24. Annabella #2
I could smell maple sap running three trees over, sticky-sweet and sharp.
A rabbit had bolted through here this morning, chased by a fox; the fear-scent still clung to the grass in a thin, sour trail.
Fifteen feet up, a bird’s nest held the dry-grass smell of robin and the ghost of old rain.
The moss on the fallen log was saturated with last night’s downpour.
And Sam…Sam smelled delicious to my senses.
Howling hell.
In human form, his scent was woodsmoke and chocolate and lime, and I’d been pretending for weeks that it didn’t affect me.
In wolf form, there was nowhere to hide from it.
Every layer peeled open; the woodsmoke went deep and warm, the chocolate turned rich and dark, and the lime sharpened into something electric that made every hair on my body stand up.
But underneath all of it was a scent I’d never been able to name, something that bypassed my brain entirely and spoke straight to my wolf.
She knew what it meant. She’d always known.
Mate.
The word vibrated round my entire body, like I’d been stuck with a giant hammer. I took a step forward before I could stop myself.
Sam turned, and I heard his heart skip.
For a long moment he just looked at me. I knew what he was seeing; the damage I had done to my wolf was clear in every part of my body. I wanted to hide. My tail went between my legs, and I slunk low to the ground.
“So fucking beautiful,” he whispered.
He thought I was beautiful. Even broken and healing and glowing with forbidden magic.
Something in my chest unlocked.
My wolf wasn’t the monster I’d feared. She wasn’t rage waiting to consume me, or some feral thing clawing to take over.
She was the part of me that had waited in the dark, patient and loyal despite the cage I’d built, because she was me and she knew—she’d always known—that eventually I’d come back for her.
Sam moved closer. Slowly. Giving me time.
“There you are,” he said softly, and his fingers touched my face. It was gentle, reverent, like he’d been waiting too.
Mate.
Yes, I agreed. He was our mate.
I pressed my head against his chest. His arms came around me, careful of my too-thin frame, and held me while we inhaled each other’s breath.
“You did it,” he murmured. “I knew you could.”
Then he pulled back, and his eyes held a mischievous glint. “Want to see what you’ve been missing?”
He stood and moved toward a thick cluster of bushes. “Give me two minutes.”
I settled onto my belly in the pine needles, front paws crossed, watching him disappear behind the foliage.
But the bushes weren’t quite tall enough to hide everything.
I caught glimpses as he pulled his shirt over his head, the movement of muscle across his back, the way the afternoon sun turned his skin gold.
His jeans came next; a flash of strong thighs, the line of his stomach disappearing into—
I should look away. I should absolutely, definitely look away.
I did not look away.
“Enjoying the show, Moonbeam?” His voice carried nothing but amusement.
I huffed, which in wolf form came out as an indignant snort. But my tail might have wagged. Once. Briefly. It meant nothing.
The sounds of his Shift started: bones cracking and reforming, that pop-and-stretch rhythm I knew from my own body. The bushes thrashed as his form dropped, changed, rebuilt itself.
Silence.
A massive black wolf launched over the bush in one powerful arc, landing beside me with the kind of effortless grace that was frankly obnoxious. His fur was glossy and thick. And his eyes, those perfect green eyes, were exactly the same; full of warmth and a hint of playful challenge.
He dropped into a bow, tail wagging, and let out a soft woof. An invitation: Let’s run.
Joy hit me so hard it hurt. When was the last time someone had wanted to play with us? When was the last time we’d been invited to just…be?
Sam bounced backward, then spun in a circle, kicking up pine needles as if he was a pup. I couldn’t help it. A sound came out of me; a happy yip that surprised me with how young it sounded. How light. His ears shot forward at the sound, and then he took off into the trees.
Instinct kicked in before I could think about it. My paws dug into the earth, and I was running, really running, for the first time in years.
Spirits take me, I’d forgotten what this felt like.
How the wind through my fur felt like freedom itself.
I’d forgotten how the world became infinite; every scent a story, every sound a map, every muscle working in perfect sync.
The ground became an open book: deer had passed this way at dawn, a rabbit den sat twenty yards south, and the ancient scent trails of the Three Rivers Pack marked territory in overlapping layers that spoke of generations.
And the speed. Even with my wasted muscles, even with my ribs aching and my legs burning from disuse, the speed was there.
My body knew what to do; it had just been waiting to do this.
Sam stayed just ahead. Not racing, but pacing himself to match me, letting me chase, letting me remember what it meant to move for joy instead of survival.
He veered left, leaping a log. I followed, my body knowing exactly how to bunch and release, how to launch and sail through the air and land running.
We burst into a second clearing where a stream cut through the trees, and Sam skidded to a stop at the water’s edge.
He turned back with what could only be described as a wolfish grin, then deliberately put one paw in the water and flicked it at me.
The absolute hexing nerve.
I charged, aiming to bowl him over, but he danced sideways at the last second, and I caught nothing but air and stream water.
I spun, snapped at his tail—playful, testing—and he pounced back.
We tussled like cubs, all play-growls and careful nips, rolling through pine needles and shallow water.
We stopped, both panting, water dripping from our fur, and the thought hit me that I was happy.
Not just content or satisfied or managing, but genuinely, purely happy.
My wolf was singing with it, this feeling of being accepted, being seen, being free.
Sam moved closer, and this time when he pressed against my side, it felt different. Not careful or tentative, but natural. Like this was where we both belonged. I leaned into him, and we stood there breathing together, watching the sun filter through the trees and paint everything gold.
Thank you.
I felt wetness around my eyes. She didn’t need to thank me, had nothing to thank me for. I should have done this years ago.
We ran back slower, side by side. I stopped to investigate scents—fox den here, wildflowers there, a patch of earth where something had dug for grubs—and Sam let me, patient as I relearned my own senses.
He kept doing ridiculous things; pouncing on leaves, play-stalking a very unimpressed squirrel, rolling in a patch of wildflowers, until I was making those happy yipping sounds again.
By the time we circled back to the clearing, the sun sat lower, the light had gone amber and warm, and I felt like someone had reached inside me and rearranged everything into a better order.