Page 3 of Run, Little Doe

I’ll let her dance a little longer. Let her senses play like the flames from the bonfire. Let her believe she’s safe.

And when the fire burns lower, when the music fades, the town quiets, and the masks come off—that’s when the hunt will truly begin.

****

The night deepens, folding in on itself like a held breath. The music from the field grows distant as I make my way through the darkness, the beat softened by the trees that fringe on the edge of the forest. Lantern light spills only so far from the main trail before surrendering to darkness, and beyond that, it’s all shadow and smoke.

She drifts there — my Little Doe — camera in hand, chasing the last traces of light. I watch from the tree line, quiet, my pulse steady and unhurried. She doesn’t realize she’s wandered this far from the field and the crowd. Not yet. The laughter and music fade behind her, swallowed by the woods as she captures photo after photo of the woods in the moonlight, and the only sounds left are the whisper of leaves and the click of her camera.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Each flash illuminates her face for a heartbeat — those wide, searching eyes behind the auburn mask, the rise and fall of her breath, the faint tremble at her throat.

She’s not running, not yet. She doesn’t feel the need, or the want, yet.

But she’s close.

I take a step forward, the crunch of my boot against fallen leaves nearly lost beneath the wind. Her head lifts at the sound — sharp and instinctive. For a moment, she freezes.

I could retreat. But I don’t.

Instead, I let the silence stretch between us, taut as wire. She turns toward the trees, camera poised, breath shallow. The flash bursts once more — a pulse of white that paints the world stark and unreal — and in that moment, our eyes meet.

No mask can hide that kind of recognition.

Her breath catches. The camera drops to her chest. The light from her lantern flickers, and suddenly the forest feels too still, the shadows too alive.

I step closer, the faint gleam of my wolf mask catching under the full moon.

“Careful,” I say, voice low — a warning, a promise. “This part of the woods isn’t kind to those who stray too far.”

Her lips part, confusion, and curiosity warring across her face. “I was just—taking photos.”

“I know.”

I could touch her now if I wanted to. Could reach out and lift the ribbon from her mask, see the truth beneath it. But I don’t. The restraint is almost painful, but where would the fun be in that?

Instead, I tip my head slightly, the movement practiced, wolfish.

“Go back to the fire, Little Doe.”

The nickname lands like a spark — something she shouldn’t understand but does.

Her breath falters. “What did you call me?”

But when she looks again, I’m gone — only smoke and leaves where I stood, the sound of my retreat lost to the sounds of the night.

The festival hums faintly in the distance, but the forest feels changed now, charged. I know she can still feel me there in the dark — the echo of my voice, the press of unseen eyes, the promise of the hunt not yet finished.

The time to play will come, Little Doe.

Sirena

I must have imagined him.