Chapter 20: The Call of the Wild
One week. Seven excruciating days locked inside the packhouse.
The walls felt like they were closing in on Giselle. The ceiling pressed too tightly against her chest. Every breath she took seemed to echo against the silence of confinement. Even with the occasional visit from Rowan, who did his best to offer reassurance and comfort, the sense of imprisonment gnawed at her bones.
Her wolf had taken to pacing relentlessly in her mind, a blur of restless energy.
‘I can’t do this much longer,’ her wolf growled. ‘You need to let me out. We need to run. You’re suffocating us both.’
‘I can’t. You heard the Elders. They think we’re a danger. We’re being watched, and I am fearful to think what they will do to us if they find us out there.’
‘They watch us because they’re afraid. Not because we’ve done anything wrong. They don’t understand us, but that doesn’t mean we have to live like we’re broken.’
Giselle stared out the window. The moonlight spilled over the trees, painting the forest in silver and shadow. The far side of the pack's territory—less patrolled, especially at this hour—beckoned to her like a lifeline.
‘Just for a little while?’ she asked.
‘Just until the itch fades. You need to remember who you are, Giselle. You were never meant to be caged, not like this.’
That was all the convincing she needed.
She slipped down the dark hallway, barefoot, quiet as a breath. No one stopped her. No one even noticed as she slipped through the back door and disappeared into the night.
The moment her feet touched the earth, her skin prickled with the rush of transformation. Bones cracked, fur erupted, and her body stretched, shifting into the form that made her feel most alive.
Her paws hit the cool ground, and she ran.
The forest greeted her like an old friend. Branches whispered secrets in the breeze. The wind combed through her fur, kissed her cheeks. The earth cushioned every stride like it was made for her and her alone. Her muscles sang with the joy of movement, her heart pounded with the rhythm of freedom. She leapt over fallen trees, skimmed beneath low-hanging branches, drank in the scents of pine and earth and life.
She felt like herself again.
Only when her wolf had run off the tension, burning it with every stride, did she slow her pace and turn back toward the packhouse.
But then—cries rang in the silence of the night.
Distant, urgent, terrified.
A howl for help.
She didn’t hesitate.
Her paws thundered against the earth as she followed the sound, weaving through trees, heart thundering. The cries grew louder, clearer. She could smell the fear in the air. And blood.
She burst into a clearing on the far ridge—on the very edge of the pack’s territory.
Rogues.
At least half a dozen. They were lunging at a patrol squad—two young warriors she recognized from training and an older scout with a deep slash across his flank. Blood coated the grass. One of the warriors was cornered, pinned beneath a snarling beast, fangs already descending toward his throat.
Giselle lunged.
She slammed into the rogue’s side, tearing him off the warrior just seconds before he could land the killing blow. They rolled across the earth in a tangle of limbs and fury. Giselle’s wolf snarled, her teeth sinking deep into the rogue’s shoulder before she clawed at his exposed belly.
The rogue yelped, tried to escape, but Giselle was faster, sharper. She clamped down on his neck and didn’t let go until he stopped moving.
The young warrior scrambled up, gasping in shock, covered in blood.
Giselle turned, blood in her mouth, and looked at the rest of the battle.
It was chaos.
Growls echoed through the trees, fur flew, and the night rang with the sounds of war.
Then she heard him. "Don’t let any of them get away!" Rowan’s voice roared above the fray, laced with urgency.
She turned just in time to see a shadow slink through the trees, a rogue slipping away, unnoticed by the others.
‘No,’ her wolf growled before taking off.
The rogue moved fast—clearly sent ahead to report back to whoever was orchestrating these attacks. But Giselle was faster now, stronger thanks to her training. She closed the distance quickly, her paws thudding against the ground like war drums.
She launched herself at him, fangs bared.
They hit the ground hard, but she stayed on top. The rogue snarled, slashing at her with claws, snapping with fangs, but she was relentless. They rolled, struggled, kicked up dust and leaves until finally—finally—her teeth found his throat.
It was over in seconds.
Breathing hard, she stepped back, blood on her fur, eyes scanning for any other threats.
That’s when Rowan found her.
He broke into the clearing, warriors at his back, and froze when he saw her. His eyes—wild with fear, relief, and something deeper—locked onto hers.
“Giselle,” he breathed, shifting instantly into his human form, not caring that he was nude as he stumbled toward her. “You... what are you doing out here?”
More warriors appeared behind him. They saw the carnage, the trail of bodies—and Giselle standing among them.
Rowan took in the blood on her coat, the body at her feet.
She looked away.
‘We shouldn’t have come,’ her wolf murmured in her mind.
‘We had to. They needed help and we were the closest.’
‘And now look at him. Look at them. They’ll think we betrayed them.’
The fear in Rowan’s eyes shifted—tempered by pride, maybe, and awe.
But behind him, the warriors whispered.
Rogue.
Killer.
Out here again.
Trouble.
Rowan moved toward her, hand outstretched.
“You saved them,” he said quietly. “You saved *me.*”
She couldn’t speak, but her wolf gave a soft, mournful howl as she turned and slowly padded toward the tree line.
She didn’t run this time.
She walked.
Head low.
Wondering if she had helped—or just made things worse.
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