The Wolf
I watch her long before she ever lifts the camera.
Through the haze of heat from the bonfire and the veil of dancing smoke, I watch, tracking her every movement — the way her fingers tighten on the lens, the way she hides behind it, as if that could ever protect her.
The mask she wears catches the light like copper flame, those delicate doe eyes carved wide and trusting.
I laugh to myself.
Trusting.
If only she knew what tonight was made for.
The crowd swells and bends around her like waves in the sea.
Music rises — wild, as if thrumming through the earth.
I feel it in my blood, in the sharp ache beneath my ribs.
The air reeks of cider and heat, and yet her scent permeates through it all, something warm and sweet, edged with sorrow and something dark not yet awakened.
I’ve followed that scent before — through the alley from the pub late at night after closing, down the narrow lanes of this town that pretends it has no secrets, through the woods as she took shortcuts to her home, at town events not unlike this one.
I feasted upon her scent through her open window while she lay fast asleep, dreaming those dreams that make her whimper; the ones that make her moan.
I've lost myself in her pheromones while she sat on her porch reading her dirty books; while her eyes glazed over, her mind putting herself into those books she devoured night after night. My dirty Little Doe.
But tonight is different.
Tonight, the masks give me permission. Tonight, I'm done with the stalking. I'm taking my prey. This is her favourite event of the year, and I plan to make it one of the most memorable nights of her life.
She turns, just once, her gaze brushing mine. Even from a distance, I feel the hit of it — I can see my Little Doe’s pulse quicken on her throat. The camera flashes. For an instant, her world collides with mine, and I know—she saw me. Not enough to understand, but enough to feel.
The instinct to claim her stirs low in my chest, primal and certain.
Mine.
I slip deeper into the smoke, keeping her in my line of sight as she lets the other girl pull her toward the fire.
She moves like a creature born of light and loss, caught somewhere between running and staying.
Her laughter comes hesitantly, forced — I can tell the moment she feels me again.
The way her shoulders stiffen. The way she looks over her shoulder, pretending she isn’t searching.
I’ll wait. I’m patient. The wolf knows when to stalk and when to chase.
When the first sparks drift skyward, carried by the breeze toward the dark line of the forest, I finally turn away. The festival continues roaring behind me, alive and oblivious, while I disappear into the trees, biding my time until the moment is right.
I’ll let her dance a little longer. Let her senses play like the flames from the bonfire. Let her believe she’s safe.
And when the fire burns lower, when the music fades, the town quiets, and the masks come off—that’s when the hunt will truly begin.
****
The night deepens, folding in on itself like a held breath.
The music from the field grows distant as I make my way through the darkness, the beat softened by the trees that fringe on the edge of the forest. Lantern light spills only so far from the main trail before surrendering to darkness, and beyond that, it’s all shadow and smoke.
She drifts there — my Little Doe — camera in hand, chasing the last traces of light.
I watch from the tree line, quiet, my pulse steady and unhurried.
She doesn’t realize she’s wandered this far from the field and the crowd.
Not yet. The laughter and music fade behind her, swallowed by the woods as she captures photo after photo of the woods in the moonlight, and the only sounds left are the whisper of leaves and the click of her camera.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Each flash illuminates her face for a heartbeat — those wide, searching eyes behind the auburn mask, the rise and fall of her breath, the faint tremble at her throat.
She’s not running, not yet. She doesn’t feel the need, or the want, yet.
But she’s close.
I take a step forward, the crunch of my boot against fallen leaves nearly lost beneath the wind. Her head lifts at the sound — sharp and instinctive. For a moment, she freezes.
I could retreat. But I don’t.
Instead, I let the silence stretch between us, taut as wire. She turns toward the trees, camera poised, breath shallow. The flash bursts once more — a pulse of white that paints the world stark and unreal — and in that moment, our eyes meet.
No mask can hide that kind of recognition.
Her breath catches. The camera drops to her chest. The light from her lantern flickers, and suddenly the forest feels too still, the shadows too alive.
I step closer, the faint gleam of my wolf mask catching under the full moon.
“Careful,” I say, voice low — a warning, a promise. “This part of the woods isn’t kind to those who stray too far.”
Her lips part, confusion, and curiosity warring across her face. “I was just—taking photos.”
“I know.”
I could touch her now if I wanted to. Could reach out and lift the ribbon from her mask, see the truth beneath it. But I don’t. The restraint is almost painful, but where would the fun be in that?
Instead, I tip my head slightly, the movement practiced, wolfish.
“Go back to the fire, Little Doe.”
The nickname lands like a spark — something she shouldn’t understand but does.
Her breath falters. “What did you call me?”
But when she looks again, I’m gone — only smoke and leaves where I stood, the sound of my retreat lost to the sounds of the night.
The festival hums faintly in the distance, but the forest feels changed now, charged. I know she can still feel me there in the dark — the echo of my voice, the press of unseen eyes, the promise of the hunt not yet finished.
The time to play will come, Little Doe.