Page 18 of Love, Clumsily (Fur Real Love #2)
Six months later
“Are you sure about this?” Mason asked for approximately the hundredth time since we’d left the cabin this morning. “We can still change plans, do something more… normal for our anniversary.”
I rolled my eyes, adjusting my backpack as we hiked up the narrow mountain trail. “For the last time, yes, I’m sure. It was my idea, remember?”
“I know, but—”
“Mason,” I interrupted, stopping to face him. “I want to spend our one-year anniversary watching you run under the full moon. In that special clearing you told me about, with the perfect view of the valley. It sounds romantic and perfect and very us.”
He studied my face, still looking for signs of reluctance despite my clear enthusiasm. “It’s just… most couples go to nice restaurants for anniversaries. Maybe a weekend getaway at a fancy hotel. Not camping in the woods during a full moon with a werewolf.”
“We’re not most couples,” I reminded him, stretching up to press a quick kiss to his lips. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The worry lines between his brows softened, and he smiled—that special smile that still made my heart skip a beat even after a year together. “Me neither,” he admitted. “I just want today to be perfect for you.”
“It will be,” I assured him, resuming our hike. “Fresh air, beautiful scenery, and my sexy werewolf boyfriend howling at the moon. What could be more perfect?”
He laughed, the sound echoing through the trees around us. “When you put it that way…”
The past six months had been transformative for us. After that night in the forest—the night Mason had finally shown me his wolf without restraint—something had shifted in our relationship. A barrier had fallen, allowing a new level of openness and trust to develop between us.
Mason no longer hid his wolf nature from me—not any aspect of it. He let himself be more instinctual, more primal when the mood struck. Sometimes that manifested in small ways—scent-marking me more obviously, growling when pleased, becoming more tactile and possessive.
Other times, it showed in more significant ways—partial shifts during intense emotions (not just sexual ones), hunting in wolf form and bringing back small game for us to cook together, spending entire weekends in wolf form with me hiking alongside him.
And I had embraced all of it, finding joy in this unique partnership that bridged the human and supernatural worlds. I’d learned to read his wolf body language, to understand his needs in both forms, to appreciate the gift of witnessing him in his truest state.
“Almost there,” Mason said, pulling me from my thoughts. “Just around this bend.”
We emerged from the trees into a clearing that took my breath away.
Situated on a small plateau halfway up the mountain, it offered a panoramic view of the valley below, the town of Pine Haven a tiny cluster of lights in the distance.
Above, the sky was beginning to darken, the first stars appearing as twilight approached.
“Mason,” I breathed, taking in the vista. “It’s beautiful.”
He smiled, clearly pleased by my reaction. “I found this place when I was sixteen, during one of my first solo runs. I’ve never brought anyone else here.”
The significance of that statement wasn’t lost on me. This was his special place, and he was sharing it with me—another barrier falling, another piece of himself offered freely.
“Thank you for bringing me,” I said, squeezing his hand. “It’s perfect.”
We set up our small tent at the edge of the clearing, working together with the practiced efficiency of a couple who had done this several times before.
Camping with Mason had become one of my favorite activities—partly because he made an excellent pack mule with his werewolf strength, and partly because there was something deeply satisfying about sharing a tent in the wilderness, cocooned against the elements together.
As the sun began to set in earnest, Mason built a small fire while I unpacked our dinner—a picnic I’d prepared that morning, with all his favorites. We ate sitting side by side on a fallen log, watching the sky turn from blue to purple to a deep, velvety black scattered with stars.
“The moon will rise soon,” Mason said, his voice already taking on that deeper quality it developed near moonrise. “I can feel it.”
I looked at him in the firelight, noting the subtle changes already manifesting—his eyes more gold than amber, his movements more fluid, his senses clearly heightened as he tilted his head to catch sounds I couldn’t hear.
“Does it still hurt?” I asked, a question I’d never thought to pose before. “The transformation.”
He considered this, his head tilted in that thoughtful way I found so endearing.
“Yes and no,” he finally said. “There’s physical discomfort—bones and muscles rearranging themselves isn’t exactly pleasant.
But it’s also… relieving, in a way. Like finally stretching after being cramped in a small space for too long. ”
I nodded, trying to imagine the sensation. “And tonight? With the full moon?”
“Tonight it will be easier,” he said. “The moon lends its own energy. The shift is faster, smoother. Less painful, more… exhilarating.”
As if on cue, a silvery light began to spill over the eastern ridge—the full moon, rising huge and luminous above the mountains. Mason stiffened beside me, his breath catching.
“It’s time,” he said, his voice now decidedly rougher.
He stood, moving a few paces away from the fire, and began to undress with efficient movements.
I watched, still captivated by his beauty even after countless times witnessing this ritual.
The firelight played across his skin, highlighting the powerful muscles of his back, the strength in his thighs, the perfect curve of his ass as he bent to remove his boots.
Once naked, he turned to me, his eyes now fully gold and glowing in the darkness. “Last chance to change your mind,” he said, a hint of teasing in his tone. “Run away from the big bad wolf.”
I smiled, rising to meet him. “Never,” I said, wrapping my arms around his waist and pressing my clothed body against his naked one. “I prefer running with the wolf.”
He kissed me, a kiss full of heat and promise and wild things, his hands tangling in my hair with just enough pressure to send shivers down my spine. When we broke apart, both breathing harder, there was a hunger in his eyes that had nothing to do with the moon.
“Later,” I promised, trailing my fingers down his chest. “After your run. I want you wild and moondrunk when you take me.”
A growl rumbled through him, vibrating against my palms where they rested on his chest. “Tease,” he accused, but his smile was wolfish and pleased.
“Go,” I urged, stepping back. “Run. I’ll be here when you return.”
He nodded, moving toward the center of the clearing where the moonlight pooled like silver water. There, he closed his eyes, face tilted up to the full moon, arms slightly extended from his sides.
The shift, when it came, was swift and fluid—far less agonizing than what I’d witnessed that night in the forest six months ago.
His body flowed from one form to the other, the transition marked by a brief shimmer in the air around him, as if reality itself wavered at the boundary between human and wolf.
And then where my boyfriend had stood, there was now a massive black wolf with familiar golden eyes, powerful and majestic in the moonlight.
“Beautiful,” I said softly, approaching him without fear. “You’re magnificent, Mason.”
His tail wagged once—an endearingly domestic gesture from such a wild creature—and he butted his head gently against my hand when I reached for him.
I sank my fingers into the thick fur of his neck, marveling as always at the softness. “Go on,” I encouraged. “Run. Hunt. Do what your wolf needs to do. I’ll be waiting.”
He looked at me for a long moment, those intelligent eyes conveying emotions too complex for his canine form to express.
Then he licked my hand once—a gesture that had become his wolf-form equivalent of “I love you”—and bounded away, a shadow flowing across the moonlit clearing and into the forest beyond.
I watched until he disappeared among the trees, then returned to the fire, adding another log to ensure it would burn steadily through the night. The temperature was dropping, but not uncomfortably so—perfect sleeping weather, especially with a werewolf furnace to cuddle with later.
Settling on the log, I pulled a small flask from my backpack—the good whiskey we saved for special occasions—and poured a measure into a camping cup. The liquor burned pleasantly going down, warming me from the inside as I gazed up at the stars and listened to the distant sounds of the forest.
Somewhere out there, Mason was running free, embracing his wolf nature under the full moon. The thought made me smile. How far we’d come from those early days—his fear of showing me his true self, my uncertainty about loving someone so different from anyone I’d known before.
Now I couldn’t imagine my life any other way. The monthly rhythm of the moon, the pack gatherings, the unique challenges and joys of loving a werewolf—all had become integral parts of my existence, as natural as breathing.
From the forest came a howl—deep, melodious, powerful. Mason, singing to the moon. The sound raised goosebumps on my arms, not from fear but from a primal recognition, a resonance deep in my bones.
Without conscious thought, I raised my cup to the moon in a silent toast. To us. To this extraordinary life we’d built together. To the future, whatever it might hold.
I must have dozed off at some point, lulled by the fire’s warmth and the peaceful night sounds. I woke to the sensation of being watched, a prickling awareness that had become familiar over months of living with a werewolf.