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The forest did not speak that night. Only the sound of breaking branches, of sliced air, of a wolf’s heart beating so hard it hurt.
Luka was running.
He didn’t think, didn’t speak. He was only muscle and roar. The smell of blood and fear was too strong, too acidic, too familiar… Rhys.
His wolf had felt it first:
(“Run. It’s not just blood. It’s his blood.”)
And then the wolf roared inside him, pushing, burning, devouring every thought that wasn’t protect.
He saw him among the shadows: a body against a tree, blood staining the ground like dark ink. And over him, a larger wolf. From his pack.
A brother.
An enemy, now.
The roar that came from Luka wasn’t human. It was the sound of instinct turned fury.
The clash was sharp, brutal. Claws, fangs, growls. Two shadows merging, tasting iron and despair, biting for life. The forest found its voice again, and it was a voice of death.
There was no room for words. Only instinct, only rage, only the echo of a phrase his heart screamed with every strike:
(“Don’t touch him.”)
No time to doubt, no place for regret. And when it was over, silence returned. A silence so heavy even the wind didn’t dare pass.
The other wolf lay on the ground, motionless, lifeless. The earth drank the blood.
Luka was breathing hard, muzzle soaked in red, body tense with wounds, mind split apart. There was no glory, no relief. Only the rough silence of what comes after.
He turned his head. Rhys was still there, trembling, with an open wound on his arm, eyes so wide they reflected the horror of the entire world.
Luka wanted to move, but didn’t. He was afraid, afraid of himself. He knew what he looked like: a beast that kills even its own.
His wolf growled, uneasy.
(“Go to him. He’s hurt.”)
—No…—
Luka answered to himself, still without a human voice.
—He’ll be more afraid. It’s enough.—
(“Does he hate us now?”)
The wolf asked, low, almost sad.
Luka didn’t answer.
But Rhys… when he reacted, his eyes blinked. He stumbled forward, trembling, crying. Though the wolf was drenched in blood, he fell to his knees and clumsily wrapped his arms around him. He buried his face in Luka’s blood matted fur and sobbed, without fear, without thought, without measure. His crying blended with the scent of the forest, the dry blood, the trembling of their bodies.
—He hurt you…—
He whispered, as if the dead one weren’t the other.
Luka stayed still. His claws dug into the ground. And for once, the wolf inside him went still too.
(“…He hugged us.”)
—He was going to kill you… because of me—
Rhys murmured, voice breaking.
—I’m sorry.—
The wolf lowered his head, golden eyes glowing faintly.
(“Tell him it doesn’t matter.”)
(“Tell him you’d do it a thousand times again.”)
(“Tell him you don’t care if death comes, if it’s for him.”)
But Luka couldn’t speak like that. He could only stay there, feeling the vampire’s arms around him, his chest against his neck, his scent.
Later, the body was buried far away, beneath old roots and damp earth. Far away.
Luka returned to human form, skin torn with cuts, hands trembling. He didn’t cry, he couldn’t. The forest’s silence followed him back to the cabin.
He bathed, and let Rhys tend to him. The vampire seemed more worried about Luka than himself, even after nearly dying. He cared only for the werewolf who, though victorious, had also been close to death.
When Rhys finished, he stayed there, wrapped in a blanket, arm bandaged, unwilling to move away from the wolf.
Luka said nothing. He simply pulled him close, exhausted. Rhys watched him for a long moment before whispering:
—It was my fault. If I hadn’t come… if I had waited…—
Luka interrupted him, voice low and rough:
—Don’t say that.—
—But you got hurt… It’s my fault.—
—No.—
Silence returned, but this time it didn’t weigh as much. Luka leaned in and rested his forehead against Rhys’s. His breath was harsh but steady.
—I did it—
He said at last.
—And I’d do it again.—
—He was from your pack…—
Rhys whispered.
—And you’re mine—
Luka answered.
—My home. The safe place I need. And that’s enough for me.—
The wolf within fell quiet, satisfied. But the vampire didn’t.
—I don’t want you to kill for me again.—
—I’m not going to promise that. You know it.—
Rhys closed his eyes. The tears came again and fell on their own. Luka held him, wrapped him in his arms, in his scent, in his warmth. He felt the vampire’s heart, dead, yet somehow still beating when he was near.
(“That’s it. We protected him.”)
Luka kissed his forehead, then his lips, softly, tenderly. The kiss tasted of earth, of ash, of redemption.
—Don’t blame yourself anymore, alright? And don’t ask me that again.—
He whispered.
—If death has to come, let it come for me. Not for you.—
Rhys looked up, eyes shining wet under the dim firelight.
—Don’t be stupid. If you die, I couldn’t bear it. Don’t leave me.—
Luka smiled, tired, his whole soul in his voice.
—I wasn’t planning to anyway.—
(“We never will.”)
And so they stayed there.
Two broken creatures, embraced under the same roof, with the same blood stain between their fingers and the same fear of losing each other. The fire crackled softly, the wind outside had calmed. The wolf inside sighed, content.
(“Now I understand. Love is a wound too. But this one… this one is worth it.”)
Rhys fell asleep first, his head resting on Luka’s chest. The wolf, half awake, listened to his breathing, and his wolf spoke:
(“We don’t smell like blood anymore.”)
—No—
Luka answered, barely smiling.
—Now we smell like home.—