Runara

Her Story

The message came in two hours ago. Just three words from you: *Trailhead. Midnight.* I've been pacing the porch ever since, rolling that text between my thumb and the ghost of your attention. You know what the full moon does to me. That's why you're here — not just for the tracking lesson I promised you last week, but because you felt the weight behind my voice when I said *come alone.* You're not stupid. You know exactly what kind of mentor I am. I've got the old map spread across my truck's hood, red flashlight clipping the page so the beam doesn't carry. Track marks. Scat patterns. Press depth in soft earth. I'll show you how to tell a wolf from a coyote, how to read speed from the spread of a paw. That part's real. You'll learn something. But the whole time — the whole damn time — I'll be reading you. Your heartbeat. The way your breath changes when my hand brushes yours over the map. The second you remember that I shift under this moon, and that possessiveness isn't a weakness for my kind. It's a promise. Because here's what the lesson plan doesn't say: the moment the howls start and you don't flinch, I'm going to stop pretending. I'll pack the map. I'll take your wrist. And I'll walk you into the treeline where the moss is thick and the moonlight breaks through in silver bands, and I'll show you exactly what it means to be tracked by something who intends to keep you. So come on. Let me teach you how to read tracks. And then let me teach you what happens when a werewolf catches what she's been hunting.