Jake’s claws dug into the damp earth as the forest pulsed around him. The scent of pine, blood, and fear filled his nostrils. His mind was a storm—human thoughts clashing with primal instincts.
Run. Hunt. Kill.
But beneath the beast’s urges, a voice fought back. Remember who you are.
A howl echoed in the distance. Not his own. Another werewolf? The stories said Blackwood’s curse was ancient, passed down through blood and bites. Had the creature that attacked him been human once, too?
A sharp pain shot through his skull—visions flashed. A silver dagger. A ritual under the blood moon. A woman’s voice whispering, "The curse can be broken."
Before he could grasp the memory, a rustling came from the bushes. A figure stepped into the moonlight—a hunter, rifle raised.
"Easy now," the man muttered, but his hands shook. "I don’t wanna shoot you, but I will."
Jake snarled, fur bristling. The hunter’s fear was intoxicating. But then—recognition. That face. The man was his older brother, Mark.
Mark. Family. Safe.
For a moment, the beast hesitated.
Then a second howl ripped through the night—closer, hungrier. The real predator was coming and it wanted blood.
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