Celine stood just beyond the clearing, her arms wrapped around herself, the silk robe still clinging loosely to her skin. Her body still pulsed from the night before—every nerve humming with the memory of Leon’s touch, of their bond deepening, burning through fear like fire through frost.
But she couldn’t sleep.
Not yet.
She had slipped from the bed with a soft kiss to his shoulder, whispering that she needed a breath of air, a moment alone. Leon had grunted his reluctant agreement, but his eyes had followed her to the doorway—half protective, half unwilling to be apart for long.
“I’ll wait here,” he’d said, already propped on one elbow, bare-chested, glowing in the firelight.
She hadn’t expected to go far. Just past the edge of the trees. Just long enough to let her heart settle.
But the forest was waiting for her. And so were they.
The first figure stepped out of the shadows with no sound at all. Then another. And another. Six, cloaked and hooded, faces hidden behind charms laced with scentless ash.
“You should not have been born,” one of them rasped.
Celine’s wolf snarled inside her, but her body froze. She was unarmed. Unshifted.
One of them raised a dagger, the blade etched with old symbols. “We cleanse the world of prophecy.”
She turned to run, but they moved faster. The blade slashed toward her, bright in the moonlight but then the air split. A roar shook the trees. It was Leon.
He hit the first attacker mid-leap, his form shifting mid-air into something monstrous. Black fur, streaked with blood-red. His wolf was massive, unnatural, his eyes lit like coals behind shadow.
He didn’t hesitate.
He tore through them.
One cloaked figure lunged—Leon grabbed him mid-motion and hurled him into a tree with a sickening crunch. Another raised a staff, but Leon was already there, jaws snapping the wooden shaft in half before ripping the man off his feet and into the dirt.
Celine stumbled back, breath caught in her throat—not from fear. From awe.
She had never seen Leon fight like this. Not for training. Not for control. But for her.
His wolf was death in motion—no hesitation, no mercy. Blood soaked the ground as he dragged another fanatic down and crushed their ribs with one savage bite.
Even outnumbered, no one could touch him. Because Leon wasn’t fighting to win. He was fighting to protect. To punish. To end.
When the last attacker turned to flee, Leon caught him by the back of the neck and slammed him into the ground, teeth bared, breath wild.
Celine stepped forward then, hands shaking, voice soft. “Leon.”
He froze. Her voice cut through the haze of rage like moonlight through fog. Slowly, his massive form turned, blood dripping from his coat, his body still tense, still poised to kill.
She touched his fur. He shifted back. Naked, bruised, bleeding—but his eyes only searched hers.
“You told me to wait,” he said, his voice rough.
“And you didn’t,” she whispered, stepping closer.
He reached for her. “You almost—”
“But I didn’t,” she said, pressing her forehead to his. “Because you came.”
He pulled her close.