The Wolf At The Door

Callie stood on the weathered porch of her homestead, her grip tightening on the rifle resting against her shoulder. The early morning mist clung to the prairie grass, and the sun had just begun to creep over the distant hills. Her sharp eyes scanned the clump of cottonwoods at the edge of her land--gnarled, ancient things that whispered in the wind.

There. Movement.

A flicker of shadow between the trunks. Too deliberate to be a deer, too cautious to be anything innocent. Her pulse quickened. She didn't breathe.

Predator?

It had been watching her for over a week, and she didn't know what to make of it.

At first, she thought it was just her imagination--the flicker of movement at dusk, the faint rustling just beyond the firelight's reach. But then she noticed the tracks: soft impressions in the damp earth, too large for a coyote, too deliberate for any ordinary animal. They circled her cabin, disappearing by dawn as if they'd never been there at all.

She had tried to dismiss it. Told herself it was just a wolf, a stray dog, maybe even a wandering bear.

And now, as she stood on the porch, her fingers cold against the rifle stock, she felt its gaze like a weight between her shoulder blades. The thing in the trees wasn't just passing through.

It was waiting.

For what?

She exhaled slowly, steadying herself. If it wanted to attack, it would've done so by now. That was the part that unsettled her most.

This wasn't hunger.

It was something else.

The chickens clucked and waddled around her as she stared into some nearby trees.

The creature--the man--was getting closer, testing her defenses like a hunter circling a fire.

She could tell what he was now. He no longer bothered to hide fully. Instead, he gave her glimpses--just enough to unsettle her. At twilight, he stood at the tree line in human form, tall and shadowed, his eyes catching the fading light like a predator's. By dawn, she would see prints too large for any wolf but too precise for any beast not wearing a man's mind.

Worse, he wasn't just letting her see him.

He was letting her know she was seen.

A shifter. She'd heard tales--whispered warnings from trappers and old settlers about things that walked between skins. But stories were one thing. To have one stalking her land, watching her with that slow, deliberate intent... That was something else entirely.

What did he want?

Her fingers flexed around the rifle. The sensible thing would be to shoot first. But something held her back.

The tracks in the mud never came too near the house. The glimpses of him were never aggressive--only watching, always watching.

There was purpose in it. And that, more than teeth or claws, was what frightened her.

Because the question wasn't if he would approach.

It was when.

She finished brushing Fred, her old draft horse, giving his flank a familiar pat before turning toward the barn doors. The morning sun sliced in through the cracks, turning dust motes into flecks of gold as they swirled in the air. Normally, this was the part of the day she liked best--the quiet rhythm of chores, the warmth of the animals, the predictability of it all.

Then she saw it.

Right there in the soft dirt by the hay bales--a wolf's paw print, too large, too deep. Fresh.

Her breath stopped.

He had been inside the barn.

Not just near the treeline anymore. Not just watching from a distance. He had walked right up while her back was turned, close enough to touch Fred, close enough to--

She whirled, scanning the shadows between stalls, her skin prickling. The chickens murmured uneasily, and Fred let out a low, wary snort, ears twitching toward the far corner where the light didn't reach.

He was still here.

Wasn't he?

Her rifle leaned against the wall by the doors--too far away now. Useless. She swallowed hard, forcing her voice steady as she called out into the dimness:

"You might as well show yourself now."

Silence.

The summer sun beat down on her bent back as she worked through the rows of her garden, the earth warm between her fingers. Tomatoes hung heavy on their vines, cucumbers sprawled in tangled patches, and the scent of basil and rosemary clung thick to the humid air. Most days, she lost herself in the rhythm of it--harvesting, washing, preparing jars for preserves. Today should have been no different.

She had plans for a greenhouse--had already sketched the design in the margins of her almanac--but for now, the work was simple: gather what she could before the heat spoiled it.

And then--just by chance--she looked up.

A mere hundred feet away, the shifter leaned against a post of her wrap-around porch, his arms crossed as if he belonged there.

This was the first time she had gotten a good look at him.

The sunlight caught him differently out in the open, stripping away the mystery of dusk and shadow. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that curled slightly at the nape of his neck. His clothes were worn but well-made--linen shirt rolled to his elbows, faded trousers tucked into scuffed boots. A man's appearance. But the way he held himself was something else entirely.

Predatory stillness.

As though he could pounce or vanish in the same breath.

Her hands stilled on the basket of green beans, her pulse hammering. For a long moment, she didn't move, didn't dare blink.

Then--casual as anything--he tilted his head and met her stare.

Acknowledging her.

Not with menace, not with a challenge. Just... seeing her.

Then he looked away, as if the horizon interested him more than the woman frozen in her garden.

Her fingers trembled. He wasn't hiding anymore.

Mr. Callaway was drunk again.

Callie could smell the sour whiskey on him before he even reached the porch steps, his boots scuffing unevenly against the wood. His hat was tipped too far back, his grin too loose, and that gleam in his eyes--the one she hated--was already fixed on her.

"I told you to leave," she said, voice sharp as a whipcrack.

But he didn't stop. Just like last time.

Now he was leaning against the porch railing, too close, his voice dropping like he was sharing a secret. "Now, Callie, why you gotta be like that? You're out here all alone--that ain't right. Young woman needs a good man." He reached out, fingers brushing toward her arm. "I been thinkin'... I could help take care of you."

Her stomach twisted. She stepped back, hand darting toward the knife on her hip.

But before she could draw it--

A growl split the air.

Low, vicious, the kind of sound that didn't come from any creature still fully human.

Mr. Callaway froze.

The shifter was right there.

Between one blink and the next, he had come from the shadows--half-shifted, his body caught in the space between man and beast. Wolf ears pressed flat against his dark hair. A thick, bristling tail lashed behind him. His fingers--no, claws--curled like he was imagining what Callaway's throat would feel like crushed in his grip.

And his face--

Callie caught only a glimpse--fanged muzzle not yet fully formed, golden eyes burning with something wild and possessive--before Callaway stumbled back with a choked cry.

No more smirks. No more slick words.

Just raw, stupid terror.

He didn't even speak. Just fled, boots skidding in the dirt as he half-ran, half-fell toward his horse.

The shifter watched him go, shoulders heaving with harsh breaths. Then, slowly, the shift began to undo itself. Ears retreating. Tail vanishing. Fangs smoothing back into human teeth.

When he finally turned to face Callie, his face was human again--but his eyes were still wolf-gold.

And they were fixed on her.

Not with hunger.

Not with threat.

But something far more terrifying--something that made her pulse stutter.

Protection.

Possession.

She swallowed hard.

She had no idea what to say to that.

He watched her.

Had been watching for days, weeks--longer than she realized. Longer than was wise.

But he couldn't help it.

She moved through her days with a quiet, stubborn competence that fascinated him. Not like the settlers who flinched at every shadow, who choked the land with fences and prayers. No. This woman knew the rhythm of this place. Knew how to press a rifle to her shoulder and hold it steady. Knew how to carve survival out of the earth with brown, work-rough hands.

And she was alone.

That shouldn't have mattered. But it did.

He hadn't meant to let her see him. Hadn't meant to leave tracks so deep, so telling, where she would find them. But the longer he lingered at the edges of her world, the harder it became to stay hidden.

The first time she truly saw him--not just a flicker of movement, not just a shadow between the cottonwoods--he'd been careless. Let the wind shift. Let his weight press too heavily into the soft earth by her barn.

And when she turned, when her sharp eyes locked onto him like she was already deciding whether to shoot or run, something reckless in him had answered.

He didn't hide.

Just stared back, letting her take him in--the breadth of his shoulders, the unblinking gold of his gaze. A silent admission: Yes, I'm here. Yes, I've been watching.

The scent of her fear was bright, sharp in his nose. But beneath it?

Something better. Something hotter.

Defiance.

She didn't scream. Didn't reach for the gun leaning against the barn wall. Just stood there, chin lifted, like she was daring him to make a move.

Gods, she was perfect.

And then that bastard Callaway came sniffing around.

The shifter had smelled the man's sweat, his whiskey-sour breath, his greasy, grasping want long before he stumbled onto her porch. Had watched from the trees as the man leaned too close, spoke too low, fingers twitching to touch.

Something dark and feral in him rippled, claws already tearing free before his human mind could protest.

He shouldn't intervene. Shouldn't reveal himself like this.

But the thought of those hands on her--

No.

He struck like a storm, half-shifted, all teeth and snarl. The man reeked of terror before he even turned, his drunkard's bravado crumbling like rotted wood.

Good. Run. Run so he didn't have to stain her porch with the fool's blood.

When he turned to her, skin still prickling with the aftershocks of the shift, her pulse was a frantic drumbeat in his ears.

But she wasn't looking at him with fear.

Not anymore.

Now, she was studying him like a puzzle. Like a choice.

He bared his throat.

Not submission.

An offering.

He had been giving her dead things.

At first, she'd thought it was a coincidence--a mangled rabbit near the barn, a grouse left by the well. But then the offerings grew bigger. A fox, its fur matted but its throat torn clean. A young buck, neatly gutted, laid at the edge of her garden like some grotesque gift.

She had no idea why.

Did he think she couldn't hunt? That she needed the charity of a predator? The thought prickled her pride. She'd lived on this land for years, feeding herself just fine without the help of some shifter playing at provider.

But then, three mornings ago, she'd stepped onto the porch and found the latest gift waiting--not on the ground this time, but placed carefully on the rail. A prairie hawk, its wings spread as if in mid-flight, not a single feather out of place. It could have been sleeping, if not for the way its head lolled just slightly too far to the side. The precision of the kill unsettled her. No broken neck, no claw marks--just one swift, lethal twist.

That was when she realized.

It wasn't about whether she needed to hunt.

This was something else.

Something deliberate.

She'd stared at the hawk for a long time before finally lifting it, half-expecting a trap. But there was nothing. Just the weight of it in her palms, still warm.

That evening, as the sun dipped behind the cottonwoods, she caught movement at the tree line--the shifter, watching. Not hiding anymore. Just... waiting.

For what?

A thank you?

A sign that she understood?

She'd considered leaving something in return--a loaf of bread, a jar of preserves. But the idea felt foolish. What did a creature like that want with jam?

Instead, she did nothing.

And the gifts kept coming.

It wasn't until this morning that she found the kill still fresh--a fat turkey, not even stiff yet, left by the chopping block like an implicit suggestion. Pluck me. Cook me.

She'd exhaled through her nose, hands on her hips.

Fine.

If this was his way of... whatever this was, she might as well use it.

She dressed the bird quickly, the work familiar. By noon, the smell of roasting meat filled her kitchen. Without thinking, she'd set an extra plate at the table.

Then paused.

Stupid.

He wasn't a guest. He wasn't tame.

But as the sun sank, she left the offering on the porch all the same--a drumstick wrapped in cloth, still warm.

She didn't wait to see if he took it.

But when she checked at dawn, it was gone.

And in its place--

A single wolf track, pressed deep into the dirt.

Close.

Too close.

Her stomach flipped.

Not fear.

Not quite.

Something else.

She was cooking the first time she saw him in her house.

The cast iron skillet sizzled with venison and onions, the scent rich and heavy in the warm kitchen. Callie wiped her hands on her apron, reaching for the wooden spoon--

And froze.

There, in the doorway of her pantry, stood the shifter.

Not on her porch. Not lurking at the tree line.

Inside.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, eyes wide in shock. "Why are you in my house?"

He tilted his head, unbothered, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. "I like your den."

His voice was rougher than she expected, low and edged with something wild beneath the words. He wasn't looking at her with menace--just curiosity, like a wolf inspecting a new scent.

Callie's fingers tightened on the spoon. She didn't reach for the knife on the counter. Not yet. "You don't just walk into someone's home."

He took a slow step forward. Not threatening. Just... testing. The firelight flickered across his face, catching the gold in his eyes. "You left food for me," he said, as if that explained everything.

She exhaled sharply. "On the porch. Not in my kitchen."

Another step. Closer now. She could see the way his nostrils flared slightly, scenting the air--the meat, the herbs, her. "Your den smells safe," he murmured. "Warm."

Callie's pulse skipped. She should shove him out. Should yell, should do something.

But the way he looked at her... like she was something worth circling but not devouring.

Something worth staying for.

She swallowed hard.

Then, against all sense, she turned back to the skillet and flipped the venison. "You're blocking the salt."

A pause. Then--the scrape of boots on wood as he moved aside.

Neither of them spoke as she finished cooking.

But when she handed him a plate, his fingers brushed hers.

And she didn't pull away.

He kept touching her.

Not in the way men like Callaway did--greedy, presumptuous, with hands that took before asking. No. His touches were deliberate, testing, as if he was learning the shape of her reactions one brush at a time.

In human form, his fingers skimmed her back when he passed behind her in the kitchen, warm even through the fabric of her shirt. He lingered sometimes, calloused palm pressing lightly between her shoulder blades, steadying her without words. Once, when she reached for a jar on a high shelf, his hand covered hers--brief, unthinking--before he pulled away like he'd trespassed.

She never chided him for it.

And he never apologized.

At night, when the fire burned low and the wind howled outside, she'd feel the weight of his gaze as she worked at the table--mending clothes, cleaning her rifle. He'd rise from his spot by the hearth, silent as a shadow, and come to stand beside her chair. Close. Too close. His fingers would brush the nape of her neck, pushing aside loose strands of hair, and God help her, she'd lean into it. Just a little. Just enough to make his exhale hitch.

Then he'd disappear outside before dawn.

In wolf form, he was bolder.

She'd be chopping firewood when his shoulder would press against her thigh--a solid, seeking pressure. Walking to the stream, she'd feel the brush of his fur against her hand, not quite nuzzling but not avoiding her either. Once, as she knelt in the garden, his muzzle nudged beneath her wrist, lifting her fingers away from the soil to press his nose to her palm. Mine, that touch said. Mine like this.

It gave her goosebumps every time. Not from fear.

From anticipation.

One evening, when the air was thick with the promise of rain, he found her on the porch. He was in that half-shifted state--wild enough for claws, human enough to stand tall over her--and his hand curled around the back of her neck before she could speak, thumb stroking the racing pulse below her ear.

She didn't move. Didn't breathe.

Slowly, deliberately, he pressed his forehead to hers and let out a sound that was almost a growl, almost a purr.

And she--

She grabbed his shirt in both fists and pulled.

No more waiting.

The storm broke just as their lips met.

Rain lashed the porch, drumming against the roof in a sudden, violent rhythm, but Callie barely noticed. His mouth was hot--like the rest of him, wild and feverish, teeth catching her bottom lip just shy of pain. The hand at her nape tightened, dragging her closer, and she gasped into the kiss as his other arm banded around her waist, lifting her clean off her feet.

She'd shot men for less.

But this wasn't a man. Not really.

He carried her inside like she weighed nothing--kicked the door shut behind them, didn't break the kiss even as thunder rattled the windows. When her back hit the mattress, he pulled away just enough to look at her, golden eyes burning in the dark.

Even half-shifted, his face was stunning--all sharp cheekbones and hunger, his dark hair damp from the rain. His clawed fingers flexed against her hip, pressing crescents into her skin through her clothes.

Waiting.

This was still her choice.

Callie swallowed, staring up at him--at the predator who'd crept into her home and then, impossibly, into her bed. But she didn't hesitate. Slowly, deliberately, she tugged at the collar of his shirt, nails scraping his collarbone.

More.

A snarl rumbled from his chest, dark and approving.

Then his mouth was on her throat, biting at the frantic pulse there as he yanked at the buttons of her shirt. So rough, so eager--but even now, his hand cradled the back of her skull before he laid her flat again, keeping her from knocking her head against the headboard.

That was the thing about him--every show of teeth came with care.

Every growl was a promise.

When he finally got her bare, his fingers traced the lines of her as if memorizing them--the curve of her waist, the hitch of her breath when he brushed between her thighs. His nostrils flared as he scented her, pupils dilating, and the sound he made was downright sinful.

"Callie."

Her name in his mouth was barely recognizable--grating, possessive--and she shuddered beneath him.

And then he was on her. In her.

No slow seduction, no gentle coaxing--just the brutal, perfect snap of hips, the wet slide of sweat-slicked skin, his fangs scraping her shoulder as she arched beneath him. And if she dug her heels into his back hard enough to leave bruises, if her nails raked down his chest when she came apart--well.

He only growled and licked the blood from her fingers afterward.

Later, with the storm still raging outside, she traced the fresh scratch marks on his chest--shamelessly pleased with herself--as his tail curled possessively around her ankle.

"Mine," he rumbled, catching her wrist to lick a stripe up her palm.

She snorted, but didn't argue.

Because for the first time since settling this land--since building this house with her own two hands--she wasn't alone anymore.

And that should have terrified her.

But as his teeth grazed her pulse point--careful, always careful--she realized with a jolt:

This wasn't a claim she allowed.

It was one she answered.

The last thing she saw before sleep took her was his grin--all fangs, all promise--before he tucked her against his chest and bit the edge of her jaw.

Mine.

And--God help her--she was.

The corn grew tall that summer, turning the fields into a sea of gold and green, their rustling leaves a constant whisper in the wind. Callie worked alongside him--though "alongside" was too charitable a word. The shifter was far more interested in pouncing on rabbits than weeding, in chasing the shadows of hawks rather than mending fences. But when she needed him, he was there.

Like when the old wagon wheel snapped, its wood rotten from years of use, and he hoisted the entire cart onto his shoulder as if it weighed nothing.

Or when a rattlesnake coiled near the barn door, its tail singing a warning, and he snatched it up mid-strike, tearing its head off with his teeth before spitting it into the dirt.

She'd scowled at him for that one. "I could've handled it."

He'd just grinned, blood staining his canines--the human ones this time--and flicked her nose with his thumb.

But there were other moments, too.

The way he'd lie at her feet by the fire, wolf-shaped and massive, his head resting on her boot like she was the only thing that anchored him to this world.

The way her fingers would sink into his fur as she read aloud from her almanac, half-convinced he wasn't listening, until he'd lift his head and chuff at the particularly dull parts just to make her laugh.

The way, on the nights he stayed human, he'd press his nose to her wrist before sleep, breathing her in like she was the only scent that mattered.

She never asked where he'd come from. Never questioned why he'd chosen her land to stalk, her porch to haunt. Some things didn't need answers.

Until the day the Sheriff came.

Callie recognized the man from town--thin-lipped, with a silver star gleaming on his chest. His horse was lathered from the ride, and his eyes darted past her to the cabin, searching.

"Afternoon, Miss Callie." His voice was too light, too careful.

She didn't lower the rifle propped on her shoulder. "Sheriff."

He cleared his throat. "Got some... unsettling news. Folks say they seen a wolf--bigger than any natural. Saw pictures of some tracks, too. Pawprints near as big as a grizzly's, but shaped all wrong." His gaze flicked to the treeline. "Heard tell it's been circling your property."

Her pulse didn't so much as stutter. "Lots of wolves out here."

The Sheriff shifted in his saddle, fingers tightening on the reins. "Not like this one. Thing's got folks spooked. Say it walks like a man sometimes." A pause. "Say it's been leaving kills on your porch."

Callie's grip on the rifle adjusted slightly. "That a fact?"

The Sheriff exhaled. "You seen anything strange?"

Behind her, the wind carried the barest whisper of leaves parting--too quiet for human ears. She didn't turn. Didn't smile.

"Nope."

The Sheriff's horse stamped nervously.

Callie tilted her head. "Come around again asking questions without cause, though, and you'll see something strange."

The threat hung between them, sharp as her rifle's sight.

The Sheriff swallowed. Touched his hat.

He didn't say another word as he turned his horse and rode away.

Callie waited until his silhouette vanished over the ridge. Then she whistled low under her breath.

The shifter emerged from the cottonwoods a second later--fully human, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, smirking like the devil himself.

She glared at him. "You've been sloppy."

He prowled toward her, unrepentant. "Or you've been greedy."

A thrill shot down her spine. "Meaning?"

He caught her around the waist, yanking her flush against him as his nose brushed her temple. "You don't share," he murmured, fangs just shy of her skin. "Neither do I."

Callie grinned then--wild, feral, matching him pulse for pulse.

The land was hers.

And the wolf was hers, too.

Let the world try to take either from her.

It'd regret it.

The sound of hooves reached him first--too heavy, too clumsy. Not Callie's mare.

Him.

Again.

The idiot human was coming back. The one who'd stank of whiskey and sweat, whose fingers had dared to twitch toward Callie like she was something he could claim. The one who'd run, piss-scared, the last time the shifter had shown his teeth.

And yet, here he was. Stupid. Stubborn.

A low growl built in his chest, half-formed, as he straightened from his crouch by the creek. The wind carried the man's scent--sour fear barely masked beneath cheap cologne, like he thought it would hide his stench. Like it would make him anything but prey.

The shifter's claws pricked his palms. He could disappear into the trees, become shadow, slip up on the man's blind side and land on his horse with a snarl. He could make sure Callaway never rode this way again.

But--

Callie was standing at the fence line, watching the road, her rifle loose at her side. Every muscle in her body was tense, her spine a straight, unyielding line. She'd heard the horse too.

Something hot and possessive twisted inside him.

Mine.

He'd shown Callaway once. Maybe the man needed a different message this time. One he couldn't ignore.

The shifter moved before he thought better of it--crossing the field, his boots silent in the tall grass. Callie didn't turn, but she knew--her shoulders relaxed a fraction as he stepped behind her, as his fingers found the nape of her neck, rough and claiming.

She exhaled sharply but didn't pull away. "He's back."

"Yeah."

Callaway was close now--close enough that the shifter could hear the way the man's breath hitched when he spotted them.

Good. Look. See what's mine.

He leaned down, pressing his lips to the curve of Callie's throat--then dragged his tongue up the length of it, slow and deliberate. Callie gasped, her fingers tightening on the fence rail, and the sound punched through him like a lightning strike.

Perfect.

Callaway's horse shied, spooked by something the man couldn't see--couldn't understand. The shifter barely spared him a glance, too focused on the flush spreading across Callie's skin, on the way her pulse hammered against his mouth.

"Tell him to leave," he murmured against her neck.

Callie turned her head just slightly, her eyes locked onto Callaway, her voice steel. "You lost?"

The man's face paled. He yanked the reins hard, his horse dancing sideways. "I--I was just checking--"

The shifter nipped at Callie's ear, making her shiver, and flashed a grin at Callaway over her shoulder. All teeth.

Understand now?

Callaway did. He hauled his horse around so fast the animal nearly stumbled, then kicked it into a frantic gallop back down the road.

The shifter licked the shell of Callie's ear and felt her shiver.

"Good girl."

She elbowed him, but there was no heat in it. Just fire.

And when he bit the curve of her shoulder--just enough to mark--she tipped her head back against his chest and laughed.

Oh, I'm not done.

He pulled her to his chest and let her feel the hardness of his cock, pressing against the seam of his trousers--hot, insistent, undeniable. His lips curled in a wolf's smirk as she caught her breath, as her fingers twitched against his shirt like she was deciding whether to push him away or drag him down right there in the dirt.

The choice was already made.

His teeth grazed the shell of her ear as his hands slid down, gripping the flare of her hips. "Wanna remind him who you belong to?" he growled, voice rough enough to blister.

She tipped her head back to glare at him--but her pupils were blown wide, her cheeks flushed dark. "You're insufferable."

"Yeah," he agreed. Then he spun her around, yanked her against him, and kissed her like he meant to devour her whole.

Callie barely had time to fist her hands in his shirt before he was walking her backward, never breaking the kiss, until her spine hit the barn wall. The moment she gasped, he took advantage--licking into her mouth, swallowing every sound like a man starved. His hands roamed, rough and greedy, kneading the curve of her ass before hiking her leg around his waist.

She moaned when he ground against her, when the thick line of his erection rubbed just right through her skirts.

"Here?" she panted, arching into him.

His laugh was a dark, rumbling thing. "Everywhere."

Then he bit her lower lip--hard enough to sting, not hard enough to break skin--and dropped to his knees.

Callie barely had time to register the loss of his heat before his hands were pushing her skirts up, baring her to the cool barn air. His breath came hot against her inner thighs, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled her scent.

"Fuck," he rasped, half-prayer, half-curse.

Then his mouth was on her, licking a ruthless stripe through her folds, and Callie's back slammed against the wall as her knees nearly gave out.

He didn't slow. Didn't tease. Just ate her like she was his last meal, tonguing her clit with rough, rhythmic strokes, sucking until she was clawing at his hair, her thighs trembling around his ears.

"Y-you--" She choked on the words as his fingers joined his mouth, pushing inside her with shameless intent.

He growled against her, the vibration sending a fresh shock of pleasure up her spine. Mine, that sound said. Mine like this.

And when she came, it was with his name on her lips--half-snarled, half-sobbed--as his teeth sank into the soft flesh of her thigh, marking her even as he drank her down.

Later, when he'd fucked her raw against the loft ladder, when her legs were shaking too badly to stand, he carried her back to the house--still inside her, still hard, still grinning like the wolf he was.

Callie bit his shoulder in revenge.

He only laughed.

Because she was right.

He wasn't done.

Not even close.

The warning came three days later--not from Callaway himself, but from the scent of torch oil and gunpowder on the wind.

The shifter woke first, his body tensing beside hers, his nostrils flaring as the pre-dawn darkness clung to the cabin. Callie stirred as he slid from the bed, her hand automatically reaching for the rifle leaning against the nightstand.

"Callaway?" she murmured, already slipping into her boots.

The shifter didn't answer. Just pulled on his trousers, his entire body coiled like a spring. His jaw clenched as another gust carried the smell to them--not just Callaway this time. Others. Four, maybe five men.

Callie's fingers tightened around the rifle stock. "They're coming for us."

A low growl rumbled in his chest as he fastened his belt, his claws pricking his palms. "Let them."

But she was already moving, shoving open the window to peer into the dim hour before sunrise. The faint glow of torches flickered in the distance, bobbing like fireflies through the trees. They weren't even trying to hide.

Arrogant. Stupid.

She turned back to the shifter, her voice sharp. "Get dressed."

His teeth flashed in the dark. "I don't need clothes to kill them."

"I know," she said, yanking her knife from the bedside table and tucking it into her belt. "But I do."

He stilled. Then grinned--all fangs, all promise.

She was right.

This was her land.

Her fight.

If Callaway thought he could burn her out, scare her off, he had another thing coming. She wasn't some helpless homesteader to be run down by drunken fools. And she sure as hell wasn't alone anymore.

The shifter prowled toward her, his claws tracing the line of her jaw. "How do you want them?"

Callie met his golden stare, her own pulse steady, cold.

"Afraid," she said.

By the time Callaway and his men reached the yard, the cabin was dark--but the front door gaped open, swaying slightly in the wind like an invitation.

Or a warning.

Callaway hesitated, his torch flickering in the sudden gust. He'd expected barricades, gunfire, screams. Not this eerie silence. Not this hollow doorway.

His boys shifted uneasily behind him, their rifles clutched too tight.

"Thought you said she'd run," one muttered.

Callaway spat into the dirt. "She will."

But the words tasted hollow.

Then--movement.

A shadow detached itself from the side of the barn, too tall to be the woman, too fluid to be human. The shifter stepped into the torchlight, shirtless, his arms slack at his sides. His claws gleamed.

Callaway's throat went dry.

He'd seen the monster half-shifted before, but now--now the thing looked at him with full, primal awareness, golden eyes bright with something like amusement. Like hunger.

The shifter's grin stretched, slow and deliberate.

And then--he took a single step forward.

Callaway's men scattered.

Two bolted back toward their horses without firing a shot. Another lifted his rifle--only for the shifter to snatch it mid-shot and snap the barrel like kindling. The man turned to run, but the shifter caught him by the collar and hurled him into the dirt, claws pricking the back of his neck.

"Stay," the shifter rumbled.

The man whimpered.

Callaway and his last ally stood frozen, their torches trembling.

"You want her?" the shifter asked, tilting his head. "Come take her."

From the darkness behind him, a gun cocked.

Callie stepped into the light, her rifle leveled at Callaway's chest. Her eyes were black with fury, her mouth twisted in a sneer.

But the shifter didn't look at her.

Just kept watching Callaway.

Waiting.

Callaway's finger twitched on the trigger of his revolver.

The shifter moved.

One moment he was standing still--the next, he'd closed the distance between them, his claws ripping through Callaway's gun hand before the man could fire. Blood sprayed the dirt as Callaway screamed, collapsing to his knees, his revolver clattering uselessly aside.

The shifter crouched in front of him, his voice low. "You touch what's mine again, and I'll peel the skin from your bones while you watch."

Then he straightened, nodding to Callie.

Her turn.

She stood over Callaway, her boot pressing into his bleeding hand. His howl of pain was cut short as she jammed the rifle barrel under his chin.

"Still think I need a good man?" she asked, her voice icy.

Callaway's lips moved soundlessly.

Callie's finger tightened on the trigger.

A second passed. Two.

Then--she lowered the gun. "Get off my land."

The remaining men didn't wait for another warning. They hauled Callaway to his feet, their faces gray with terror, and fled into the trees.

The shifter watched them go, his shoulders heaving, his claws still slick with blood. Then he turned to Callie, his expression unreadable.

She wiped the rifle stock clean and met his gaze.

No words.

None needed.

The message was clear.

This was hers.

And so was he.

By next morning, the only sign of the confrontation was the trampled grass and a single, bloodied revolver left behind.

Callie tossed it into the tool shed without a second thought.

The shifter stretched out on the porch, shirtless, watching her work.

Neither of them spoke of Callaway again.

He wouldn't be back.

And if he was?

Well.

They'd be waiting.

The wolf shifter lazily licked up Callie's bare back, his tongue rough and warm against her sweat-damp skin. She shivered, twisting to glare at him over her shoulder.

"Again? We just--"

He nuzzled between her shoulder blades, unconcerned. His hands dragged possessively down her sides, palming her hips before pulling her flush against him. She could already feel him hard again, thick and eager against her lower back.

"Rutting season," he rumbled, as if that explained everything. His teeth caught the curve of her ear, playful but edged with intent. "Want you full of my pups by spring."

Callie scoffed, but the sound dissolved into a gasp as he easily flipped her onto her stomach, his weight pressing her into the mattress. She barely had time to arch beneath him before he hooked an arm around her waist, yanking her hips up, and thrust into her with one deep, claiming stroke.

Her fingers clawed the sheets. "Oh--"

He groaned, low and satisfied, already moving with a relentless, rolling rhythm. One hand fisted in her hair, tugging just enough to sting, while the other splayed possessively over her belly--like he could already imagine it rounded with his child. His breath came hot against her neck, lips tracing her pulse point between words.

"Gonna breed you proper, sweetheart. Over and over 'til it takes."

Callie choked on a laugh that quickly became a moan. "Arrogant bastard--"

His teeth sank into her shoulder in answer. Then he snapped his hips harder, driving the air from her lungs.

As if she'd ever deny him.

As if he'd ever stop.