Page 14 of Run, Little Doe

Something moves between the trees — slow, deliberate. A figure pulling free of the dark. Moonlight catches on bone. The wolf mask.

Him.

Every thought in my head scatters. I can’t tell if I’m afraid or relieved — maybe both.

He doesn’t speak at first. He just stands there, half in shadow, his chest rising and falling in time with mine. The space between us hums. It feels alive with need, desire, and something feral. When he finally steps forward, I feel it before I see it — the air tightening, my heartbeat stumbling.

The sound of his boots against the fallen leaves, the scent of his cologne and sweat on the breeze. I can almost feel the heat of his body as if he were pressed up against me before he even touches my skin. The ache between my thighs grows, a desperate need to be touched, to be satisfied. I’ll bet he can smell my arousal from wherever he is in the shadows.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says. His voice is low, rough, the same voice that chased me through the woods mere hours ago. I shiver, but it’s not from the cold.

“I couldn’t stop,” I admit, barely a whisper. “I tried to go home, but—”

He tilts his head, the mask catching the moonlight. “But you didn’t,” he finishes for me.

I nod, throat too tight to speak.

He takes another step closer. The distance between us collapses until I can feel the warmth of him — solid, possessive, distinctly masculine, and dangerous. My pulse drums against the ribbon at my throat, and I know he can see it.

In my head, I imagine his hand closing over my pulse, pressing just enough to make me dizzy, to make me yield to his strength. My body aches with the desire to feel his skin on mine. His massive body caging mine in.

“Are you afraid?” he asks.

I should say yes because I should be afraid. Instead, what comes out is the truth I can barely admit to myself, “No.”

He moves closer still, and I step backward, my back meets the rough bark of a tree. The night feels smaller now, caged around us. His shadow falls over mine. My hands twitch at my side, fighting the urge to reach out and touch him and ensure this is all really happening. I’ve created scenarios in my head like this, and I’m desperate to see who is underneath that mask.

“You’ve been looking for me,” he says. “All night.”

“I don’t know what I’m looking for,” I admit.

He leans in, just enough that the edge of the wolf’s jaw grazes my hair. “Yes, you do. You just won’t admit it yet.”

My breath stumbles out. The world narrows to the space between us — his voice, his scent, the steady rhythm of his breath against my skin.

I can’t help that my brain automatically trails off to what his body would feel like fully pressed against mine, the things he would whisper in my ear, and tell me to do, what he wanted. I can feel my body trembling and my knees going weak, but it isn’t from fear, it’s from anticipation. I want this more than I can begin to explain, even to myself.

“I saw you,” I whisper. “At the fire. Watching me.”

“I’ve been watching you for a long time, Little Doe.”

Something in the way he says it makes my stomach twist, my thighs clench together desperate for friction to relieve the tension building in my center. There’s recognition in his tone — familiarity, intimacy. I know I’ve heard this voice before, but I can’t place it. “Who are you?” I ask, even though part of me already knows what the answer will be.

He doesn’t reply, not with words at least. His gloved hand lifts — slow, deliberate — and brushes the edge of my mask. The contact is featherlight, but it steals my breath.

I’m desperate to feel his skin instead of this glove, but the anticipation is one in the same. His finger traces the outline of my mask, the curve of my jaw, pausing so delicately at my lips. Without thinking, I instinctively part them, my body aching for more. More contact. More heat. Just more.

He exhales, the sound deep and restrained.

“If you knew,” he says softly, “you might not let me touch you.”

“Then don’t tell me,” I say breathlessly, the words leave my mouth before I can stop them.

He bends closer to me now, and I can feel every ounce of restraint I had breaking and I call myself a little crazy. I can feel his breath on my cheek, the promise of what is to come lingering between us. I can feel how wet this is making me, everything I’m wearing soaked through, from sweat and from need.

The forest around us goes still — as if it's waiting. Even the wind holds its breath. When he finally closes the last inch between us, the world seems to tilt. Everything I thought I feared becomes something I want.

Something Ineed.