Bloodmoon – The Man Beneath

It had been almost a month since she ran.

Summer had slipped into early fall while I wasn’t paying attention — or maybe I’d noticed and just hadn’t cared. The mornings had turned gray and heavy, fog pooling low between the trees like the forest was exhaling sadness of its own. Even the air felt different now: colder, damp around the edges, matching the way my chest had felt since the night she screamed and ran… and the terrible silence that followed.

A month of silence settling over my life like a second skin. A month of pretending I was fine, pretending the world hadn’t tilted off its axis the moment she looked at me with fear instead of warmth. A month of my wolf pacing under my ribs like a caged thing — restless, furious, grieving, and louder at night when everything else went quiet.

The forest didn’t help. It never does when you’re lonely.

The trees felt taller without her beside me, their branches arching overhead like ribs of some ancient beast. The trails we used to walk seemed longer, emptier, echoing with footsteps that weren’t there anymore. Even the wind felt wrong—too sharp, too cold, carrying nothing but the memory of her laughter.

Nights were the worst. Always the worst.
For the past few months they’d been ours — stolen hours, whispered laughter, the kind of warmth you only get when you fall asleep wrapped around someone you shouldn’t want as much as you do. Now the nights were empty. Cold. Wrong.

The forest felt too big without her, every shadow stretched thin and lonely. The clearing was hollow now, the fire pit nothing but a cold circle of ash that looked too much like a grave. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the memory of her in my arms—her warmth pressed to my chest, her breath on my neck, the way she fit against me like she’d been made for that space. The silence hurt more than any wound I’d ever taken.

Weeks of it.
Of this hollow ache, this quiet kind of torment that never let up.

Then one night, as I was heading home from patrol, I caught her scent.

At first, I thought I was imagining it—memory, heartbreak, and wishful thinking teaming up to play the cruelest trick possible.

But no. This was real. It was there. It was her.

Sloane.

Fresh. Close. Undeniable.

My heart stopped. My breath vanished. My wolf surged so hard I staggered.

I followed the scent through the trees, branches brushing my arms, the night air cool and sharp in my lungs. Moonlight filtered through the canopy in silver ribbons, guiding me like a trail laid out by fate itself.

And then I saw her.

Standing at the edge of the clearing, bundled up in that way only Sloane could manage — like she’d dressed for a city sidewalk photoshoot and accidentally wandered into a national park. Some crazy fashion boots she still insisted were waterproof (they were not). Skinny designer jeans and a white sweater paired with that cashmere infinity scarf number that had no business being within ten miles of dirt. She looked like she was preparing for a photo shoot themed: wilderness exploration in late Autumn, but stylish.

But over all of it… she wore my flannel.

One of my thick ones. The ones she used to steal and pretend she didn’t. I can’t tell you how many times I went over to her place at night wearing one of my flannels and came home without it.
It damn near swallowed her — sleeves past her hands, shoulders drowning in it, hem brushing her thighs. She held it shut like it was armor. Or comfort. Hell, maybe both.
And when she pulled it tighter, I saw her breathe it in. My scent. She wasn’t wearing it because she was cold. She was wearing it because it was mine.
And that realization hit me harder than anything else that night.

She looked… tired. Sad. Haunted.

And beautiful in a way that made my chest ache.

“Sloane?” I said softly.

She stiffened. Turned.

Her fingers tightened in the fabric — my fabric — and she looked down at it like she’d forgotten she was wearing it until that moment.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she whispered. Then, after a shaky breath, she touched the flannel at her chest. “But… I still had this. And I thought I should return it.”

The words hit me like a blow. A stupid shirt. But on her, in this place, after everything… it felt like a heartbeat.

“You are here,” I said, like a brain-amputated Captain Obvious.

She swallowed. “I… I got your messages. All of them. The ones where you said you weren’t dangerous. That you’d never hurt me.”

“Never,” I said. The word came out rough, honest, immediate.

I hesitated, then lifted a hand — not quite a question, not quite a plea, but something in between — and gestured toward the spot where we used to sit. The place where she’d leaned against me on warm nights, where her laughter had tangled with the crackle of the fire, where everything between us had once felt simple.

Her eyes followed my hand. I saw the moment the memories hit her — the soft flicker in her expression, the way her breath caught, the way her fingers tightened in the flannel like she needed something to hold onto.

For a heartbeat, I thought she’d refuse. My chest locked tight.

Then she nodded. Small. Careful. But she nodded.

Relief washed through me so hard I almost sagged.

She walked over and sat down first, settling on the familiar old fallen tree. I joined her a moment later, sitting on the ground in front of it, leaving space between us — not close, not touching — but together. A fragile truce. Her knees angled slightly away from me, mine drawn in tight like I was afraid to take up too much space. The night settled around us, cool and heavy, carrying every unspoken thing between us.

For a long moment, she didn’t speak. She just held the flannel tighter around herself, eyes fixed on the ashes of the firepit like they might rearrange into answers.

When she finally looked at me, her voice was barely above a whisper. “Is it… always like that? The… the shifting?”

I swallowed. “Only when I need it. Or when my instincts flared up, trying to protect you when I detected a threat, like it did the other night. It was … a reflex. I was in full control and would never hurt you. I was going to tell you but never wanted you to see it like that.”

She nodded, but her throat bobbed like she was swallowing something sharp. “It didn’t look like you. It looked like—” She stopped. She didn’t need to finish.

“I know,” I said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

She pulled her knees up, hugging them. “I keep thinking about that night. About how fast it happened. One second you were you, and the next…” Her breath hitched. “It felt like the ground dropped out from under me.”

I wanted to reach for her. God, I wanted to. But I didn’t move.

“I didn’t want to run,” she said. “I just… panicked. Everything I thought I knew about the world—about you—just shattered. And then your texts…” She looked down at her hands, twisting the flannel between her fingers. “You didn’t just say you weren’t dangerous. You said you were sorry. That you were scared I was scared. That you’d wait for me. That you’d give me space. That you’d stay away if that’s what I needed.”

Her voice cracked. “You sounded… broken. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”

“Every word was true,” I said quietly. “All of it. And I am. You asked me once about past girlfriends and I didn’t have much to say. Now you probably realize why.”

She nodded slowly, like she was testing the weight of my voice. “Yeah, I get it. That’s why I’m here. Because part of me believes you. And the other part of me is still terrified. And I don’t know which part is right.”

My chest tightened. “You don’t have to decide tonight.”

She let out a shaky breath. “I don’t even know what to ask. I don’t know what’s safe to ask.”

“Anything,” I said. “Whatever you need. I’ll answer.”

She hesitated, then: “Are there more like you?”

“Yes.”

“Does your family know?”

“They’re like me.”

She blinked. “All of them?”

“Yeah.”

She stared into the fire pit again, letting everything settle. “So I was dating a werewolf all along. And your whole family are werewolves too. And I had dinner at your place — cooked by werewolves — and sat there among a bunch of werewolves being all sorts of cheeky just to get you roweled up.”

She let out a shaky breath. “I thought I was just… playing with fire a little by pushing your buttons. Messing with a really big man who got flustered easily. I had no idea I was almost literally poking a bear — well, wolf, but same difference. I figured being strong and muscular just ran in your family. I didn’t realize you were… you could…”

She winced at herself. “Oof.”

“And that time after we got lost in the woods and they took care of us…”

Her voice thinned. “Do they know about… us? Oh — and those two handsome blond men who found us… are they wolves too?”

I winced. “No. They’re not. And no — my family doesn’t know about us. They just think we work together and argue a lot.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “I wanted to tell you. I was trying to find the right moment. I didn’t want to scare you. And if you still wanted me once you knew the truth… then I was going to tell them about us.”

I had planned to be honest with her — fully, painfully honest — but I hadn’t expected her to ask about Connell and Damon. And there was no universe where I was opening the vampire‑can of worms today. Someday, yes. But not now. Not when she was already drowning in this werewolves-are-real moment.

“You texted that you didn’t want to lose me,” she said softly. Her eyes lifted to mine. “You still… feel the same about me?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.

She looked at me then — really looked — and something in her expression softened, just barely. A crack in the armor. A breath of warmth.

“I’m still… upset,” she said quietly. “And scared. And confused. And I don’t know how to feel about any of this. But I know I still feel the same about… you. At least, the you I got to know. I tried to leave it all behind, pretend none of this ever happened, pretend you never happened, but…” Her breath trembled. “I can’t stop thinking about you. About us. About the man beneath it all. The guy underneath everything I don’t really understand. I still can’t wrap my head around you being a … werewolf. Had I not seen it with my own eyes I would never believe it.”

The man beneath it all. The words hit me like a heartbeat to the ribs. She had no idea what they meant to me — that she still saw me, the man, not the monster, not the curse, not the thing that had terrified her. Just… me.

“I get it,” I said. “Just… let me explain. Maybe knowing more will help.”

She nodded. Barely.

So I told her everything I could without overwhelming her. Without divulging things only wolves should know. But I told her what we were. What we weren’t. What I could control. What I feared. What I felt.

She listened. Silent. Tense. But listening.

And for the first time in weeks, something inside me eased — a tiny spark, fragile but real. Hope. Maybe even a guy like me would be granted a second chance.

Rebuilding

She asked to be reassigned back to Moonwood Mill.
Her bosses practically threw confetti — nobody else wanted to work in the backwoods.

After that… we started seeing each other again.

Not dating. Not really. Just… orbiting. Carefully. Gently. Like two people relearning gravity.

Sometimes she’d walk beside me on the trail, close enough that our sleeves brushed. Sometimes her fingers would graze mine when we passed something back and forth — a pen, a mug, a folder — and every time it happened, my heart kicked like it was trying to break free.

Once, she reached up without thinking and plucked a leaf out of my hair.

Just a leaf. A stupid leaf.

But her fingertips brushed my temple, soft and warm, and for a split second I forgot how to breathe. I wanted to grab her hand, pull her in, hold her the way I used to — kiss her until the world made sense again — but I didn’t move. I couldn’t risk it. Not when trust was still something fragile she was trying to rebuild.

She didn’t seem to notice what it did to me. Or maybe she did, and pretended not to.

We kept going like that.

Long talks. Nervous smiles. Quiet moments where she leaned just slightly into my side, like she was testing the memory of us. And me — trying not to shake apart every time she did.

Not more. Not yet.

We weren’t what we were before.

In a way we were better. Honest. The dark cloud of my secret no longer looming. Clearly, she was willing to give it, give me, give us a chance. The rest would take time. I was willing to wait.

Because this time… we were choosing each other.

The Beast in Me

Another secret meeting.

Another chance to get her to understand me better, to love me again — the whole of me, not just the front. She was trying, I could tell, but it was understandably not all that easy.

We’d chosen the clearing again. The same one where we had spent so many summer nights being in love. The same one where everything had shattered. The same one where we finally saw each other again, reconnected.

Maybe that was why she picked it — or maybe she didn’t even realize she had. But the forest held the memory of that night like a bruise, and standing here with her now felt like stepping back into the place where we’d both broken… to see if we could unbreak it.

We sat down again. I had built a fire — enough to keep us warm in the autumn chill, but small enough not to draw attention in the dark.

Maybe it was coincidence, but it felt like she sat closer than before.

She stared at me for a long time, chewing her lip.

“Can I… ask something weird? Something kinda… uncomfortable maybe?”

“I thought weird and uncomfortable questions were your default.”

She rolled her eyes, nudging me, smiling. “Shut up. I’m serious.”

For a few seconds, I let myself sink into how normal that moment felt. Like before the break. The way we used to be together — teasing, smiling, close.

“Ask.”

She hesitated. Then:

“Would you… show me? The beast? I mean, only if it’s safe.”

My heart stopped.

“It is safe, but… Sloane, are you sure?”

“No,” she admitted. “But I want to understand. And I think I have to visualize it again. And I trust you.”

Those words nearly brought me to my knees.

I nodded. Slow. Careful.

“Okay. I’ll shift. But you stay back until I say it’s safe. And Sloane… it’s a bit of an acquired experience. The sights and sounds can be a little… you know.”

She nodded.

We both stood — slowly, like neither of us wanted to break whatever fragile thing had settled between us. For a second we just looked at each other, the fire crackling low at our feet, the clearing holding its breath.

I stepped back first. She stayed where she was, hands curled at her sides, eyes steady on me.

I took a breath. Let the wolf rise.

Bones cracked. Fur rippled. Vision sharpened. The world shifted into something wild and bright.

When I looked at her again, she wasn’t screaming.

She was staring.

Wide‑eyed. Awestruck. Breathless.

She stepped closer.

Slowly. Carefully. Like approaching a wild animal. Looking at me as if analyzing me under a microscope.

Her hand lifted.

“Can I…?”

I nodded — the only answer I could give. Wolves can’t speak in this form; all I had were gestures and whatever she could read in my eyes.

Her fingers touched my fur. My chest tightened — I felt like I was going to melt and have a heart attack at the same time. No girl had ever touched me in this state. My senses were heightened, and I was already on edge because of everything else.

Warm. Gentle. Shaking hands on me.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “You’re… soft. And… strangely… beautiful.”

My wolf grew another ten inches. I swear to God I was levitating.

She laughed — a small, nervous, delighted sound — and ran her hand down my neck.

Then, impossibly, she leaned in and kissed me.

Not on the mouth — that would’ve been weird — but my cheek. I felt her body press up against me, and those heightened senses I mentioned almost sent me into another dimension. I had never felt anything like this.

And I melted.

Shifted back immediately, because I needed her in my arms, needed her warmth, needed her lips on mine. The moment I was mostly transformed back to my human form I grabbed her and just kissed her. Her arms folding around my back told me the worst part was over for both of us.

She laughed again — breathless, embarrassed, glowing.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Maybe this isn’t as terrifying as I thought. But I have one enormously burning question: what happens to your clothing? It should tear but… it’s… fine?”

“Yeah, well, if you ever figure that out, let me know. Nobody knows. There isn’t exactly a Wikipedia page for this stuff, so everything we know is from personal experience. Nothing’s written down about the transformation itself. The clothes just… disappear and then reappear. I have no explanation. Same as why we suddenly have long snouts with a hundred teeth and all that fur… and then when we shift back, where does it go? No clue. Trust me, we’d all love answers, but the only one I can give you is: magic. Weird, inconvenient magic.”

She snorted, and I kept going.

“My grandpa Mike used to take his clothes off whenever he felt the turning coming on. That led to a lot of very uncomfortable moments back when he was still learning control. At first you kind of… black out. You remember nothing. Then you wake up somewhere with no idea how you got there or where you even are. Now imagine all that, but naked. Yeah. So we don’t ask questions — we’re just grateful the clothes come back.”

Her laughter felt good. I chimed in until the laughter faded and she threw her arms around my neck, burying her face in my shoulder. I closed my eyes and wrapped my arms around her.

Eventually we sat down and talked. She had so many questions, a lot of which I really didn’t want to answer but did anyway. About my family. The town. The rumors about mutilated wildlife carcasses she’d heard about. I swear we talked for hours. I don’t think I’d ever talked that much in my entire life.

Then she said, “Hey, don’t take this the wrong way but… can we take a break? Just for a minute? I need space, just for a second to process all that info. Do you happen to have something to drink on you? I am parched.”

“I do not,” I said. “I tell you what. I’ll run back into town, grab you some water. Or soda. Or—”

“Sparkling wine?” she said, almost smiling.

Her favorite. What she usually drank on our secret dates while I downed a few bottles of beer. She loved that stuff. I didn’t understand why — it tasted like fizzy disappointment to me — but if it made her smile and get over the wolf part quicker, I’d buy a truckload. I’d plant a fricking vineyard and learn how to make it myself.

I huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Sure. Sparkling wine it is.” I bowed with an exaggerated flourish, making her giggle — and that sound alone was medicine for my soul.

“Alright,” I said, standing. “If you promise you won’t run away, I’ll go get some wine. It’ll give you twenty minutes or so to process everything without me hovering. Then you can sip your wine and ask me anything you want. Sound good?”

She nodded.

“Promise you’ll be here when I get back.” I needed to hear it. If she said it, she’d keep it.

“I’ll be here.”

I believed her.

I headed toward town.

Unforseen Circumstances

The convenience store lights were harsh and fluorescent, buzzing faintly. I felt ridiculous buying the damn wine again — the same brand I’d picked up a dozen times to surprise her on our dates. I tossed a six‑pack of beer onto the counter too, so she wouldn’t try to feed me that sparkling nonsense again. The clerk barely glanced at me as he rang it up.

I was hopeful. From where I stood, it was a fifty‑fifty chance we weren’t over. Fifty‑fifty chance we were, if she decided all of this was still too much.

Maybe this stupid wine would tip the scale. I was willing to grasp at any straw. The weeks without her had almost killed me. I’d been fine being single before, but once I’d had a taste of what it could be like with her… I couldn’t go back to the empty version of my life.

Then I saw the roses. I grabbed a single red one and added it to the tally.

I wasn’t known for being romantic, but I was sure as hell going to pull every lever I had.

Armed with a paper sack and every scrap of hope I had left, I headed back, forcing myself to walk at a normal pace. She needed time to think. To breathe. To decide. Not me barreling back in barely five minutes like the Roadrunner on speed. Beep‑beep.

It was torture, walking slower than instinct demanded.

Hopefully talking had made her realize I was still the same man she’d fallen for — just with… extra features.

I was almost back to the campsite.

And that’s when I heard it.

A scream.

Her scream.

Not startled. Not confused. Not annoyed.

The kind of scream someone makes when they think they’re about to die.

The bag slipped from my hand. The bottle shattered. The rose fell.

My wolf hearing caught the sound that shattered everything:

A growl.

Low. Predatory. Wrong.

That was a wolf. Not the canine.

One like me.

A rogue.

I ran.

Branches whipped past me. The world blurred. My bones cracked mid‑stride, reshaping. Claws tore through skin. My vision sharpened into predatory clarity. My hearing exploded outward like a shockwave.

I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t breathe.

I launched myself into the clearing just as the rogue wolf lunged for her throat.

I hit him like a missile.

We crashed into the dirt, rolling, snarling, claws tearing, teeth snapping. The ground shook under us. Bark splintered. Dirt sprayed.

He was big — bigger than most rogues — but I was Alpha‑line. Larger than most. Trained to fight and lead. Furious. Out of my mind with fear, which only fed the rage.

He slashed my shoulder. I tore into his flank. He lunged for my throat. I slammed him into a tree so hard the trunk cracked, ripping his throat open with my claw. A fatal injury.

He staggered. I didn’t give him a chance to recover.

I went for him again — claws, teeth, fury — until he broke, stumbled, and bolted into the trees, limping heavily, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

Good. Let him run. Let him remember me. While he still could.

I turned back to Sloane.

She was on the ground, shaking, scraped up, bruised, eyes wide with shock.

Alive.

Thank God.

I took a step toward her — and she flinched.

Right. I was still in wolf form. To her, we probably all looked the same like this, even though once you knew, you could tell the differences — the fur, the snout shape, the eyes, the scars…

I forced the shift back, bones snapping, fur receding, skin reforming. It hurt like hell, but I didn’t care. I needed her to see me. Me.

“Sloane,” I rasped, kneeling beside her. “It’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe.”

She stared at me like she didn’t know whether to hug me or pass out.

She tried to speak but only managed broken sounds.

Shock. Clinical and emotional.

“Come on,” I murmured, lifting her into my arms. “Let’s get you home.”

She didn’t fight me. Didn’t speak. Just clung to me, trembling. The shock sat so deep she didn’t even cry. Couldn’t.

I counted my blessings that I’d gotten to her before he could do worse. I hoped he was somewhere out there dying a slow, painful death, because if not, I would finish the job. It was revenge, but also what a future Alpha was supposed to do. Expected. Some might find it cruel, but that was how werewolves operated. Much like canines, hierarchy meant everything — and anyone who threatened the pack paid the price. And Sloane was with me now; an attack on her was an attack on me, and on the entire Shaw family — the family of the past, present, and future Alpha. An offense like that could only ever end one way: in death.

This was exactly why we hunted rogues and killed them on sight. They were dangerous. By choice. Loners who refused hierarchy. Who loved chaos and channeled their anger into violence.

I carried her all the way to my family’s cabin.

When I stepped inside, the entire family froze.

My mom gasped. Esmee swore. Grandpa Mike shot to his feet so fast his chair toppled. Dad’s eyes went straight to the blood on my shoulder.

“What happened?” he demanded. “I didn’t know Sloane was back in town. Thought you said she was reassigned?”

I swallowed. Oh yeah. That lie. He was the Alpha — I should have told him.

“She came back for… something. We were out. In the woods. I stepped away for… something, and a rogue wolf attacked. She’s okay — just some scratches. I scared him off. He got me, but I’ll be fine.”

My voice was shaky. My story was idiotic. They’d tear it apart later.

Mom rushed to Sloane, who was still silent, wide‑eyed, shaking. She wrapped her in a blanket. Esmee grabbed a first‑aid kit to address the scrapes from the blackberry brambles she’d gotten tangled in while fleeing. Dad guided me to a chair. Grandpa Mike hovered like a storm cloud.

And then — because apparently tonight wasn’t chaotic enough — I let the cat out of the bag.

“Look, guys. Sloane and I… we’ve been seeing each other. For a while. Like… three, four months.”

Every head snapped toward me.

Mom: “Three or four MONTHS?! You had a girlfriend for over a quarter of a year?! VINCENT!”
Esmee: “You sneaky little—”
Grandpa Mike: “I knew it. Told you all the boy was off. There you have it.”
Dad: “We’ll discuss that later.”

“Yeah, well… there is more. She was my — secret — girlfriend until she accidentally saw me transform. Yes, she knows, and no, it wasn’t intentional. That’s why she left so suddenly. Don’t worry, she kept the secret — I believe her. But she asked for the reassignment. I’ve been trying to talk to her but… she ghosted me. Then the other day she came back and wanted to talk. We did. We reconnected — still platonic — and she asked to be reassigned here. We’ve been… talking. Tonight we made real progress, and I turned my back for one moment and— I came back to a rogue attacking her. I think I got him good and he won’t be a problem for much longer, and if not I’ll find him and end him — but damn. Why did I leave her? If I had stayed with her— damn! This is my fault! She’ll never believe me now that we’re… harmless. Not after this. Fucking rogue! I just want to track him down and turn him into confetti for undoing what I have been working on getting across to her.”

“Vince! Get a hold of yourself. Rogues are rogues — that’s why we eliminate them when we find them. It is what it is. She seems like a reasonable young woman; if you managed to explain yourself to her once, you can get that part across too. You got to her in time, she’s mostly unscathed. Count your blessings and let’s focus on the task at hand,” Grandpa Mike snapped, cutting off my spiral before it could swallow me whole.

Dad started cleaning and stitching the torn skin on my shoulder. It burned like fire, but I didn’t care. Sloane was alive.

My father wasn’t impressed with how I’d handled the Sloane situation — I knew there would be long lectures later from him and Grandpa Mike — but now his eyes softened as he said quietly:

“You’re not the first Shaw man to fall for a normie. And you won’t be the last.” He glanced at Mom, then at Esmee. “Esmee was human once. Your mother was human once. Human — and the daughter of a vampire at that.”

I blinked. Even now, that still sounded insane.

Dad continued, voice low, steady, meant only for me:

“Love made them want to understand. And it made them stay. And when the time came, they made the choice themselves. They asked for the bite — out of love, at their own volition. The bite made them ours.” He squeezed my shoulder, careful of the wound. “So don’t write this off as hopeless. Not even now.”

Dad finished speaking, and for a second the room was quiet — heavy, tense, too full of things none of us wanted to say.

Then Grandpa Mike snorted.

“Yeah, kid. It ain’t over till the fat lady sings — and that old bitch hasn’t even shown up for you yet.”

Mom and Esmee had relocated Sloane to one of the couches, cleaned her up gently, calming her. She was still not fully functional. Her eyes were still wide, somehow… broken. She was shaking — I could see it from several feet away.
Ezzy was still looking her over,

I felt horrible.

My mom had just turned to make us hot drinks in the kitchen when Esmee froze.

“Umm… guys…”

She gently lifted the edge of one of Sloane’s pant legs, revealing…

…a bite mark.

Deep. Hidden. Already bruising.

The room went silent.