Chapter 18: Encounters with the Wild

(Penny’s POV)

The rain stopped sometime before dawn, leaving the world dripping and silvered with mist. We woke stiff, damp, and bruised, Genesis from the fight and the river, me from every root and rock we’d tripped over. My body felt like it had been tenderized by a mallet, but the fire had kept us from freezing, and his arm around my waist through the night had kept something else at bay: the bone-deep loneliness that had followed me since waking in that first forest.

We broke camp quickly, no words needed. He kicked dirt over the embers, shouldered both packs, and offered his hand to pull me up. His fingers lingered a second longer than necessary. Neither of us mentioned the kiss. Or the way we’d fallen asleep tangled together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The marshes were still two days off. We pushed north through thinning forest into wilder country, rocky outcrops, shallow valleys, places where the trees grew sparse and the wind carried the scent of open land and predators.

The first encounter came mid-morning.

We were crossing a wide meadow, grass tall enough to brush my thighs, when Genesis froze.

“Down.”

I dropped instantly.

He crouched beside me, nostrils flaring.

“Not wolf,” he murmured. “Bear.”

My stomach plummeted.

A low huff answered, deep, rumbling, from the far side of the meadow.

Genesis drew his dagger, slow, silent. “Stay here. Don’t move.”

Before I could protest, he melted into the grass like smoke.

I pressed flat, heart hammering, watching the spot where he’d disappeared.

Minutes dragged.

Then, a roar. Not angry. Startled.

Another roar, deeper, furious.

I couldn’t stay still.

I crept forward on elbows and knees, peeking through the grass.

Genesis, human, but half-shifted, claws extended, stood between me and a massive grizzly. The bear reared on hind legs, easily twice his height, fur matted with mud, one paw raised to swipe.

Genesis didn’t flinch.

He growled, low, alpha, vibrating through the ground.

The bear hesitated.

Genesis took one step forward. Another. Never breaking eye contact.

The bear dropped to all fours. Snorted. Then, slowly, backed away, head low, rumbling discontent but not attacking.

It turned. Loped into the trees.

Gone.

Genesis exhaled. Shifted fully back. Turned to me.

“You were supposed to stay put.”

I stood, brushing grass from my tunic. “And let you get mauled? No thanks.”

He crossed to me in three strides. Grabbed my shoulders, not hard, but firm.

“You could have been killed.”

“So could you.”

His eyes searched mine—fierce, frustrated, something softer underneath.

Then he pulled me against him, sudden, crushing. Buried his face in my hair.

“Don’t do that again,” he muttered.

I wrapped my arms around his waist. Felt the rapid thud of his heart against mine.

“No promises.”

He huffed a laugh against my scalp. Held me tighter.

We stayed like that until the wind carried the bear’s scent away.

The second encounter came at dusk.

We’d found a sheltered hollow between boulders, good windbreak, small stream nearby. Genesis built another careful fire while I gathered dry twigs.

That’s when the wolves appeared.

Not rogues. Not Crimson.

Wild.

A small pack, five adults, two half-grown pups, slipped from the shadows at the edge of the hollow. Lean. Gray-brown. Eyes reflecting firelight like coins.

Genesis stood slowly. Sword in hand, but low. Non-threatening.

The lead wolf, a scarred female with one torn ear, stepped forward. Sniffed the air. Looked at me.

Then at him.

Genesis lowered his head slightly, respect, not submission.

“We mean no harm,” he said quietly. “Just passing through.”

The female tilted her head. The pack waited.

Then she chuffed, soft, almost curious, and sat.

The others followed.

They didn’t attack.

They watched.

Genesis glanced at me. “They’re curious. Not hungry. Not territorial.”

I nodded, slow, careful.

One of the pups, bold, silver-furred, crept closer. Sniffed my boot. Then my hand when I extended it, palm up, still.

It licked my fingers once. Tail wagged.

The mother wolf made a low sound.

The pup retreated.

Genesis exhaled. “They accept us.”

We sat by the fire.

The pack settled around the edges of the hollow, circling but not closing. Guarding? Watching? I couldn’t tell.

I pulled the med kit from my pack. “You’re still bleeding from earlier.”

Genesis looked down, cuts on his arms from the bear’s near-swipe, shallow but weeping.

He let me work.

I cleaned them with water and antiseptic wipes—last of my supply. Dabbed salve. Wrapped them in fresh cloth.

His eyes never left my face.

When I finished, I sat back.

He caught my hand before I could pull away.

“Thank you,” he said, quiet, serious.

“You’ve said that before.”

“I mean it every time.”

I looked at him, really looked. Firelight carving shadows across his face, highlighting the scar, the exhaustion, the quiet strength that had carried us this far.

“You don’t have to keep saving me,” I whispered.

“I want to.”

The words landed soft.

The wild wolves watched, silent witnesses.

One of the pups yipped, playful.

The mother huffed.

Genesis smiled, small, real.

“They like you,” he said.

“They like you more.”

He shook his head. “They sense what you are.”

I swallowed. “Luna.”

He nodded once.

I looked at the fire. “I still want to go home.”

“I know.”

“But…” I met his eyes again. “I don’t want to leave you behind.”

The admission hung there, raw, unguarded.

Genesis’s hand tightened on mine.

“Then don’t decide yet.”

I laughed, soft, shaky. “You’re making this harder.”

“Good.”

He leaned in, slow, giving me time.

I met him halfway.

The kiss was different this time.

Not desperate.

Not born of adrenaline.

Gentle. Searching. Like we were learning each other in the quiet spaces between danger.

When we pulled apart, the wolves were still there—watching, calm.

The fire crackled.

The night deepened.

And for the first time, the marshes didn’t feel like an ending.

They felt like a question.

One we might answer together.