Page 5 of Stalked (Mating Run #3)

Chapter five

Toby

The forest exploded into motion.

Toby ran. The cold air burned in his lungs, his sneakers barely finding purchase on the damp earth as branches lashed at his arms. The others scattered around him, breaking off in different directions, but he couldn’t focus on them—only on the pounding of his own heartbeat and the knowledge that something was chasing him.

Not to kill. Not to maim.

To mate.

A branch snapped behind him. Toby forced himself to push harder, breath ragged, his body already aching. He had to evade capture until dawn. He had to.

And he tried.

As the night passed, the woods around him began to erupt into sounds: snarls, moans, gasps. Toby’s breath came in sharp, painful bursts as his feet pounded against the earth, his legs starting to feel like lead.

It wasn’t the physical exertion that threatened to slow him down, though—it was the crushing weight of his own thoughts, dragging him under like a tide.

He wasn’t cut out for this. Hell, he wasn’t cut out for anything . He was nothing. That’s what he’d learned. Nothing to anyone who mattered.

Why was he even here? It was all just a game, a joke. The werewolves didn’t want him . No. They just wanted another cheap piece of meat, another body to make the hunt worth something.

A snap of a branch, close this time. Toby’s stomach churned, the cold seeping deeper into his bones. His muscles screamed for mercy, but he pushed on. He had to make it until dawn. He had to.

Because no one was going to save him. He would have to save himself. Even if it meant running until he couldn’t run anymore.

Behind him, howls pierced the night as werewolves claimed their prizes. The sounds of passion echoed through the trees, making his face flush hot despite his exhaustion.

He tripped over a root, catching himself against a thick tree trunk. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. The rough bark pressed against his palm, grounding him in reality while his mind spun with possibilities.

In the distance, another cry of pleasure rang out. His cock twitched in response, and he bit his lip. This was different from the careful, controlled moments alone in his room, posting faceless photos and clips to his secret account. Different from the nights he'd spend editing videos, making sure no identifying marks showed while he displayed himself for strangers' approval.

Those moments had been safe. Clinical. But they'd given him a taste of what he craved: being seen, being wanted. He'd never dared to meet anyone from online, too afraid of rejection, of judgment. Too scared to let anyone close enough to touch him, to know the real him.

A moan echoed through the trees to his right, followed by a growl so primal it made Toby's stomach clench. The sounds of the mating run surrounded him now—panting breaths, skin against skin, whimpers that blurred the line between surrender and ecstasy. Everywhere in these woods, bodies were joining, claiming, taking.

Toby pressed himself against the tree trunk, dizzy with conflicting emotions. His body responded to the raw sexuality hanging in the air like a physical presence, but his mind raced with panic. He'd never even been kissed—not properly. His high school years spent dodging bullies, his college days buried in essays and careful observation. He'd constructed a thousand fantasies, but had no reality to compare them to.

Now he was drowning in it. The reality of desire made flesh.

He felt like a child at an adult party. A fraud. An intruder. A desperate laugh bubbled in his throat. For all his careful exhibitionism online, he wouldn't even know what to do if someone actually touched him.

The wind shifted. A chill skated across his skin, and suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. A lifetime of being bullied had sharpened his instincts. He knew when someone had locked onto him.

Someone was hunting him.

Toby whipped around just as something lunged from the shadows.

He barely had time to react, but he did. He dodged. His heart slammed against his ribs as he twisted out of reach, the air slicing past him where the grip should have landed. His body surged with a flash of pride, raw and unexpected.

But it lasted only a second.

A second wasn’t enough.

Because before he could run, before he could take another breath, they came again.

This time, he wasn’t fast enough. Strong arms wrapped around him from behind, a solid, unyielding force pulling him back against heat, muscle, power.

Toby gasped, body going rigid, every nerve screaming. A rough hand pressed against his stomach, holding him firm. A shiver of something dark and primal skated down his spine, tangled up in fear, in the kind of anticipation he didn’t want to name.

Hot breath ghosted over his neck. "You smell delicious."

The deep voice sent a shudder through him, sinking into his bones.

Oh.

Just like that, his hopes of escaping the night unscathed were over.

Large hands slid down his sides, firm yet careful, mapping him with slow, deliberate pressure. Not groping. Not claiming. Just exploring. Toby trembled, breath stuttering. Every muscle screamed at him to fight, to thrash, to expect the worst.

Because he knew how this was supposed to go.

The wolves didn’t waste time. They didn’t tease. They chased, they caught, they took. The hunt wasn’t a game—it was a need, and once a human was claimed, that was it.

So why was he still standing?

Sharp teeth grazed his throat, dragging slow over his pulse, not biting—just tasting. Toby gasped, a shudder rolling through him.

“Shhh,” the werewolf murmured against his skin, voice deep and velvety. “I won’t hurt you.”

Toby barely heard him over the pounding of his own heart.

The werewolf’s chest pressed flush against his back, solid and hot, heat soaking through Toby’s thin shirt. The hands on him weren’t rough, weren’t demanding. They moved with purpose, stroking over his ribs, down to his hips, fingers skimming his waistband in a way that made Toby shiver.

Why was this different?

His fingers dug into his palms, bracing himself for the moment his captor finally stopped playing and took what he came for.

But instead—lips. Soft lips replaced teeth on his neck, kissing.

Slow, gentle, devouring him in a way he hadn’t expected.

Toby sucked in a breath, every nerve alight. He should be panicking. His body should be locked up tight, anticipating pain, force, something brutal and inevitable.

Instead, he was being kissed.

The werewolf hummed approvingly, dragging his mouth along the sensitive skin behind Toby’s ear. The praise—that low, pleased tone—sent a fresh shiver through him.

“Perfect,” the werewolf murmured, hands still tracing over Toby’s body in slow, reverent strokes. One large palm flattened over Toby’s stomach, steadying him. The other traced idle circles on his hip, fingertips barely pressing into the fabric of his jeans.

His captor didn’t push. Didn’t shove him down.

Didn’t treat him like prey to be chewed up and spat out.

Despite everything—despite fear still clawing at the edges of his mind—Toby found himself leaning back, just the slightest bit. The werewolf let out a quiet, satisfied growl, nuzzling into the crook of Toby’s neck. The scent of cedar and leather surrounded him, teasing at memories that fear kept just out of reach.

Toby’s lips parted, his breath unsteady. What the hell was happening?

Why did it feel like he was being courted instead of conquered?

The werewolf growled, pleased. Something about the tone, the cadence, tugged at Toby’s memory. He knew that voice... But fear and confusion clouded his thoughts, blurring the edges, making it impossible to place.

The werewolf shifted, and Toby gasped as the unmistakable press of a hard, thick cock dragged against his ass. A thrill of panic shot through him, but it came tangled with something else—something hot and wrong and deep in his gut. He clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in his belly, trying to remind himself that he should be terrified.

"I've been watching you," the werewolf growled, voice rough with want. "waiting for this moment."

Toby stiffened. His breath hitched. "W-watching me?" His mind spun, grasping for explanations, each more impossible than the last.

Had this man seen his videos? Had he been one of the nameless, faceless watchers Toby had put himself on display for?

The werewolf's hands slid lower, palms firm as they cupped his hips, pulling him back against that solid, unmistakable length. Toby let out a sharp, helpless noise, something he didn’t even recognize as his own. He had never been touched like this before, not with this kind of possession, this quiet, devastating need.

"That doesn't matter," the werewolf murmured, lips brushing against the shell of his ear. "As soon as I saw you, I knew I had to make you mine."

Toby’s pulse pounded. That voice…

That voice.

The realization hit him all at once, cold and sharp, cutting through the fog of fear and arousal. His body moved before his mind could catch up. In a burst of courage, Toby twisted in the werewolf’s grip, breaking free just enough to face him.

His eyes widened. His stomach dropped.

Piercing green eyes. A strong, chiseled jaw.

Power. Control. Recognition.

"You?" The whisper barely made it past his lips.

Mason smiled down at him, slow and knowing, his expression dark with hunger, soft with something else. "Me."