Chapter 15: Forest Perils and First Sparks

(Penny’s POV)

We moved before dawn, when the sky was still bruised purple and the air bit at exposed skin. Genesis set a punishing pace: no trails, just straight north through dense underbrush and rocky inclines. My borrowed boots, sturdy leather ones he’d pulled from the keep’s stores, were already rubbing blisters on my heels, but I didn’t complain. Complaining would have meant stopping. Stopping would have meant thinking. Thinking would have meant doubting.

We spoke little.

Mostly it was him murmuring directions, “Watch the root,” “Step where I step,” “Quiet now, deer ahead”—and me nodding, following, trying not to trip over my own feet or the hem of the cloak that kept catching on branches.

By mid-morning the forest thickened into something ancient. Trees so tall their tops vanished into mist. Moss thick as carpet underfoot. Sunlight came in thin, golden shafts that made everything look enchanted.

It wasn’t.

We were crossing a narrow stream, water cold enough to numb my ankles, when the first trap appeared.

Genesis froze mid-step.

“Down.”

I dropped without question.

He shoved me behind a fallen log, hand firm on my shoulder. Then he shifted, half-shift, just enough for claws and elongated canines. His eyes bled silver.

A metallic snap echoed.

A steel-jawed trap, hidden under leaves, had clamped shut inches from where his foot had been. Fresh blood scented the air; something small and furry had found it earlier.

“Poachers,” he growled low. “Or Crimson scouts. Either way, we’re not alone.”

I swallowed. “How many?”

“Enough to set more than one.”

He scanned the ground, then the trees.

“Stay close. Step exactly where I step.”

We moved slower after that, Genesis testing every patch of ground with a stick before committing weight. I copied him, heart in my throat. Every rustle felt like death waiting to pounce.

We found the second trap an hour later: a tripwire stretched across a game path, connected to a net of weighted branches overhead. Genesis cut it with a claw, let the net crash harmlessly to the ground.

“Sloppy,” he muttered. “They’re in a hurry.”

“Looking for us?”

“Or anyone who smells like trouble.”

We didn’t stop for lunch, just ate dried meat and hard bread while walking. My blisters were bleeding now; I could feel the wet slide inside my boots. I gritted my teeth and kept moving.

By late afternoon the terrain grew steeper. We climbed a ridge that overlooked a wide burn scar—blackened trees like skeletal fingers, ground covered in ash and new green shoots pushing through. The sun was dropping fast, painting the sky in fire colors.

Genesis stopped at the crest.

“We camp here. Too open to push through at night.”

I collapsed against a boulder, legs shaking.

He built a small, smokeless fire in a natural depression, using dry tinder and a flint from his satchel. The flames were tiny, almost invisible unless you were right beside them.

I peeled off my boots with a hiss. Blisters had burst; raw skin wept clear fluid mixed with blood.

Genesis noticed.

He crouched in front of me without a word, pulled a small pouch from his satchel, salve, bandages, a clean cloth.

“Give me your foot.”

I hesitated.

“I’m not asking.”

I extended my leg.

His hands were careful, surprisingly gentle for someone who could shift into a killing machine. He cleaned the blisters with water from the skin, dabbed salve that smelled of herbs and honey, then wrapped them in soft cloth.

“You don’t have to—”

“Quiet.”

I shut up.

When he finished the second foot, he sat back on his heels.

“Better?”

I flexed my toes. The pain had dulled to a manageable throb.

“Yeah. Thank you.”

He nodded once. Then, without looking at me—he pulled off his own cloak and spread it beside the fire.

“Sleep close. The nights are cold up here.”

I stared at the makeshift bed—two cloaks, one fire, one very large werewolf prince.

“I can sleep on the other side—”

“No.” He cut me off. “If something comes, I need you behind me. Not across the fire.”

Practical.

Right.

I crawled onto the cloaks, pulled my knees up. The ground was hard, but the fur was warm.

Genesis settled beside me, close enough that our shoulders brushed. He lay on his back, one arm behind his head, staring at the stars through the charred branches overhead.

Silence stretched.

Then, quietly: “Tell me about your world.”

I blinked. “My world?”

“The one you want to go back to.”

I exhaled. “It’s… boring. Safe. No werewolves. No prophecies. Just hospitals and night shifts and bad coffee. I write stories to escape it. Stories like this one.”

“Like us.”

“Yeah.”

He turned his head. Looked at me in the firelight.

“What do you write about me?”

I felt heat crawl up my neck. “You’re… intense. Protective. Growly. The kind of alpha who pins the heroine against a tree and declares she’s his forever.”

A low rumble vibrated in his chest—not quite a growl. Almost a laugh.

“And does she like it?”

“In the story? Yes. Very much.”

“And in real life?”

I met his gaze.

“I don’t know yet.”

The fire popped. Sparks drifted up.

He reached out, slow, giving me time to pull away, and brushed a strand of hair from my forehead.

“You’re braver than you think,” he said softly. “Most humans would have run screaming the first time they saw fangs.”

“I almost did.”

“But you didn’t.”

His fingers lingered at my temple.

My heart hammered.

Then a howl cut the night, close. Too close.

Genesis was on his feet in an instant, sword drawn, body shielding mine.

“Stay down.”

I pressed flat to the ground.

Another howl answered, different pitch. Not friendly.

Genesis snarled, full wolf, low and lethal.

“Rogues.”

He glanced back at me once, eyes blazing silver.

“Whatever happens… don’t run. They’ll chase.”

I nodded.

He shifted, fur rippling over skin, bones reshaping in seconds. The massive silver-gray wolf stood where the man had been, ears pricked, hackles raised.

Three shapes burst from the trees, lean, scarred wolves, eyes mad with hunger.

They charged.

Genesis met the first one mid-air, claws raking, jaws snapping. The rogue yelped, blood spraying.

The second went low, aiming for his flank.

I didn’t think.

I grabbed a thick branch from the fire, still burning at one end, and swung.

It connected with the rogue’s shoulder. Sparks flew. The wolf yelped, staggered.

Genesis finished the first, then turned, fast, teeth closing around the second’s throat.

The third bolted.

He didn’t chase.

He shifted back, naked now, the shift having shredded his clothes, breathing hard, blood streaked across his chest.

He looked at me.

“You hit him.”

“With a burning stick,” I said weakly. “Seemed appropriate.”

He stared.

Then, slowly, he smiled. Real. Small. Tired.

“You’re full of surprises.”

I managed a shaky laugh. “You have no idea.”

He grabbed his torn cloak, wrapped it around his waist like a kilt, then came back to the fire.

Sat close, closer than before.

His shoulder pressed to mine.

Neither of us moved away.

The night settled.

And for the first time since waking in that forest, I didn’t feel quite so alone.