Page 2 of Caught

But that didn’t happen.

The werewolf loomed over the boy, breathing heavy, a low growl vibrating through its chest. He pressed down, easily pinning the human beneath his weight.

The boy didn’t struggle. His chest heaved, his hands fisting in the dirt, his entire body shuddering with something that wasn’t entirely fear.

The werewolf lowered his head, nosing at the boy’s throat, inhaling deep.

The boy whimpered, but he didn’t fight.

Evan watched, frozen, as the werewolf positioned himself between the boy's thighs. The creature's hips moved forward, a savage thrust that made the boy's body arch. The boy cried out, a distant, muffled sound that sent a shiver down Evan's spine.

He knew he should look away—but he didn't.

The werewolf moved, his hips pistoning in a relentless, animalistic rhythm. The boy's hands clutched at the dirt, his body rocking with each powerful thrust, his cries echoing through the night.

The shadows obscured most of the details, but Evan could see enough.

The boy didn't fight, didn't resist. Instead, his body seemed to move in sync with the werewolf's, his cries of fear turning into something else entirely.

He arched up formore.

Evan had never told anyone what he saw that night.

He hadn’t looked away. He should have. But something in the way the werewolf took him—possessedhim—kept Evan frozen in place. His breath hitched at the memory, his fingers curling into the worn fabric of his jeans as if he could ground himself in the present.

Evan had told himself he was imagining it. That terror could twist into strange things when the body was overwhelmed, that it wasn’t pleasure he was seeing. Just… just instinct, just adrenaline. A trick of the moonlight.

But he remembered the wolf’s movements. Strong, controlled, deliberate.

He remembered the heat in his own body, a sickness or a thrill—he still didn’t know which.

And he remembered the way his legs had locked up when the werewolf’s head suddenly lifted, his sharp eyes turning toward the house.

Right at him.

Evan had jerked back so fast he nearly fell, heart hammering, shame burning up his throat like acid. He had no idea how long he stood there, pressed against the bedroom wall, barely breathing. When he’d finally forced himself to look again, the yard was empty.

The boy was gone.

The wolf was gone.

And Evan had been left alone, shaking, with nothing but questions he didn’t dare ask.

Even now, years later, his pulse still jumped at the memory. Every year, when the full moon crested over the trees and the hunt began again, his mind dragged him back to that night. Back to what he’d seen.

What he'd felt.

He shoved a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. This was why he locked his doors. Why he shut his windows, ignored the townsfolk, ignored the unease curling in his gut.

Because the worst part wasn’t the fear.

It was the part of him thatwasn'tscared.

As a park ranger, Evan walked those woods every day. Knew every ridge, every gnarled root that could trip up an unsteady step. He knew where the river curved sharp and fast, where the underbrush thickened into near-impenetrable walls of brambles, where the trees leaned so close their branches tangled like fingers laced together.

He knew exactly where he would run if he were ever foolish enough to enter the mating run himself.

It wasn’t a serious thought—just something that occurred to him sometimes, when he stood at the tree line, staring into the dark. A stupid, recklesswhat if?

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