The wolf in him

The moment he stepped into my room, I knew what he was. A werewolf.

Fear isn’t just a feeling—it’s a full-body takeover. It started in my chest, like my heart was trying to outrun whatever was coming, pounding so hard it actually hurt. My stomach twisted into knots, my mouth went dry, and suddenly it was hard to breathe—like the air itself had turned against me. Every sound was louder. Every shadow felt alive. My limbs locked up, torn between running and freezing, as if my body couldn’t decide which would keep me alive longer.

He was tall, well over six foot, with black hair that curled slightly at the ends and eyes like obsidian—dark, sharp, watching everything. Even under his clothes, I could tell he was strong. Not bulky like the guards who patrolled the castle walls, but lean. He moved with the quiet confidence of someone who’d never lost a fight.

He was the monster the church had warned me about. He was one of the creatures who walked among us – wanting to kill, to take to control.

He looked wildly out of place in the convent—too wild, too feral—like a wolf among hymn books, holy water, and the brittle scent of dried lavender. The candlelight flickered over the carved saints lining my shelf, casting long shadows, but none as terrifying as him.

I didn’t know how I knew he was a wolf, because he was in human form. But I did.

It wasn’t his predatory eyes or the way he moved. It was something else. Something primal. My bones felt it before my brain did. A warning bell deep inside me, ringing with fear… and something else I didn’t want to name. Something that felt an awful lot like desire.

He didn’t speak. Just stood there, watching me from the shadows. I was twenty-three, and he couldn’t have been more than four or five years older—but something about him made him feel ancient. The moonlight caught the angles of his face—high cheekbones, a sharp jaw, lips that looked both soft and dangerous.

Beautiful. Terrifying.

My heart had never before beaten so fast. His nostrils flared as if he could smell my fear. The corners of his mouth slowly tilted up.

How was he in my room? Had he come to rape me? Or had he come to kill me, like the other wolves killed my parents?

My throat tightened. My body refused to move. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but my legs were tangled in the sheets, my breath frozen in my chest.

I opened my mouth to scream—but in a blur of motion, he crossed the room faster than I could register. One second he was in the shadows, the next his hand was over my mouth—big, rough, and suffocating—cutting off the sound before it ever left my throat. His palm was warm, calloused, smelling faintly of pine and a fresh breeze.

I struggled, but it was useless. He was too strong.

My heart pounded as he yanked me out of bed like I weighed nothing. The sheets slid to the floor in a heap of white fabric, and I gasped as the cool air hit my bare skin. My nightdress was bunched around my thighs, and for a terrifying second, I thought he might tear it from me.

“You’re coming with me,” he growled. He had the kind of voice that didn’t invite questions, only obedience.

Something in me cracked. Not with pain—but with the sharp, breathless shock of realizing I wasn’t in control anymore. Not of my body. Not of the moment. He was bigger, faster, stronger—and I was prey. My blood turned to ice. My muscles locked. But deep beneath the fear, something coiled. Tight. Furious.

I realized I had no say in the matter. But that didn’t mean I’d go quietly. I’d fight him with everything I had.