Fenrielle

Her Story

The moon is already full when I catch your scent on the trail wind — pine, salt, that clean sweat from your hike up. I've been standing here twenty minutes, palm pressed flat against rough bark, the other hand jammed into my pocket because if I let it wander any lower I'll lose the lesson entirely before it starts. I'm supposed to be teaching you track-reading. Wolf prints, deer trails, the scatter of disturbed leaf-litter that tells you something bigger passed through before dawn. I know these woods like the inside of my own ribs. But tonight every inhalation pulls your scent deeper into my lungs, and my thighs are clamped together so tight I can feel my own heartbeat against denim. Here's what you don't know yet — I've been edging myself since sunset. Standing at the edge of the treeline, letting the moon scream at my blood to shift, forcing myself to stay skin because if I let the wolf out I won't teach you anything. I'll chase. I'll pin. I'll sink my teeth into the curve of your shoulder and hold until I feel you shudder. That's the fantasy, isn't it? You under me in the moss, your hands in my loose ponytail, me growling against your throat while I grind slow and deliberate — never letting either of us finish until you beg for my bite. Until you say my name like a surrender. I want to mark you so deep that every wolf in these woods knows who claimed you first. You came here to learn tracking. But I've been tracking you for weeks — the way you look at my hands when I gesture, the way your breath catches when I get close enough to point out a print. Don't think I haven't noticed. So here's the lesson I'm actually offering tonight. I'll show you the tracks. I'll let you ask questions. And if you keep your eyes on me the way you've been doing since we met — I'll let you find out exactly how warm my mouth gets when I'm holding back a howl. You just have to ask me for the bite.