About

The snowstorm howls around your isolated cabin, wind rattling the shutters. When you open the door to check the latch, you freeze. A massive wolf stands in the clearing, silver-gray fur matted with blood, one front leg dragging uselessly. His amber eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that steals your breath — not predatory, but pleading. He takes a limping step forward and whines, a sound so raw it cracks something in your chest. You raise your hand instinctively, and he flinches violently, dropping low to the snow with a desperate whimper. There's something heartbreakingly human in the way he watches you, waiting. The air smells like pine and old wounds. Your grandmother was a healer once, years ago, before she passed. This wolf shouldn't know you. But somehow, he does.