Isabella's POV

THREE MONTHS ON THE OUTSKIRTS.

The forest is quiet. Like quiet. I guess that's to be expected around this season, the animals seemed to detect the hunger wolves emanate. I always felt bad for them. I knew firsthand what being a prey felt like.

I shift the sack of fruits on my shoulder, the weight digging into my collarbone. My traps dangle from the other hand- three rabbits, two unlucky squirrels, but not enough to keep me fed while the others go feral. The wolves- they're already shifting. Their ear-splitting howls made the hair on the skin stand.

I had to get home fast. A scent caught my nose that made me pause. I recognized it. The thick and metallic scent of blood. Fresh blood. I gulped. The underbrush shook with a crash and a low, ragged growl sounded. Is someone hurt?

Dropping my traps and sack, I crouch and crawl slowly towards it. I must be stupid or suicidal. Maybe both. Then I see him. Not a wolf. Definitely not a wolf. It's huge. Half-shifted. Silver fur streaked with blood, deep gashes slicing across his chest and back. He's trying to crawl, dragging himself with his claws, snarling low in his throat like a cornered beast.

And gods, he's beautiful. Even like this. There's power etched into every trembling muscle, a wildness that makes my brain go hot and cold all at once. There's a tingle in my chest that seems to swell the more I look at him. I can't help him. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. He's too big, we'd never make it. And the rogues, they'd kill me. How will I feed him? I can't even feed myself. I should leave. But I don't.

Then he lifts his head, and his eyes- unnatural violet that seems to glow lock unto mine. 'Help me.'

I must be losing my mind because my body moves before my brain does. "Shit," I whisper to myself once I realize what I'm doing. I sling one of his massive arms over my shoulders, then crouch lower, digging my hands under his ribs and pull.

A sound tears out of me- half grunt, half scream. The weight of him nearly folds me in half. He's heavy- all muscle. My knees threaten to buckle, my spine screams but I dig my heels into the dirt and take another step.

And another.

And another.

The forest gets darker. Then dimming moon and louder howls curdles my blood. I can't take the main path. The wolves are already gathering there- I double back toward the ridge and slip into the old hunting trail, overgrown and forgotten, hidden beneath thick branches and a curtain of thorns. Every step summons unimaginable pain from my body. His claws dig into my arm, his blood soaks through my clothes. I almost collapse when I hit a slope. I have to half-roll him down it, then crawl after him.

"I hate you," I hiss, chest heaving as I lift him again. "I hate myself more."

We move in bursts. A few feet, a pause. A few more feet. My shoulders are raw from pain, my pain blistered. My thighs scream. But I kept going. Because something in me knows he'd die if I leave him.

And worse, knows I can't.

By the time we reach the cottage, I'm half-dead myself. My knees buckle as I slam the door shut behind us with my foot, then collapse on the splintered floorboards panting.

My home isn't much. Just four walls, a patchy roof, and a crooked chimney. The single room holds everything I can't afford to lose which is really nothing. He lies motionless on the floor, blood pooling beneath him, seeping into the fur pelt I used as a rug. I stare at him and shake my head. "What the hell am I doing?"

I left everything. The traps. The meat. The fruit. My entire plan for survival this season- gone. I should never have looked into this stupid lycan's eyes and decided to ruin my life.

I swallow my rising panic and drag him closer to the firepit, limbs trembling. Then I shuffle over to the cabinet in the corner and pull it open. There, tucked behind a withered spring of dried sage, sits the vial.

I'd sold everything for it. Wolfsbane-burn tonic. It was meant to be for me- it had amazing effects. Magical effects. It might even make one...shift. It always sounded far-fetched, but I just needed something to believe in. Something to hope for. I stifled a sob and reached for it.

I glance at him. Unconscious and pale, his body remained still. His breathing got shallower. My fist tightens around the bottle. "Dammit," I whisper and blink back my tears. Before I can think about it, I uncork it, tilt his head back and pour it between his lips.

He flinches. Then...nothing. I sit back on my heels and breathe out slowly, my body slumping forward like a collapsing tent. My stomach makes a rumpling sound. Right, I haven't even eaten today. I sighed. I shuffle to the back of the room and grab the last of my supplies-half a bag of barley, a single turnip, and some dried deer meat that's mostly bone.

It's barely enough for a sick pup, let alone a lycan the size of a small horse. But I cook it anyway, boiling it over a weak fire, and when it's soft enough not to choke him, I bring the bowl to his side.

I lift his head and press the rim of the bowl to his lips. "Come on," I murmur, coaxing. "Eat."

Some of it dribbles down his chin, but he swallows. Slowly. I feed him in silence, spoon by spoon, until there's nothing left but empty breath and the crackle of the fire.

Then I wipe his face with a torn cloth and set the bowl aside.

His wounds need cleaning. Some are deep. One slash across his ribs looks infected already. I reach for the hem of the shredded trousers barely clinging to his hips, blood-caked and torn-

And his hand shoots out.

Clamps around my wrist.

My breath catches in my throat. His eyes snap open-those same glowing violet eyes that haunted me all the way home.

I freeze.

"I just need to see the wounds," I whisper, barely moving.

His grip doesn't tighten, but it doesn't let go either. He wants to say something. His lips part-

And then his head falls back.

Unconscious again.

I pull my wrist free, my pulse thundering.

Who the hell is he, and what have I done?