Chapter 3

Riley’s POV

Three seconds. That’s all it took for my personal werewolf to lock onto me, but unlike every horror movie I’d ever watched, he didn’t pounce—I mean, he could have, and I probably would’ve ended up as his midnight snack. Instead, he just fell into stride beside me, tail sweeping low like he owned the road. Which, fine—I think he did.

It was so dark I could barely see my own feet, let alone the edge of the rutted dirt road. Thank the universe for the raised embankments that kept me from face-planting into a ditch. If I hugged one side, I might actually survive this midnight cross-country run. My lungs felt like they were hosting a bonfire, sweat streamed down my back in rivulets, and I was beginning to pant like I’d sprung a leak.

Meanwhile, Mr. Furry Breath trotted along beside me, not a sound escaping his sleek gray muzzle. Honestly, his silence was only making me more paranoid—what was he plotting? A romantic dinner at dusk? A polite paw-shake? Who knew?

My jog slowed to a wobbly walk, Jell-O legs betraying me. The wolf’s dark eyes glimmered in moonlight, utterly unconcerned, as though he were reevaluating his life choices. My plan? Keep going until I saw a streetlamp—or a Starbucks—or literally anything that said civilization. Because right now, civilization was my best friend.

When gravity finally won, I folded over, hands on knees, sucking in desperate lungfuls of air. My wardrobe spoiler alert: a coffee shop logo tee, high-waisted cotton shorts that screamed “I ran a half-mile once in middle school,” and Converse so worn the soles might already be following their own GPS home.

“Damn… you… wolf…” I wheezed, certain each word was my new exercise mantra.

He took that as an invitation and licked the back of my knee with all the enthusiasm of a polite dog. My knee jerked. My lungs evacuated. I let out a shriek that, if captured on tape, would have gone viral as “Girl Meets Wolf Hyena Hybrid.”

“K—kick! Flail! Bite!” My limbs flailed so dramatically I might’ve scolded them in another situation: “Behave, parts of my body!” But he sidestepped my slapdash karate moves like they were scheduled for cancellation. So instead I went verbal. “Don’t lick me if you want to keep breathing air, got it? Stay back.”

I gulped in another lungful—okay, calm the drama—and leveled my most menacing glare at him. “Your germs are not invited to this very important knee party.” I slapped at the air, pointing at my entire body. “Not invited anywhere near this package. Understand, Mr. Furry?”

He whined. A pathetic little whine that somehow made me feel a pang of guilt. I shook it off.

“I know what you are. Matcha Guy-turned-werewolf. And I’m not auditioning for the role of your destined mate. I’m sorry—did I not mention I have dreams? Goals? A future?” I wagged a finger at him like a mini drill sergeant. “I have a GPA to protect, a social life to rediscover, and—oh yeah—I’m not your next sacrificial bride. So either sit your hairy butt down or skedaddle back to wherever your buddy pack’s benchwarming you from.”

He snorted, which I interpreted as a reluctant, “Fine, I’ll stay.”

Sitting. Good. I bent again, hands on knees, and wondered if my heart would spontaneously combust from all the drama. The forest around me hummed with night sounds, which slapped a fresh coat of creepy on my running memo: “Stay away from kidnappers, werewolves, and definitely avoid nighttime cardio in spooky places.”

Of course, the dirt road had to end somewhere. Right? My pep talk kicked in: “Alright, Riley. You got this. Just a little further. You’re practically home.” I jogged again, all confidence for about seven seconds before reminding myself in a mental squeaky voice that I was actually exhausted.

The wolf made a weird huffing sound—some combination of amusement and exasperation—and I narrowed my eyes. “Laugh all you want,” I muttered, “but I’m not going to be your partner-in-crime or your partner-in-life. I’m not here for your supernatural flirting. Romance novel scenarios are overrated.”

He just blinked at me, completely unphased by my mini-rant. Typical guy move: say all the words, observe zero reaction.

By now, the kidnappers’ van had to be miles behind—unless they’re secretly speed demons. Probably not. I mean, they’d dropped me off with a werewolf and driven off like they forgot something at home. Impressive coordination. Or just bad planning.

I shot the wolf a skeptical glance. He’d been there when they grabbed us, but didn’t join in. After Noah’s mysterious “I must become a wolf” phase, the other guys dragged us both into their minivan. He was complicit by proximity, but did he help? I wasn’t sure. Morally gray area #27: “Was he victim or accessory?” I’d need to write that in my future memoir.

“You know what?” I wheezed, “Why don’t you pick someone else for your werewolf soulmate? I’m way too busy being a nerd-chic visionary. Party girls? Sure, cheat codes for your typical frat guy. But me? I’m past that.” My ponytail slapped me in the face—note to self: next time, pick a workout-ready hairstyle. “So, werewolf prince—just walk away slowly. Shoo!”

He stayed silent, mouth set in canine stoicism. Then again, he was still a wolf. Talking animals wouldn’t be that big a leap from kidnappers and werewolves running wild.

In a huff, I zipped my lips and put one foot in front of the other. Slow was still better than zero. The night dragged on, each step squeaking with the weight of my (former) dignity.

Suddenly, a distant engine rumbled. My heart vaulted into my throat. I threw myself into the bushes like a cartoon heroine, branches lashing at my arms, face, and wounded pride. The wolf—ever my involuntary sidekick—dove in beside me, his gray fur blending into the shadows.

Sure enough, the van roared by, headlights off, looking for all the world like a hungry shark in tire-form. They didn’t even glance our way. Excellent work, Riley, evasion queen.

The noise faded, and the forest felt ten times darker, if that was possible. Auto-focus didn’t exist for eyeballs in total blackness.

“I’m going to die out here,” I whispered, voice quivering like a bobblehead in a wind tunnel. Inch by inch, I extracted myself from the prickly embrace of the bush. My arms and legs sported fresh scratches—fashionably awful.

Before I could have a full-on panic meltdown, the wolf pressed his wet nose to my arm and started licking my cuts. As if I needed any more weird.

“Stop it, dammit,” I grunted, yanking him away. “I don’t even know you.” He growled low and tender, and for a second I almost felt sorry—like comforting a puppy with rabies. Bad idea. “Go. Away.” I waved him off like he was a persistent barfly.

He stayed. Of course he did.

Defeated, I straightened. “Fine. But no romantic gazing or mystical destiny talk, or I swear I’ll start quoting Shakespeare just to throw you off.” With that, I marched back onto the road.

I walked. And walked. And walked—probably covering the entire syllabus for “Wolves 101” in my brain. Sunlight teased the horizon when I finally spotted a flicker of neon from a convenience store.

My spirits skyrocketed. “YES!” I cheered, sprinting toward salvation like it was the last slice of wedding cake at a frat party.

Abduction? Dodged.

Werewolf horror? Mostly managed.

Personal pride? Questionable.

It wasn’t until I reached the edge of town—feet aching, heart racing with triumph—that I realized I’d celebrated entirely too soon…