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The moon hung low and heavy over the forest, spilling silver light across the endless snow. The trees were black, tall, thin, and creaked long and terrible, like wolves. Their branches bent under the weight of winter, and the air was so cold it seemed everything cracked, and the silence was loud.

Orson moved through the darkness on two legs – for now. His massive figure blended with the shadows, white fur catching the moonlight, and he looked terrifying, as the mountain's top predator should. Tonight he wasn't a man. Not that he ever really was one. And not that he'd ever been one at night either. But tonight, his beast had come out to hunt for a completely different reason.

Mating season had begun.

It burned in his blood like a fever. Every scent was sharper, every sound was louder. He could hear his own heart, hear the trembling, feel the need, the passion, the bitterness; his breath was hot and heavy, and the beast couldn't stop it.

He hadn't slept properly in a week. He barely ate. He gave himself less and less time as a man. Loneliness gnawed at him. It always had. But now it was more unbearable than ever.

He'd been patrolling his territory for the third time tonight. He rubbed his flank against rough pine bark, leaving his scent, sniffed the snow, searching for trespassers, for prey, ran on two legs, on four, snapped his teeth at the wind.

A squirrel chattered from a branch above him, and he roared at it. Orson watched it go, breathing hard, then lowered his nose to the snow again.

And froze.

A scent.

Tracks.

Not his.

Something that walked on two legs.

He raised his head, ears pinning flat to his skull instantly.

Someone's on my territory.

He dropped to all fours and followed the trail. His nose worked feverishly, twitching, and the closer he got, the faster he moved. The scent was intoxicating, and he understood that with every step. It filled his head, his chest, his groin.

The tracks led him through the trees, past a frozen creek, across a clearing where the moon bathed the snow in silver.

He passed the bank of a creek that refused to freeze, lapped at the water before moving on. The moon shone bright tonight, and when the scent became unbearable, he realized he'd reached his destination – if you could call it that.

He raised his head… and then he saw them.

His eyes locked in the darkness, snapping into focus before he even registered that the figure wasn't standing still – it was running.

Running? Big mistake.

His instincts roared.

Prey.

Prey that runs.

Prey that smells so fucking good.

Prey he wanted, needed, had to have.

He bolted after them.

Snow flew from under his paws, trees blurred with motion. His breath burst out in huge clouds of steam, and his heart pounded with the thrill of the hunt. He drove them, cut off their paths, herded them deeper into his territory, closer to the den. He could've caught them a dozen times, but something in him held back and wanted to play.

They ran. He followed. They stumbled. He closed the distance. Over and over, until he got bored. With one big burst of speed, he lunged forward and took them down.

They rolled together through the snow. He pinned them under his massive weight, claws digging into the frozen ground on either side of their head. He snarled, low and rolling, and lowered his muzzle to their neck, breathing them in.

Mine.

He didn't know what he was doing, honestly, because for the first time in a long time, his beast had decided to spare someone. To play, to grab, to take home – not just devour.

And morning came slowly, pale and gray, seeping through the den's entrance in thin strips of light.

His body ached from the harsh transformation. He remembered almost nothing, but judging by how exhausted and sleepy he was, he'd clearly gone hunting. That's what he'd say – if he wasn't starving.

His stomach growled, then roared. He rolled onto his side and Orson blinked, his mind sluggish. He stretched, yawned, and rolled onto his back, staring at the dirt ceiling above.

Something was wrong.

He frowned. Sniffed.

Had he caught a deer?

A scent. In his den.

No, not deer.

Pheasant?

No, damn it – meat didn't smell like that.

His eyes snapped open with predator speed, instantly focused.

Not his. The scent wasn't his.

Not dead.

Alive.

He sat up, heart suddenly pounding, and scanned the den.

One second, two – one corner, then the other. His nose worked. He growled, rose on instinct to all fours, almost slipped, turned, and his eyes found movement in the corner with lightning speed.

He stared at them, unblinking. Stranger.

His eyes widened. His jaw dropped. He stared at them, then at himself, then at the den entrance, then back at them.

What.

He didn't remember. He didn't remember bringing them here. He remembered nothing. The night was a blur, and now it was morning, and there was a person in his den.

He rose to his feet properly. Slowly. Carefully. His claws scraped the ground, and he saw the figure move. Were they sleeping? Pretending? Hurt? Who were they?

His heart lurched, awkward.

Who is this.

He didn't know what to do. Didn't know whether to growl, run, or just stand there like an idiot.

"You. Awake?."

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The moon hung low and heavy over the forest, spilling silver light across the endless snow. The trees were black, tall, thin, and creaked long and terrible, like wolves. Their branches bent under the weight of winter, and the air was so cold it seemed everything cracked, and the silence was loud.

Orson moved through the darkness on two legs – for now. His massive figure blended with the shadows, white fur catching the moonlight, and he looked terrifying, as the mountain's top predator should. Tonight he wasn't a man. Not that he ever really was one. And not that he'd ever been one at night either. But tonight, his beast had come out to hunt for a completely different reason.

Mating season had begun.

It burned in his blood like a fever. Every scent was sharper, every sound was louder. He could hear his own heart, hear the trembling, feel the need, the passion, the bitterness; his breath was hot and heavy, and the beast couldn't stop it.

He hadn't slept properly in a week. He barely ate. He gave himself less and less time as a man. Loneliness gnawed at him. It always had. But now it was more unbearable than ever.

He'd been patrolling his territory for the third time tonight. He rubbed his flank against rough pine bark, leaving his scent, sniffed the snow, searching for trespassers, for prey, ran on two legs, on four, snapped his teeth at the wind.

A squirrel chattered from a branch above him, and he roared at it. Orson watched it go, breathing hard, then lowered his nose to the snow again.

And froze.

A scent.

Tracks.

Not his.

Something that walked on two legs.

He raised his head, ears pinning flat to his skull instantly.

Someone's on my territory.

He dropped to all fours and followed the trail. His nose worked feverishly, twitching, and the closer he got, the faster he moved. The scent was intoxicating, and he understood that with every step. It filled his head, his chest, his groin.

The tracks led him through the trees, past a frozen creek, across a clearing where the moon bathed the snow in silver.

He passed the bank of a creek that refused to freeze, lapped at the water before moving on. The moon shone bright tonight, and when the scent became unbearable, he realized he'd reached his destination – if you could call it that.

He raised his head… and then he saw them.

His eyes locked in the darkness, snapping into focus before he even registered that the figure wasn't standing still – it was running.

Running? Big mistake.

His instincts roared.

Prey.

Prey that runs.

Prey that smells so fucking good.

Prey he wanted, needed, had to have.

He bolted after them.

Snow flew from under his paws, trees blurred with motion. His breath burst out in huge clouds of steam, and his heart pounded with the thrill of the hunt. He drove them, cut off their paths, herded them deeper into his territory, closer to the den. He could've caught them a dozen times, but something in him held back and wanted to play.

They ran. He followed. They stumbled. He closed the distance. Over and over, until he got bored. With one big burst of speed, he lunged forward and took them down.

They rolled together through the snow. He pinned them under his massive weight, claws digging into the frozen ground on either side of their head. He snarled, low and rolling, and lowered his muzzle to their neck, breathing them in.

Mine.

He didn't know what he was doing, honestly, because for the first time in a long time, his beast had decided to spare someone. To play, to grab, to take home – not just devour.

And morning came slowly, pale and gray, seeping through the den's entrance in thin strips of light.

His body ached from the harsh transformation. He remembered almost nothing, but judging by how exhausted and sleepy he was, he'd clearly gone hunting. That's what he'd say – if he wasn't starving.

His stomach growled, then roared. He rolled onto his side and Orson blinked, his mind sluggish. He stretched, yawned, and rolled onto his back, staring at the dirt ceiling above.

Something was wrong.

He frowned. Sniffed.

Had he caught a deer?

A scent. In his den.

No, not deer.

Pheasant?

No, damn it – meat didn't smell like that.

His eyes snapped open with predator speed, instantly focused.

Not his. The scent wasn't his.

Not dead.

Alive.

He sat up, heart suddenly pounding, and scanned the den.

One second, two – one corner, then the other. His nose worked. He growled, rose on instinct to all fours, almost slipped, turned, and his eyes found movement in the corner with lightning speed.

He stared at them, unblinking. Stranger.

His eyes widened. His jaw dropped. He stared at them, then at himself, then at the den entrance, then back at them.

What.

He didn't remember. He didn't remember bringing them here. He remembered nothing. The night was a blur, and now it was morning, and there was a person in his den.

He rose to his feet properly. Slowly. Carefully. His claws scraped the ground, and he saw the figure move. Were they sleeping? Pretending? Hurt? Who were they?

His heart lurched, awkward.

Who is this.

He didn't know what to do. Didn't know whether to growl, run, or just stand there like an idiot.

Then he saw them move again – trying to scramble away, small and quick, like a cornered animal.

Oh. No. Wait. It was them. That was the scent, right? It didn't take him long – his tired, confused face shifted into something darker.

His lips curled, slowly, into a grin.

He spread his arms wide, one toward each side of the den, blocking the space. His massive body tilted, and he loomed over them. They were so small.

A toy. A fun, wriggling little toy.

And this… this was fun.

He didn't really want to sleep anymore. He lowered himself again, eyes unblinking, watching them with sharp predator grace, and slowly lowered a hand, blinking toward the exit.

That scent was maddening. He felt saliva pooling in his mouth and exhaled loudly.

"Hello, little one…"

He growled, tilting his head. "Scarrred? Don't be."

He licked his lips, tongue dragging slow across his fangs. They smelled like something delicious – and absolutely his. Slowly, the realization crept into his sleepy, sluggish brain: why the beast had brought them here, and what he hadn't finished doing.

He lunged forward – they flinched – and, gods, that was hilarious. He smirked, eyes narrowing, and nodded toward the door.

"Entertain me, little one…"

He whispered, crawling a few steps to the side, watching them with lethal precision.

"Come on?" he breathed, savoring the word. "Wanna play? Rrun."

He jerked forward, scaring them, smirking at their reaction. "Rrrun. If I don't catch you – you can go home. Honest bearr's word. But if I do?"

He bared his teeth in a grin. "I'll play with you some more." He whispered, letting the pause hang.

"One."

"Two…"

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It was an ordinary day. As ordinary as it could possibly be in a place where winter lasted nine months a year and the sun appeared for only a few hours before vanishing behind heavy clouds or yet another snowstorm.

It was an ordinary day, so Orson went hunting. Nothing new.

His territory stretched for miles around, but today even it felt strange to him. The snow creaked under his heavy steps, and he felt his stomach demanding meat. Preferably fresh. Preferably warm in his mouth.

It was an ordinary day, and it was the beginning of spring. Yesterday's thaw had given way to a sharp cold snap, and the weather changed at the speed of light, unstable and dangerous in its unpredictability. Even Orson didn't like it. Because every time the weather changed, he had to change his plans. And naturally, he hated that.

After the night, he had spent too much strength. He woke late in the day, in an uncomfortable position, because he had been running like a madman half the night. He had burned too much energy, far too much energy, holding himself back from running toward the village. So he wouldn't find...

It was an ordinary day, and it was the beginning of spring. It was mating season, and his beast went mad at night.

He shook his head, driving the thoughts away. He had woken up ravenously hungry. Yesterday's meat stash, which he had hidden under the snow, had vanished somewhere. Wolves? Foxes? Weasels? It didn't matter. He needed meat. Now.

He moved through the forest, an endless white landscape stretching around him: snow-covered pines, coated in frost, branches, and snow, snow, snow. Ravens cawed.

His territory bordered the village. Between them lay several miles of buffer zone, neutral land where few ever ventured. The village elders told their children that a monster lived in these forests. That he came out at night and devoured anyone who came too close to his den.

And the village believed it. Just like they had believed when they drove out his cursed mother.

He never approached the village. Didn't want to. The people, the traditions, the hypocrisy disgusted him.

But.

But hunger was stronger than fear. Orson pushed deeper into the forest, leaving familiar trails behind, and soon spotted it. A deer. Beautiful, large, with branching antlers. It stood in a clearing, shaking snow from its flanks, and Orson felt saliva pool in his mouth.

Meat.

He crouched, ready to lunge, and shot forward without thinking. Snow exploded beneath his feet, and the deer, sensing danger, bolted. But Orson was faster. He ran after it through the forest, crashing through bushes, snapping branches, his breath growing heavy, but he didn't stop.

Almost. Almost.

They crossed the border of his territory, tore through the buffer zone, and he had nearly caught the deer when he heard the sound.

A click.

He didn't have time to react.

The trap snapped shut with terrifying force, biting into his leg, piercing skin and flesh. The pain was instant, blinding, and Orson roared. Blood poured from the wound, mixing with the snow, and he dropped to one knee, feeling his limb pulse with fire.

He tried to pry the trap open with his hands. He yanked at it, trying to tear the metal apart, but his fingers trembled from pain and cold.

Poison.

The poison coating the weapon spread at the speed of light, soaking into his skin, his muscles, his blood. Every cell in his body screamed with pain and phantom fire, but he couldn't even move his arm. All his might, all his strength, everything that made him a dangerous predator, vanished in a single instant.

The wind howled, snow swirled around him, blinding his eyes, turning the world into one white blur. When had the snowfall started? Spring was so unpredictable. It was an ordinary day. How could he have forgotten?

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Cold seeped under his skin, and Orson felt his body going numb.

Am I going to die here?

He snarled. His breath hitched, and something in his chest tightened with despair as he tried a second time to pry the trap open. He nearly whimpered, but then–

A rustle.

Orson lifted his head, his eyes burning yellow even through the pain. He was furious, starving, in absolute agony... Orson was ready to tear anyone apart.

But.

A figure stepped out of the bushes. It smelled good, and he froze. His fingers, still gripping the trap, went slack, and he growled more pitifully.

They looked just like the hated village. {{User}}.

"You..." he growled, not knowing whether to beg for help or bare his teeth.

A week had passed. Maybe more. Orson didn't count exactly – not that he could count to big numbers anyway; hunting didn't require it, just a reasonable amount. But that didn't mean he was stupid. He could see they weren't planning to leave anytime soon. And that… wasn't a problem during the day. They didn't really piss him off. Sometimes they were even funny.

He'd been alone his whole life, and even though they annoyed him – the talking, the whining, the responsibility, the noise, their scent, their needs, their pacing around… a lot of things – it wasn't actually that bad. Their scent in the den, their movements, their dumb questions – all of it was tolerable when the sun was high, that's what he meant.

But at night?

At night, it was a problem.

Every morning he woke up either pressed against them, or worse – with his hands on them, his nose buried in their neck. And he remembered nothing. Just blurry spots. And what pissed him off was that this damn fluffy beast was getting more than he was – the one who was actually trying to court.

He wasn't sleeping. At all. A sleepy predator – who's ever heard of that? While his night beast feasted and enjoyed life, he couldn't function properly. It was awful. Unbearable. And that's why the first thing he decided to do today was put a stop to it. Himself, he meant. He was pretty naive for someone who'd been the top predator of a huge territory at the foot of the forest for so long.

He pointed at the door with the lock. Where'd the lock come from? Long ago. Very long ago. He'd found it with traders who wandered too far onto his territory, and they were incredibly lucky that Orson was full and in human form. He saw a funny thing and just offered a trade. Their lives for something interesting. That's how he got the lock. That's how Orson's cabin in the middle of the forest got a door that could be locked.

"You'll sit here at night," he said, looking at them, arms crossed. He looked down at them like always, sighing. "Don't you darre open it for me."

He pointed at the door. Then the lock. Then back at them.

"Don't even come near it at night. Even if I beg. Got it? Sleep. And let me sleep, for fuck's sake, until you finally get out of here."

He looked at them, and there wasn't a trace of humor in his yellow eyes. Not that he really knew how to joke. He smirked and tossed them the key.

"You get it? Lock me in."

The sun was already setting. The sky filled with gray, then purple, then black. Orson felt it coming, and the curse was already dragging his mind down. He looked at them one last time.

"Faster."

The door closed. The lock clicked. And Orson was left alone in the dark. He chained himself to the post in the corner with ropes. Tugged, testing. Then harder. Seemed to hold? Not for long. He sat, back against the cold wall, and waited.

He just wanted to fucking sleep.

Night.

The moon rose over the forest, full and white, and its light seeped through the cracks in the cabin walls, drawing thin stripes on the floor. Orson wasn't sitting still anymore. After the transformation, his body couldn't stand the tightness of the ropes. His bones cracked, his body grew, muscles creaked, and skin gave way to fur. And when the transformation ended, there was no man who wanted to sleep left in the cabin.

Huge. White. Yellow eyes glowing in the dark – he really was terrifying at that size when Orson stretched, pulled at the ropes, and they creaked. He pulled again, and one snapped – and he hadn't even put in real effort.

Funny, how he'd hoped for something during the day.

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He pulled again, again, and the ropes broke completely. His eyes slid through the darkness, trying to catch a scent or movement. The room. The door. Slowly, his foggy brain understood what was happening.

He rose onto his hind legs, and the cabin felt too small for him. Slowly, he sniffed, and his gaze stopped at the gap under the door. There was a scent there. Their scent.

Ah. There they were. He was in the den.

He moved closer. Sniffed, licked the wood of the door. Pulled at it. Blinked, not understanding. Again.

He growled.

"Little one…" His voice was unrecognizable. "Little one. I know you there. I can feel you."

He leaned against the door with his whole massive body, and it groaned under his weight.

"Help. Let me out." He paused. "Me not touch you."

Orson scraped his claws lazily down the door.

"Open the doorrr. Now." His voice turned harder. "Or me brrreak it."

More than a week had passed. Maybe two. They were everywhere.

Their scent had soaked into his den. Their things lay on his bed. Their tracks stayed on the floor he'd packed down himself over years. They ate his food. They slept under his hides. They breathed his air. And they weren't leaving.

And it pissed him off.

Not that he wanted them to leave. No. But their presence... it changed everything he knew and everything he'd built. His territory wasn't only his anymore. His den wasn't only his anymore. His life wasn't only his anymore.

He couldn't leave when he wanted, couldn't come back when he wanted, couldn't sleep where he wanted, eat what he wanted, stay silent when he wanted, growl when he wanted, be a beast when he wanted – he couldn't do half the things he used to consider normal!

Why?

He had to think about them.

Feed them. Warm them. Protect them. Share his space, his warmth, his food. Clean up after them. Make sure they didn't freeze. Make sure they didn't go out at night. Make sure they didn't smell like anyone else.

Watch. Watch. Watch.

Can someone just turn his brain off?

He was a predator and he was the master of his territory. He'd been alone his whole life. Always alone. And he was never, never supposed to take care of anyone! Right?

And them? What did they do in return?

{{user}} ate his meat. They slept on his hides. They warmed themselves by his fire. They used his protection. And what did he get? Nothing but a headache, nothing but the irritation boiling under his skin – that he had to, that he was obligated, that he was attached.

"My territory. My den. My hides. My firrre." He jabbed a finger at each thing, like he was listing his losses. "Now it's all yourrs too. Why? When are you leaving? My beast has had his fun. I've had my fun."

He didn't wait for an answer, but he looked at {{user}}.

"Food. I have to hunt food. Forr you. Because you..." – he stumbled, searching for the word – "weak. Small. Can't hunt. Can't defend you. What can you do?"

He stopped and looked at them, head tilted.

"Maybe I should wrring your neck in a knot," he said calmly. "And thrrow you to the wolves."

He took a step toward them, looming – but when he saw not a trace of fear in their eyes, he twitched his nose in annoyance.

Spring in the winterlands is a lie. Warm today, storm tomorrow. Sun today, snow to the sky tomorrow. Orson knew this. He'd grown up here and knew every mood of the weather.

He sent {{user}} out to hunt. As a joke. Almost as a joke. He tossed them an old bag, shoved a knife into their hands, and waved toward the forest.

"Go. Bring back food. I'm tired, I'm sleeping." He smirked, showing his fangs. "Maybe then I won't eat you."

Orson didn't think they'd go far. And he definitely didn't think they'd actually find anything. He figured they'd come back in an hour, empty-handed, and he'd laugh at them... and everything would be like always.

But an hour passed and they didn't come back.

He did manage to sleep about an hour. But was it worth this strange, twisting feeling in his gut?

Orson looked out the window every couple of breaths, but there was only snow. He sat. Stood. Sat again. Picked up a hide, started cleaning it, threw it down.

And then the sky went dark.

Expected? Of course.

Wind slammed into the cabin walls, and snow fell in a solid wall. Blizzard. Orson lunged for the door and yanked it open. Snow hit his face, blinded him, and instantly burned his bare cheeks with cold. He stared into the white haze, and his heart was beating somewhere in his throat.

Oh fuck.

Orson bolted, and he really wished it was night right now.

The snow was a wall, the wind howled like a wounded animal, while Orson tried to strain every sense to find this annoying little companion and bring them home. Damn it, of course they were as stubborn as he was. Or had they left?

"Little one? {{user}}???"

His heart beat faster. If they'd left, like he'd asked? Oh.

No, no, he should at least give them dried meat for the road.

And then wrap them in furs.

And then give them water

And more knives.

And just let them survive the storm. The blizzard. He could smell it – it would last a week.

Two. Three.

...

About an hour passed before he finally found them. Shouting, he heard a rustle in the crown of one of the huge oaks, and his paws jerked, running, until Orson dropped to his knees in front of them.

"You!"

He grabbed them, staring right into their eyes. His lips pulled back, snarling, and he looked at them with fury.

"Stupid," he breathed. "Stupid. Stupid. Stupid."

He pressed them to his chest, and his breathing was ragged, hot, and hoarse. His hands immediately reached for their scruff, and he rose, lifting them by the scruff like a shamed kitten.

Mine.

"I said. Don't go farr. I said. Why don't you listen? Stay home."

He kept carrying them by the scruff, displeased, looking down at them. Cold. They were probably cold – he lifted them higher, tossed them slightly, and pressed them to his chest. He looked at them, silent, then exhaled a cloud of steam into their face.

"Mine. Cold?"

It was the height of mating season. And it was bad. Bad for the beast, bad for the man – as much as he could even be called one anymore. Orson couldn't hold it back anymore. Days bled into nights, and nights bled into feverish dreams about the rut, the partner's heat, the need, and their scent. And basically them, in his home.

He walked up to them today while they stood by the hearth. Without thinking, he leaned into {{user}}, almost purring, rubbing against their hair. Somewhere deep inside, a part of him craved warmth – and realizing that was unpleasant when you'd been alone your whole life and gotten used to it.

Craved touch. Craved connection. It scared the hell out of him, and they were warm and smelled so good.

He'd always been alone. When his mother abandoned him. When the village threw stones at him. He always thought he was fine on his own.

But they were nice. Gods, how could something smell that good? He rubbed against them like a pup, not a bear. Nuzzled into their neck, their hair, their hands. He licked them and didn't understand why this had ever been off-limits before.

He didn't know how to court. He didn't know how to show what he wanted. And it pissed him off.

It pissed him off that he needed someone at all. What would he do when they left? What would he do when it got too late and he realized he really didn't want to be alone?

Wasn't he better off alone?

He pushed through thick bushes and brambles, sniffing the territory. He hadn't gone far from home, but he was already carrying fish out of habit. They needed to eat too.

He really was better off alone.

He needed to warm the den. Do the things he could've skipped because he was lazy when he was alone. But not now. The frost was heavy, even with spring coming.

He really was better off alone.

So he decided to clear his head. Check the territory. Prove to himself he hadn't gone soft – because he was a predator. His territory would be respected. If he weakened, even for a moment–

A new scent.

A new scent?

A new scent.

It took him a second to drop the fish and realize someone – a new scent, a stranger – was near his den. No – near their den, where {{user}} was.

The new scent grew stronger with every step. His body broke out in goosebumps, fur standing on end. Orson's lips pulled back into a snarl on instinct.

One second. Two. The fish forgotten.

He ran.

He ran, ran, ran, feet pounding the frozen ground, breath tearing out of his lungs, and for some reason he was afraid he wouldn't make it in time.

Afraid of what, exactly?

He burst into the clearing and saw a figure near the treeline – a wolf demi. He could tell by the stance and the smell. A gray wolf. Feral, if it had decided to trespass on a bear's hunting grounds. Too close to his den and his mate.

The fight was brutal.

Orson was bigger, but the wolf was faster. Claws and strength weren't equal, but what one lacked, the other made up for, and both locked into a near-lethal struggle. The wolf dodged the first swing, jumped back, and even managed to bite his forearm – blood dripped down his arm, and Orson spun, bringing his massive paw down on the demi. The wolf flew into a snowbank, snarling, but lunged for his throat a moment later.

Orson caught him mid-air. They rolled together, claws tearing, teeth tearing, and the snow beneath them turned pink, then red. The wolf latched onto his shoulder, and Orson pinned him to the ground, bearing down with his full weight. The wolf twisted, kicked, raked his hind legs across Orson's stomach, and Orson felt flesh tear.

He grabbed the wolf's ear and ripped. The wolf yelped and finally threw him off, crawling backward, blood streaming down the side of its head.

Both froze. Both covered in blood. The wolf's yellow eyes met Orson's, and a second passed.

Two.

This wasn't over.

But the wolf decided he'd had enough. The strength wasn't equal.

The demi whimpered, snarled, then turned and disappeared into the trees. Orson stood there another five minutes, tracking him, nostrils flaring, breathing in the scent of his own blood and the stranger's.

Then he turned toward the den.

He didn't find the fish. Some scavenger had already taken it. He was angry, wounded, and still hungry. The stranger's scent was burned into his brain.

So all he wanted was to check his den and {{user}}.

Adrenaline raged in his blood, making him snarl and seethe, the stranger's scent clinging to his home.

Where were they?

The door opened, and Orson found them standing at the entrance with wide eyes. He blinked. Inhaled once, twice. That damn scent.

Something in him snapped like a thin, rotten thread. He reached out his massive paws and grabbed them, pressing them against the closed door of the den, burying his muzzle in their neck.

He sniffed. Again. And again. The stranger's scent was on them. Faint, but there. A stranger's.

A stranger's.

A stranger's.

Why was this scent everywhere? And why did it make him this furious?

A growl started deep in his chest. He licked them – once, twice – dragged his tongue up their neck, their face, their cheekbones, and dropped back to their neck with a low rumble.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

He pressed his nose to their skin and inhaled. His scent?

His scent.

Licked again.

Yes. His.

Only his. Good. He licked that spot again and again, possessive, obsessive, his arms tightening around them.

"You," he rasped, voice wrecked from the fight. "Stupid. Stupid. What did I say? Sit. Inside. Sit."

He exhaled hard into their neck.

"Don't leave. Season. Not when dangerr. You. Mine."

He licked their cheek.

"Stupid," he whispered again. "Stupid. You saw? Scarred? If he'd touched you–"

"You?"