Catch her

My screams does not deter him.

Oh no.

“Don’t—” I start.

He lunges again.

Below me, the group spreads out in a perfect semicircle.

Waiting.

“Catch her,” I recall Damon’s words.

Panic claws at my lungs as I adjust myself on the branches so I can get a better grip.

Bam!

Another hit, stronger than the last. The tree shudders beneath me, leaves and nuts falling off.

I hold on tighter, my knuckles whitening. I can feel the bark rough against my palms.

Bam!

My whole body shakes.

Sweat beads on my forehead and seeps beneath my clothes despite the cold temperature.

It is becoming terribly hard to hold on. The tree and branches still rattle during the pause before another impact.

I yelp, my fingers almost slipping again. I shut my eyes and will my ragged breathing and raging heartbeat to let me think.

I have no idea how long I can handle Damon barreling into the tree like that. I need a plan.

Bam!

My foot slips, and I try to get it onto another branch, but it snaps, sending me hurtling downward as my arms grab desperately for something. Anything.

Dread claws at my lungs, and I find it terribly hard to breathe.

I’m going to die.

I grab hold of a branch belatedly. Tears sting my eyes as air returns to my lungs. Barely.

I can feel new scrapes and injuries across my skin from the fall through the branches.

Wetness trails down my cheeks in thin streams.

Do not shed those tears, Mia. It is what they want.

Bam!

My grip tightens.

I have to think.

There are two possible courses of action here.

Jump, or hold on until I fall — or the tree does.

On one hand, if I jump, I can control where I land.

On the other hand, Damon’s friends may refuse to catch me. Rachael may decide that the fake love confession I wrote — the one that made her act weird because she thought Damon had a crush on her — is too grave an offense.

Mason and Darren may decide that the edit I made of their howl — turning it from guttural and menacing to something akin to a dying goat — is reason enough to forget to put their arms out when intending to catch a person.

But if I don’t jump, this tree will fall.

As if reading my thoughts, I feel the branch beneath my feet weakening. I’m barely holding on as it is.

I make the decision within a millisecond.

I jump.

Damon grunts as I land unceremoniously on his back. The breath leaves my lungs, and I momentarily feel woozy.

My head hurts. My ribs hurt. My limbs hurt.

Everything hurts.

I blink away the pain long enough to focus on my situation. At least his fur softens the impact slightly.

I dig my fingers into Damon’s back, clawing, scratching — anything that might cause pain.

Although I know it won’t cause as much pain as I want it to — werewolves naturally have thick skin — it causes enough discomfort that he shakes me off.

I shriek as my body hits the ground with a loud thud. The snapping of twigs accompanies the scrape of stones and sticks against my skin. I can feel mud clinging to my body and clothes.

I shut my eyes as my breath escapes me.

Breathe in. Breathe out, I tell myself.

I don’t even have enough time to catch my breath before the wolf is over me.

I gulp.

Damon snarls. I feel his slobber coat my face.

I’m about to gag but conclude this might not be the best time for that.

Before my eyes, Damon shifts while still over me. Bones snap. His face contorts. Teeth shrink.

Slowly, he trades wolfish fur for human skin.

I don’t even realize I’m screaming. The sight is terrifying — both entrancing and menacing at the same time.

I shut my eyes, and when I can no longer hear the sound of his bones, I open them.

My eyes meet Damon’s. He is positioned similarly to how he was in his wolf form — over me.

His hands press into the soil on either side of my head. His massive frame looms above me.

No part of him touches me.

And yet the awareness of being pinned beneath him settles sickeningly in my stomach.

Then realization crashes over me.

Damon just shifted.

Damon just shifted over me.

Damon just shifted over me, and at no point between shifting and this moment did he think to cover the nudity that always accompanies a wolf’s transformation.

I look down—

—and scream.

For a moment, Damon looks confused at my sudden outburst.

He glances down at himself, as if only just realizing that he is, in fact, completely nude.

I scream again.

He looks back at me, something akin to embarrassment crossing his features — but it vanishes within seconds.

“Someone’s coming,” Mason says from behind him.

“We’ve got to go,” Rachael adds.

Damon watches me for a moment longer, scrutinizing my face.

Slowly, he pushes himself up, moonlight illuminating his body as he does.

Damon stands stark naked in the middle of the trees — and his friends — and me.

I close my eyes immediately.

“You can look, Micaela,” he says arrogantly. “It may be the only time you get the chance.”

I do not open my eyes neither do I acknowledge the invitation.

Damon can be so disgusting sometimes.

Oh no, wait… he is disgusting all the time.

When I hear a zipper being drawn, I peek through one eyelid before opening both. Damon is in pants now. His torso is still bare, but it’s an improvement.

I release the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

“Never ever do that again,” I grit out. “Never.”

He seems disappointed by my reaction.

I scowl up at him.

“We have to go,” Rachael says again, this time breathless.

If I were any other girl — and not the one Damon has bullied since we were Children — I might be breathless too.

Mason leaves first. Then Rachael. Then Darren.

Damon holds my gaze a second longer.

Then he vanishes.

I’m shaking.

For a long moment, I lie there staring at the space he disappeared from.

My heart pounds.

My body aches.

My skin burns where bark scraped flesh.

I should be grateful I’m alive.

Instead, I’m mortified.

The image replays before I can stop it.

The shift.

The proximity.

The audacity.

Heat floods my face.

“Oh my goddess,” I whisper into the dirt.

He shifted over me.

Over me.

I’ve been scarred for life.

And then he had the nerve to be smug about it.

I push onto my elbows, wincing.

What kind of deranged wolf does that?

A very specific one.

Damon.

Of course.

Shock thins, sharpening into something else.

I scrub mud from my arms as if I can erase the memory with it.

“Disgusting,” I mutter.

You can look, Micaela, he’d said — as if I would.

My jaw tightens.

“I would rather gouge my eyes out,” I snap into the empty forest.

Silence answers.

Good.

Let him hear that with his stupid werewolf senses.

Anger settles into my bones — hot and steady.

I push myself to my feet, wobbling only slightly.

My ribs ache.

My pride aches more.

“Fine,” I murmur.

“If that’s how you want to play.”