*****

Val wanted to make love again tonight. Usually, Patchy would be okay with it, but this was the fourth round and he couldn’t feel his legs. His body was aching in various places and he felt like he was going to collapse.

Patchy was laying on his stomach on the bed, sighing. Val was beside him, hand resting on Patchy's lower back. Patchy liked the weight of Val's hand against his lower back but he knew the other man had other intentions. In fact, Val was lowering his hand to cup his ass and Patchy grumbled.

He gave the older man a disgruntled look and Val chuckled, pressing a soft kiss between Patchy's shoulders. It felt nice; Val's lips were cool compared to his hot flesh.

He leaned into Val's touch, sighing happily, and he let Val's hand snake between his legs, stroking his growing arousal. His hips bucked into Val's hand and he shivered as Val's hand moved faster.

Patchy found himself flat on his back now, legs forced open by Val's hands. He was about to protest when Val silenced him with a sweet kiss. He wrapped his arms around Val's neck, mouth moving with Val's as he tasted the other man. He tasted like desire and whiskey, a beautiful taste, and it left him desperate for more. His hips rolled upward, grinding against Val's, and Val gave him an amused smile.

Val's length pressed up against his inner thigh and he nuzzled the man, exhaling hard into his ear as his length worked its way into Patchy slowly, stretching him wide open. Patchy’s nails dragged lines down Val’s spine as his hips snapped up to meet Val's downward thrusts. He was lost in lust, panting and moaning.

The feel of Val throbbing in him was incredible and he wrapped his legs tighter around Val's waist, begging for deeper thrusts.

That was when the power cut out and Val froze, his movements ceasing. He was still hard and deep in Patchy, so Patchy gently pushed him away. He got off the bed, legs shaking. He went to the lights and flicked it. On, off. On, off. Nothing. He grabbed his briefs and slipped it on, mumbling he was going to go downstairs and check the panel. Maybe a fuse burst?

He went downstairs, stairs creaking with each step. He regretted not getting dressed because wearing only his briefs wasn't enough to stop his heated, sweat-drenched body from shivering.

Patchy went to the basement and tried finding the light before realizing that the light probably wouldn't work. He needed a flashlight. But where did Val keep them again? He stumbled to the kitchen, opening cupboards and cabinets until he found a small flashlight. He clicked it on and headed towards the basement.

The basement was freezing—there was a frigid draft that Patchy couldn't detect. There was the smell of something damp and icy. He couldn't tell what it was. It was rather unpleasant. He continued down the basement, flinching as he heard the wind outside whistle, rattling the small window above the dryer. He made his way to the left side of the basement and came across the control panel. He opened it and aimed the flashlight over the panel.

Everything was frozen.

…what? Patchy found himself mumbling as he ran his fingers over the icy switches, frowning. This never happened before. He shifted from foot to foot, shivering. He couldn't deal with this on his own. He had to get Val. Val was better at these things anyway.

But he wouldn’t make it up. He didn’t realize it until much too late. As he made his way to the stairs, he heard a low growl that sent the hair on the back of his neck to stand. He stopped walking, breath catching in his throat as he didn’t dare move. The growl was much too familiar, a noise that haunted everyone of Il’amore.

A wolf. Precisely, a hybrid wolf from Willow’s Perch, the forest that surrounded Il’amore. How did it get in the basement? Why was it in the basement? What were its intentions? Patchy didn’t dare turn around as he heard the wolf’s heavy paw thumping on the hard, icy floor, nearing him. He could smell its rank, hot breath, could feel its looming presence over him…

He tried walking ahead, slowly climbing up the stairs, ignoring the heavy pants of the wolf behind him. Maybe if he didn’t run…he wouldn’t seem like a threat? Or…prey? Well, whatever it was, he didn’t want the wolf to go after him. He didn’t need that.

His hand closed around the door handle and the basement went silent. The sudden silence caused Patchy to whip around to see if the wolf was behind him.

The wolf was, in fact, right behind him.

A scream didn’t even have a chance to manifest in his throat when the wolf dove forward and sank its fangs into his neck, cutting off his air supply.

Patchy was dead before he hit the stairs.

*****

The hybrid wolf drags the young man down the stairs, body going thump thump thump as the head lolls around. The hybrid wolf reaches the bottom of the stairs and stares at the young man before him. Light eyes against dark skin. A beauty. How pitiful that he was destined to die…

*****

Monica and Gregory were lying in bed when they heard a faint noise coming from their son’s room. It was an eerie noise, like the sound of a window being forced open. Monica stood up from the bed and adjusted her nightgown, glancing over at her husband. Gregory was up, going over to the closest to pull out his rifle. He gave Monica her pistol and both carefully walked over to their son’s room.

Monica opened the bedroom door carefully, peering inside. The window was open, jagged claw marks tearing the hardwood floor leading to her son’s bed. Her heart slammed in her chest when she realized that her nine-year-old son wasn’t in his bed. No, he was gone. Panicked, she ran to the opened window, wondering if one of those bastard wolves stole her son but there was no trace of someone being dragged away.

Gregory was on high alert, rifle posed as he surveyed the room, light blue eyes narrowed. He came to a stop when he heard a faint snuffling sound coming from the bathroom connected to the bedroom and he opened the door.

His nine-year-old son was underneath a hybrid wolf. The hybrid wolf was staring at the boy with an unreadable look, lips drawn back to bare sharp, white fangs, hackles bristling. The boy didn’t seem to realize that he was in danger, oddly enough, trying to reach forward and touch the wolf’s nose—

___! screamed Monica as she lunged forward to grab her son, trying to pull him away from the wolf.

The wolf was faster, lunging at Monica, jaw clamping down on her outstretched hand. There was a sickening, crunching noise as the wolf’s fangs broke the bones in Monica’s hand. Her screams rattled the bathroom as she tried pulling the wolf away.

Gregory was torn between helping his wife and getting his son away. He looked at his wife’s pained, white, tear-stained face and he couldn’t help but feel guilt rise in him as he yelled I’m sorry and took his son into his arms and ran off.

Monica tried fighting the wolf off, horror rising in her as she watched her husband leaving with their son. She felt betrayed but knew that Gregory was simply trying to save the boy…but he left her. She aimed her pistol at the wolf’s forehead, trying to fire, but the wolf was thrashing her around, causing her to smack into the wall. The pistol went flying out of her grip and she knew that it was over.

Gregory was running out of the house, carrying his son in his arms tight, rifle strapped to his back. He could hear those damned wolves howling at him, not giving up the chase. He kept running, not wanting to take a break despite the burn in his lungs. His son’s life was in danger—he needed to save his son. He felt tears running down his face as he grimly concluded that Monica must be dead now. He left her. He was a terrible husband. But who could blame him? It was either his wife or his son, and he chose his son in the end.

His son was only nine—he couldn’t leave him alone. His son didn’t know how to fend for himself…

Despite trying to rationalize his thoughts, Gregory knew that it was hopeless. He lost his wife for good because of those damned wolves. Fuck them.

He kept running until his lungs gave out and he came to a stop, setting the boy down on the ground. He cupped his son’s face in his hands and he told him to run. Run as fast as you can. And never look back.

The boy was confused; didn’t understand why his father was telling him to run. But as his father kept urging him, kept yelling at him to run, boy, run, he realized that he had no say. So he did run. He kept running even though he heard the sound of those damned wolves howling and the sound of a rifle firing and screaming and—

He couldn’t help but look back and stare in dumbfounded, mortified mesmerization. The wolf had turned into a teen boy, maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen. His bare, dark skin stood out against the white background, a darkness in lightness. He had red painted over his face and chest, the telltale sign of murder and victory. His silver eyes were watching the boy, a fascinated, riveted look in those animalistic eyes.

Then the wolf-boy smiled at him, flashing white fangs that gleamed under the moon’s pale light. It was a mocking grin, a challenging smile that said, You’re next. The wolf-boy ran his tongue slowly over his lips, collecting the blood that had gathered there, and gave him a taunting salute.

Something inside of the boy had woken up that day. Something dark and sinister. But it wouldn’t manifest until years later.