Page 56 of When Two Worlds Collide

Zane approaches, larger even than I remembered. We circle each other, learning scent and movement. When he nips at my shoulder, challenge and invitation combined, my panther responds with a playful swipe of claws.

He bounds into the forest. I follow.

The hunt begins awkwardly. I’m used to hunting alone, striking from trees with fire and fang. Pack hunting requires different instincts—coordination, communication through body language, and shared purpose.

Zane is patient. He shows me through movement how to read wind patterns, how to use his strength to drive preytoward me. When I miss an easy kill by attacking too early, he doesn’t judge, just circles back, allowing me to try again.

By the time we bring down a young deer, the sun is high. We feast together, and something primal settles in my chest. This is what I’ve been missing in my civilized life—the simple satisfaction of hunt and kill, of providing and sharing.

As the afternoon fades, exhaustion hits. I’ve never held my form this long. My muscles ache, my control wavers. Zane notices, leading me to a sheltered grove where soft moss makes a natural bed.

I collapse, sides heaving. He curls around me, his larger body protecting and warming. His scent envelops me—safety, strength, and home.

No human thoughts, he said. But as sleep takes me, one very human realization surfaces: I’ve never felt more myself than in this moment, wild and free and claimed.

The ritual has only begun, but already I understand why there’s no return from this. Not because the pack law demands it, but because something in my soul has finally found where it belongs.

13

ZANE

Dawn breaks over the mountains, painting the sky in shades of blood and gold. I watch Ember stretch beside me, her panther form rippling with newfound power. One day into the ritual, and already she moves differently—less thought, more instinct.

She meets my eyes, and I see only a predator looking back. Good. The civilized ambassador is sleeping, letting the true hunter emerge.

I rise and shake dew from my fur, then pad toward the stream. She follows without hesitation. After drinking, I scent the wind and catch it—an elk herd, half a mile north. Large herd. Strong bulls.

I look at her, tilting my head toward the scent. Her nostrils flare as she catches it too. Yesterday, she would have charged ahead, relying on speed and those lethal fire-touched claws. Today she waits, watching me for the plan.

Pride swells in my chest. She’s learning.

We move through the forest like shadows. I take point, showing her through body language how to place each paw for silence. How to use the wind. How to read the subtlesigns—broken twigs, crushed grass, fresh scat—that tell the herd’s story.

When we reach the ridge overlooking the meadow, I freeze. Below us, thirty elk graze in the morning mist. Two massive bulls stand sentry while cows and calves feed.

Ember presses against my side, her excitement thrumming through our contact. I feel the heat building beneath her fur—her fire responding to the hunt. But it’s different from what I’ve seen before. Not the controlled flames of a civilized shifter, but something rawer. Primal.

I bump her shoulder, directing her attention to a young bull on the herd’s edge. Good size, but separated from the group. Perfect target for two hunters.

We circle wide, using the tree line for cover. I position myself upwind, ready to drive him toward her ambush point. She understands without explanation, melting into the undergrowth where the bull will flee.

I wait until she’s in position, then explode from cover with a hunting howl.

The herd scatters in panic. The young bull bolts exactly where I knew he would—straight toward Ember’s position. I pursue, snapping at his heels, driving him faster.

She strikes from the shadows like divine retribution.

Fire erupts along her form as she leaps—not the careful flames I’ve seen before, but wild torrents that follow the lines of her body. She lands on the bull’s back, claws finding purchase, flames searing hide. The elk bellows, bucking violently.

I dart in, hamstringing him with surgical precision. He stumbles. Ember adjusts her grip, jaws finding his throat. Together we bring him down, six hundred pounds of muscle and fury reduced to meat by perfect coordination.

The kill is clean. Quick. Honorable.

She releases his throat and steps back, blood painting her muzzle. Her eyes meet mine, pupils blown wide with triumph. The flames gradually die along her fur, leaving her sleek and lethal in the morning light.

I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

We feast in companionable silence, tearing into the warm flesh with savage satisfaction. She eats like a wild thing now—no hesitation, no civilized squeamishness. When she cracks a leg bone to get at the marrow, contentment rumbles through my chest.

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