The Kidnapping

I stare down at the she-wolf, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. She's a Blackwood, a member of a rival pack. I should leave her here, let her bleed out and die. It would be one less enemy to worry about.

She’ll be a traitor, also. Her pack is primitive, barbaric. 

But I can't. I can't leave her here, alone and vulnerable. I can't let her die.

I can say I took her against her will. Held her hostage. Kidnapped her.

Then the blame falls squarely on me.

Why would I risk myself for an enemy wolf?

There's something about her, something that draws me to her. Maybe it's the way she smells, like pine and earth and something wild and untamed.

Or maybe it's something deeper, something primal. Something that goes beyond pack loyalty and rivalry.

Or maybe I can’t leave any creature, let alone a she-wolf, to bleed out here alone in the woods.

Consequences be damned.

I bend down and slide my arms under her, lifting her up. She's unconscious, her head lolling against my chest. Her blood soaks into my shirt, warm and sticky. Her body is limp, her fur matted with blood and dirt. She's so small, so fragile. I can feel her bones under her skin, her ribs pressing against my arms.

I cradle her against me. Her heart beats slow and weak. I have to hurry. I have to get her back to my cabin, where I can tend to her wounds and keep her safe.

I start walking, my steps sure and steady. The forest is dark, the moonlight filtering through the trees and casting eerie shadows on the ground. The air is cool and crisp, the scent of pine and damp earth filling my nostrils. I can hear the rustle of leaves, the distant call of an owl, the soft whisper of the wind.

The forest floor is uneven, roots and rocks jutting up from the ground. I have to be careful where I step, but I don't slow down. I can't afford to. I have to get her to safety.

Her body shifts in my arms with each step. She's so light, so delicate. Her breath flutters against my neck, warm and shallow. Her soft, silky fur brushes my skin.

I don't know who she is. I don't know what she looks like as a human. But I can imagine. I imagine her with long, dark hair, her eyes the same shade of amber as her wolf form. I imagine her with a slender, graceful body, her skin smooth and pale. I imagine her with a fierce, determined expression, her lips set in a stubborn line.

I imagine her as my mate.

The thought startles me, and I shake my head, trying to clear it. I don't know anything about her. She could be anyone. She could be dangerous. She could be a spy, sent to infiltrate my pack.

But I don't think she is. I don't think she's a threat. I think she's just a girl, a girl who got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. A girl who needs my help.

And I'm going to give it to her.

I reach my cabin, a small, rustic structure hidden deep in the forest. It's secluded, far from the prying eyes of my pack. I built it myself, a place to escape to when I need to be alone. A place to think, to plan, to strategize.

A place to hide.

The interior of the cabin is dimly lit, the only light coming from the moonlight filtering through a small window. It casts a soft glow on the wooden walls, creating shadows that dance and flicker. 

The cabin is simple, with only the bare necessities. A table and chairs, a small stove, a few shelves lined with jars and herbs. A bed in the corner, covered with a warm, woolen blanket, and a few more blankets huddled in front of the hearth for when I feel like sleeping in wolf form. It's not much, but it's enough. It's home.

I navigate through the sparse furniture, careful not to jostle the she-wolf. 

I reach the bundle of blankets and gently lay her down, my hands trembling slightly as I position her. I don't want to hurt her, don't want to aggravate her injuries. I smooth her fur, my fingers brushing against her skin. 

I step back, my eyes scanning her form. She's still unconscious, her breathing shallow and labored. Bald patches show on her skin where the fur was yanked out, and I gashes and punctures. Even in her sleep, pain etches across her face.

I take a deep breath, my mind racing. She’s stable here, and I can treat her wounds with more than moss and leaves. I need to clean them, stop the bleeding. Make sure she doesn't get an infection. 

I need to keep her alive.

I turn to the shelves, to the jars and herbs. I know what I need. I know what will help her. My fingers close around the cool glass as I gather the herbs, the salves, the poultices. I bring them to the table, my hands moving quickly, efficiently, like a man possessed.

I glance back at the she-wolf, my heart clenching. I might not know who she is, but I know I can't let her die. I can't let her suffer.

I have to save her.

I have to.

My jar of yarrow is empty.

I glance at the she-wolf, worry gnawing at me. I need specific plants to treat her wounds—to stop the bleeding, reduce the swelling, ease her pain. 

She’s not going anywhere, but my heart pulses in my throat at the idea of leaving her.

“Stay sleeping,” I tell her firmly.

Leaving the cabin, I step into the cool forest air and navigate the familiar paths, my eyes scanning for the plants I need. Years spent exploring this forest have taught me its secrets. I quickly locate the yarrow with its feathery leaves and clusters of white flowers, and the rough, grayish-brown willow bark. I gather what I need, knowing these plants hold the power to heal.

Back in the cabin, I set the plants on the table, crushing the yarrow with a mortar and pestle, the sharp scent filling the air. I mix it with honey and beeswax to create a soothing salve, then prepare a poultice from the willow bark.

My stomach tightens at the sight of her still form. Dark, sticky blood mats her fur, the wounds deep and raw on her exposed flesh.

At least the bleeding at her throat stopped. And she’s breathing.

I kneel beside her, my hands trembling slightly as I apply the poultices. I work carefully, feeling the heat escaping her body. As soon as I finish caring for a wound, I wrap one of the blankets around her. I’ll start a fire when I’m done. Keep her warm.

I take a deep breath. I need to keep her alive.

I step back and observe her with a critical eye. The bleeding is slowing, the swelling reducing. The herbs are working. I've done all I can; now it's up to her.

I crouch beside her and stroke the soft fur between her eyes. Leaning in, I whisper, "You're going to be okay. You're going to make it."

A surge of protectiveness washes over me, confusing but undeniable. She’s a Blackwood, my enemy. I should leave her to her fate.

Instead I move from her side and gather what I need to start a fire in my hearth. Like that won’t draw attention. 

I stare at the tiny flames as they consume the kindling, slowly devoting the branches, twisting them and withering them into ash. The connection I feel to her is inexplicable, a bond that defies logic. I know I shouldn’t care, yet I do. The pull toward her is more than physical—it's something deeper, something that ties us together in ways I don't understand.

My gaze returns to her, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. The curse that haunts my family lingers in my mind, a shadow I can’t ignore. I know the danger it poses.

I’m in control. I won’t involve her in my life.

But I can’t leave her to suffer because of it.