Page 57 of When Death Whispers

But instead, I look at him—really look at him.

His wolf-like muzzle, those sharp fangs that glint when he speaks. His thick, dark fur, coarse yet sleek, ripples over layers of raw muscle and power. His chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm, like he’s in complete control of every beat, every breath, every moment.

His hands flex at his sides with claws sharp enough to rend flesh from bone.

Steam rises from his skin like he’s burning from the inside out, hotter than this cold, dead place should allow. It coils in lazy trails around his body, licking along the edges of muscle and fur like smoke dancing off fire.

And behind him?—

His tail. Long, sleek, sinuous. Nothing like the rest of him. It moves with a predator’s patience, tapering into a pointed, spade-like tip that flicks once, then stills, as if it’s studying me, too.

Not a wolf. Not a man.

Something else entirely.

Something built to be worshipped—or feared.

Maybe both.

“Are you a demon?” I blurt, my voice cracking through the charged silence.

His grin widens, all teeth and dark delight. “You could say that,” he murmurs, cocking his head. “You humans… you love your labels. Demon. Monster. Nightmare. You lump us together like we’re interchangeable. But we are not. Each of us is born from something different. Each of us exists for a reason.”

I swallow hard. “And yours? What is your purpose?”

My question makes him go unnaturally still.

A hush falls over the forest, thick and oppressive.

His glowing, frost-blue eyes bore into me, his focus shifting into something sharp, something lethal. It’s the kind of stillness that comes before a storm, before lightning splits the sky and the air itself seems to brace for impact.

My pulse stutters, a warning I should listen to—but beneath the instinctual fear, something else slithers in.

Excitement.

Rad stalks forward, muscles shifting under his dark fur, slow and measured. He moves like he’s savoring every step, like he’s already envisioning how this will end.

I should move. I should back away. But I don’t.

I hold his gaze, panting softly, my entire body thrumming with something hotter, sharper, deeper than fear.

Should I run?

He chuckles, a deep, dark sound that snakes through me like a slow drag of smoke in my lungs. His lips curl, flashing sharp canines, the flickering light catching on his horns, stretching his shadow into something even more monstrous.

“I dare you to try, my little Beholden,” he murmurs, voice like a growl of thunder. “My beast has been craving a good chase.”

A spark detonates low in my belly, pooling low and hot.

Do I like being chased?

The answer comes too easily.

I’ve been running my whole life. Running from death’s shadows, from fear, from things I couldn’t explain.

Maybe I don’t want to be saved.

Maybe I want to be caught.

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