heavy with fruit.
That day, I was talking to them—not the childish babbling of make-believe, but actually conversing with the gentle vibrations I could feel coming from the plants.
"Your leaves are getting yellow here," I'd said, touching a spotted tomato leaf. "Too much water makes you sick."
I remember the exact moment my father found me—the sudden shadow falling across the garden, his sharp intake of breath.
"What are you doing?" he'd asked, his voice tight with something I couldn't identify then but now recognize as fear.
"Talking to the tomatoes," I'd answered honestly. "They said they're getting too much water and—"
His hand had clamped around my upper arm, yanking me to my feet with bruising force. "Plants don't talk. What's wrong with you?"
That night, I'd heard my parents arguing behind their bedroom door. My mother's voice high and frightened: "It's not normal, Paul. First the thing with his eyes changing color, now this? What if he's... not right?"
My father's voice, disgusted: "No son of mine talks to weeds."
I pressed my cheek against the moss-covered tree trunk, the memory so vivid I could feel the phantom grip of my father's fingers on my arm. The forest floor beneath me shifted slightly, roots moving in response to my distress, forming a more secure cradle around my huddled form.
Three nights after the garden incident, I'd been woken from sleep, told to dress quickly and pack a small backpack. "We're going on a trip," my mother had said, not meeting my eyes. Her hands trembled as she helped me put on my jacket, though the night was warm.
The bus station had been nearly empty that late. My father had bought a ticket—not for all of us, just one. He'd pressed twenty dollars into my hand and told me to wait for the bus.
"Where am I going?" I'd asked, confused and frightened.
"Away," he'd answered simply. Then they'd walked out, leaving me alone on a hard plastic chair in a dingy station at midnight.
The bus never came—at least, not before I'd panicked and fled the station, running blindly into the unfamiliar city streets, the twenty dollars clutched in my small fist.