Page 128 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

The weight of his words settles in my chest. I glance toward the door, my pulse thrumming as the tension between us sharpens. Outside feels right. These walls are far too small to contain him.

“Bond me, Big Daddy Wolf,” I say, my voice lighter than I feel. Humor is a good mask for nerves, right?

Except Tomas doesn’t laugh. That hungry, golden gaze makes my stomach flip, and I know—there’s no going back.

Chapter Fourty Six

The Wild Hunt

— Sunday —

“And you don’t know where we’re going?” I ask again, more out of habit than hope—I should know better by now. From the moment we left the house, Tomas went dark, his focus fixed somewhere ahead. He’s not ignoring me, but I’m also not sure he can speak. He’s shifted into his Lycan form—towering, massive, and half-wild, with claws that look like they could splinter railroad ties. Asking questions might just be a hypothetical exercise at this point.

The scent of damp earth and pine replaces the faint tang of lemon oil from the sitting room and the world feels electric, charged with moonlight and magic.

Instead of words, he grips my wrist—not my hand—and pulls me through the underbrush, his pace relentless, deliberate. The forest teems with life around us, crickets singing, leaves rustling underfoot. It feels right somehow, as though we’re joining the evening chorus, becoming part of the wild.

I know Ben was over here earlier today, “setting something up.” So, yeah, I’m curious—about a lot of things. Where are we going? What does a rut with a half-man, half-monster even look like? And mating venom—it sounds like the wolf version of being roofied, but, like… consensually? I bite back a nervous laugh because, of course, my brain chooses now to spiral intowildlyinappropriate analogies.

Rut. The word feels heavy in my mind, almost too big to hold. I picture Shadow, half-shifted behind me, teeth buried in my neck, and wonder if that’s the intensity Tomas was trying to warn me about—or if this will be something entirely different. God. Can we just get started?I could sprint ahead. That would definitely get things moving.

It’s like he senses my impetuousness tipping into stupidity. Without warning, he stops, tugging me in front of him with one sharp motion. He bends low, looming over me, his features now fully Lycan—Tomas’s handsome face a fading memory, replaced by something monstrous yet mesmerizing.

The lines of his face have warped into jagged, feral angles, his jaw stretched too wide, teeth glinting like polished knives in the dim light. His nose elongates, more beast than man now, and his eyes—no longer golden, but molten orange—burn like embers, searing into me with an intensity that pins me in place. A faint snarl curls his lips, his breath hot and carrying the electric tang of old-growth forest after a storm.

I should be afraid, and part of me is. My heart pounds against my ribs, my pulse racing as his claws flex and tighten slightly on my wrist. But there’s something else too—a pull I can’t resist, an intrinsic magnetism to the creature before me. Those eerie, pumpkin-hued eyes gleam with something indecipherable, and a shiver courses through me, equal parts dread and desire.

His ear flicks forward, then swivels back—a restless motion that feels deliberate, like he’s both shielding me and deciding what to do with me. He doesn’t speak—can’t speak, I think—but the warning is unmistakable in the way his narrowed gaze sweeps over me and the woods beyond.

Then I feel it—a faint sting where his claws press into my skin. I glance down, and there they are: tiny beads of blood welling up, dark and glistening in the moonlight. My breath hitches, mythroat tightens as I look back at him, expecting… something. Anything.

But he doesn’t check on me. Doesn’t even glance my way.

Instead, his nostrils flare, his head tilting slightly as if savoring the scent of my blood on the breeze. Slowly, his lips curl back, revealing more of those wicked teeth in a snarl that feels utterly alien—nothing like Tomas at all.

The thought hits like a sucker punch. What if this thing—this Lycan, this monster—doesn’t see me as a mate, or a lover, or even pack? What if all it sees is blood and tender flesh?

It’s only the cold, hard knowledge of what running does to a high-prey-drive creature that keeps me rooted in place. And make no mistake—this isn’t my mate. This isn’t Tomas. This is an Alpha predator, and I am his prey.

My pulse pounds harder, a drumbeat in my ears, as the underbrush thins and gives way to an open clearing. Moonlight spills down like silver threads, pooling over the ground in soft, surreal light. I wipe my bloodied wrist on my shorts, the keen sting a grounding jolt that pulls me back into focus.

Tomas’ beast slows, his broad shoulders rising and falling with every deliberate, measured breath.

Then he steps aside, and I see it—the heart of the clearing, where Ben’s careful handiwork awaits us. A tarp lies beneath a neatly arranged pile of blankets, a cooler sitting nearby. Two tiki torches—clearly raided from the barn—stand ready, dormant for now, awaiting a spark.

The sight steadies me, even as tension coils tight in my chest, a prickling awareness still clinging to my skin. It’s almost absurd, really—how did I go from terror, convinced I was about to die, to… this? A cooler of snacks.Who fears for their life in the presence of snacks?

My hand lifts instinctively, magic slipping free without effort. The torches ignite with a gentle whoosh, flames flickering to lifeand casting a warm glow that mingles with the silver threads of moonlight. That small act of magic pulls me back into myself, anchoring me in the now.

I’m not Little Red Riding Hood, not some hapless human lost in the woods. The elements bow to me, surging through my fingertips. This beast deserves a mate every bit as powerful as he is—a match in every way—and that’s exactly what I am.

When I glance back at him, the Lycan’s orange eyes glint dangerously, and something inside me stirs in response. It’s not approval. It’s something darker—a recognition that runs soul-deep. Like he’s seeing a part of me I’ve barely begun to understand.

The beast stares at me for a long moment, unblinking, and I feel it—low and deep in my chest, a hum waking in my bones. Some long-repressed part of me lifts her head and meets those Halloween eyes, bold and unafraid.

Only then do I notice the blanket on top of the pile. My fingers sink into its thick fabric—not soft, but sturdy, substantial. A Pendleton, its bold design flickering in the torchlight. A raven, rendered in sweeping lines, clutches the sun in its beak, set against an ombre backdrop that shifts from twilight blues to fiery dawn hues. The trickster.The shifter.The thief who stole the sun and scattered light into the darkness.

Tomas doesn’t talk much about his roots, but I know this story matters to him. The raven inked across his shoulder tells me that. But it’s more than just the design’s Indigenous heritage—it’s a story of transformation, of stealing hope from despair, of finding light even in the shadows.

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