Dammit! I knew something was off. Now it makes sense, the scent of something unfamiliar in our territory. My heart races, my mind already calculating the potential dangers.

I race through the forest, the moonlight casting an ethereal glow through the canopy of ancient evergreens. I move with practiced ease, my footsteps silent against the forest floor. Years of patrolling these woods have made the terrain second nature to me. I know every hidden trail, every secret clearing. My eyes scan the surroundings for any signs of movement. I catch the rustle of leaves, the distant call of an owl, the scurrying of small creatures in the underbrush.

I duck under low-hanging branches and I leap over a fallen log, landing silently on the other side. I crouch at a narrow stream, my eyes narrowing as I scan the area. The sound of rushing water masks the subtle noises of the forest. I inhale deeply, discerning the various scents—moss, wet stone, and something faintly metallic. 

The moonlight dances on the water's surface, casting rippling reflections that seem to move with me. I step carefully, avoiding loose rocks and slippery patches. 

Then I catch it—that scent that doesn't belong. It's faint, but it’s there, mixed with the metallic tang. I move silently through the underbrush. The moonlight filters through the canopy, casting dappled patterns on the forest floor. I spot a dark shape lying in the underbrush, and I crouch.

An animal lies there, its fur matted with blood. The scent of iron is stronger now, mingling with the earthy aroma of the forest. I take a step closer, my eyes scanning the creature's body. It's a she-wolf, her fur a mix of gray and white, now stained with crimson. 

My nostrils flare as her scent blows toward me. She's not just any wolf. She's a shifter. The scent is unmistakable, a mix of human and wolf, and it tugs at something deep within me.

My eyes narrow as I study her. A shifter in my territory is a threat. 

My heart quickens, my blood heating in a way that has nothing to do with the potential danger. Her scent is intoxicating, a mix of wild and feminine, and I find myself drawn to her despite the situation.

I tamp down the feeling, my mind snapping back to the present. This is not the time for such thoughts. I need to assess her injuries and decide what to do next.

I reach her. I gather moss and leaves from the forest floor and use them to staunch the bleeding. The she-wolf’s head wound is only the beginning. As I inspect her, I find more gashes, deep and angry, as if she was attacked by a rabid dog. I follow the line of her spine, but my eyes fall on her neck, and I inhale sharply. 

Her throat has been torn open, the wound gaping and dark with dried blood. It's a miracle she's not dead, but she's breathes in wheezing, shallow gasps, the magic of our kind keeping her alive.

A growl of rage rips from my chest. Who would do this to her? She’s a shifter, clearly, not a feral wolf, and I can’t detect any scent of a vampire or human on her body. This was done by another wolf.

Who would attack a wolf and leave her for dead in the forest?

I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. She’s in my territory now, and I’ll protect her from whoever did this to her.

She stirs under my paw, her eyes fluttering. I pull back, hoping to be out of her line of sight when she wakes up. But her eyes open and land squarely on me. 

She growls, a sound that’s more of a hiss, and her body convulses as she tries to stand. She’s weak, though, and she can’t even lift her head. Her eyes are wide, the whites showing, and she bares her teeth in my direction. 

I’m thrilled she has enough energy and awareness for that much. She should be dead. It shows she’s strong. She’s a survivor.

I lower my head and whimper, nudging her cheek with my nose, showing her I’m not a threat.

She keeps growling, but I see the fear in her eyes. Whatever happened to her has terrified her, and she’s not in a state to be reasoned with. 

But she’s also too weak to run from me or to fight. I shift back into my human form, my clothing fitting loosely around my hips and shoulders, and I reach for her.

She snaps at me, but her movement is slow and weak, and I pull back before her teeth come close to my fingers. “Easy,” I say softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

I move slowly. She growls, her body tense, but she doesn’t move to attack this time. I touch her shoulder, and she flinches, but she lets me. I touch the gash on her head again, and her eyes follow my hand. I need to clean the wound and stop the bleeding. I look around, taking stock of what the forest has to offer.

The stream trickles nearby. I move toward it, keeping an eye on the wolf to make sure she doesn’t try to run. But she stays where she is, watching me with wary eyes.

I kneel by the stream and scoop water into my hands. It’s clean and cold, and I carry it back to the she-wolf with care. She doesn’t move as I approach, and I kneel beside her, pressing my hands to her wounds. 

She jerks, her eyes widening, but I speak soothingly to her. “It’s all right. I’m going to clean your wound.”

I repeat the process, gathering water and bringing it back to her, until the wound is clean and the bleeding has slowed. I find some moss and press it to the gash, hoping it will help stop the bleeding.

The wolf watches me, her eyes losing some of their wildness. 

I sit back on my heels, my hands stained with her blood, scanning her body for any other injuries. I clean them with the water and press moss against them. The bleeding has slowed to a trickle, and I can see the torn flesh knitting together, the magic of our kind working to heal her.

I save the wound on her throat for last. It’s the worst one, and I’m not sure what I can do for it. If she was a human, I would say she needs a hospital. But she’s not, and I don’t know what will help her. I clean the wound and place moss over it, pulling away the blood-matted fur, and then I see something that makes me freeze.

My breath catches in my throat, and I lean closer, my eyes locked on the mark on her neck. It’s a brand, a symbol burned into her flesh. And I know that symbol.

It’s the sigil of the Blackwood pack.

I pull my hand back, clenching it into a fist. Instantly my wolf emerges, a growl vibrating in my throat as my teeth cut through, my spine curving. Anger courses through me, and I have to fight the urge to leave her where she is, to abandon her to whatever fate has in store. 

She’s a Blackwood. 

I have no allegiance to her. She is an enemy, and if she dies, it’s one less shifter I have to worry about.

I should kill her for crossing the boundary. 

But even as I think it, my body rebels against the idea. My claws retract, my teeth pulling into my gums. 

I’m not a monster. 

Not yet.

And I don’t know who attacked her, but it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t my pack. If there’s something out there attacking shifters, then I need to know about it. I need to stop it. 

What will my pack think if I bring her back with me? I’ll be a traitor for helping a Blackwood. Will she even make it that far? 

The Blackwoods will consider it an act of war. Taking one of their own.

I have to try. 

I kneel beside her again, my eyes scanning her face. She's beautiful, even in her wolf form. And I can't help but feel a pull toward her, a connection that goes beyond the physical.

I need to get her back to my territory, where I can keep an eye on her. Where I can ensure her safety—and mine.

“We’re not done yet,” I say softly as I press moss into the wound on her neck. “You’re going to make it. And you’re going to tell me who did this to you.”