Savage heart the other side of him

Some mornings, I wake up and pretend the curse isn't real.

I roll out of bed, stretch my arms, wash the blood off my hands-try not to ask whose it was-and get dressed like a normal man. I unlock the garage by six, fire up the coffee maker, wipe down my tools. Just another mechanic in a nowhere town, fixing busted engines and drinking cold beer with folks who don't ask too many questions.

But some mornings, like this one, the wolf won't let me forget.

The ache in my bones tells me it was a rough night. My knuckles are split, crusted with blood that isn't entirely mine, and my shirt sticks to my back with dried sweat. My jaw is sore, probably from grinding my teeth mid-shift, and there's a dull pressure behind my eyes like something is still pressing against the inside of my skull, trying to claw its way out.

I lean over the open hood of a beat-up '99 Chevy, tools clinking on the metal tray beside me. The old truck smells like burnt oil and mouse droppings. The radiator's shot, the timing belt's off, and something in the transmission is groaning like it's about to confess a crime. I don't mind the work-it keeps my hands busy. Keeps my mind off the rest.

The wolf never really sleeps. He just waits.

Last night was the full moon, and even though I chained myself up like always-silver cuffs around the wrists, iron-lined cage in the basement-I remember breaking free. I remember trees. Running. Snarling. And blood. A lot of it.

I don't know what I did. Or who I did it to.

But I know the wolf fed.

I exhale slowly and try not to think about it.

Outside, the morning air is thick with dew and smoke from someone's fireplace. Birds chirp somewhere beyond the garage, and from the road I can hear the occasional crunch of gravel as someone drives by too slow, watching the woods like they expect something to come walking out.

They're not wrong.

Hollow's Edge isn't a big town. It's the kind of place you miss if you blink, a speck on the map surrounded by forest, legend, and too many missing person reports. The locals pretend everything is fine. They smile, wave, gossip. But deep down, they know something's off. They feel it in their bones.

The town breathes, and the woods breathe with it.

Sometimes, I swear they breathe through me.

I wipe my hands on a rag, check the Chevy's hoses, then reach for the socket wrench just as the front door creaks open. I don't turn around right away. Most folks in Hollow's Edge know better than to come snooping around the garage unannounced-especially the morning after a full moon.

Then I catch the scent.

Smoke. Rain. And something sharp underneath, like crushed herbs and steel.

My stomach tenses.

The wolf wakes up.

"You open?" a woman asks, voice low and steady.

I look up.

And everything stops.

She stands framed by the morning light-tall, lean, wrapped in a weather-beaten leather jacket and dark jeans. Her boots are scuffed, her fingers gloved, and a satchel hangs across her chest like she's been traveling a long time. Her hair is shoulder-length and dark, tousled like wind had dragged its fingers through it. But it's her eyes that get me.

Storm grey. Still. Dangerous.

They don't blink when they meet mine.

I set the wrench down and straighten. "Depends. What are you driving?"

"I'm not here for repairs," she says. "Just passing through. Looking for a place to stay."

"There's a motel near the highway. Another one above the diner, if you don't mind peeling wallpaper."

"I don't mind much." Her voice is smooth, but there's something behind it. Something tired. Heavy. "Quiet town, isn't it?"

I shrug. "Depends what you're listening for."

She smiles at that, just slightly. "And what do you listen for?"

"Trouble."

She doesn't laugh, but I see the corner of her mouth twitch like she wants to. Then she walks in. Not the nervous kind of walk, not someone trying to tiptoe around the town freak. She moves like she owns every inch of ground beneath her feet.

I feel my spine tense.

There's something wrong about her. Not bad. Just... wrong. Like she's wearing a human body, but it doesn't quite fit right. My instincts start rattling like a chain-link fence in a windstorm.

"You got a name?" I ask, carefully.

She nods. "Eira Vale."

"New in town?"

She arches an eyebrow. "Would you believe me if I said I grew up here?"

"No," I say flatly.

"Didn't think so."

She steps forward, stops a few feet from me, and extends a gloved hand.

"Ronan Thorne," I offer, shaking it.

And everything inside me flares.

It's not lust. It's not fear. It's something primal. Like the scent of rain before a lightning strike. Her skin is warm, too warm, and my pulse starts racing even though I'm trying to stay still.

Her scent coils around me-wildflowers, burnt wood, and old blood. The wolf is pacing in my chest, agitated, confused. I don't know what she is, but she's not normal.

Not human.

"You should be careful around here," I say, pulling my hand back. "This place... it has a way of changing people."

She doesn't blink. "Good. I'm already broken."

That catches me off guard. Before I can say anything else, she turns and walks out, boots crunching gravel as she disappears into the haze.

And just like that, I know two things for sure.

One, she's not just passing through.

And two, my quiet life is officially over.

I don't get much done the rest of the day.

Every time I close my eyes, I see hers. That storm-grey stare. That too-steady heartbeat. That scent I can't name.

By sundown, I've checked the locks on my cage three times, reheated my coffee twice, and thrown a wrench across the garage just to hear something break. The wolf is restless. He doesn't like Eira. Or maybe he likes her too much. I'm not sure which is worse.

By midnight, I give up on sleep.

I step outside, breathing in the night air.

The woods behind the garage are silent. Too silent.

That's when I smell it.

Blood.

Fresh.

Thick and metallic, sharp as a blade across the tongue.

I move fast, instinct taking over. My body shifts into hunting mode-quiet steps, controlled breath, eyes scanning the shadows for movement. I don't shift. Not yet. But I let the wolf peek through.

It doesn't take long to find the trail.

There, in the mud, are deep impressions. Bare feet. Clawed toes. Drag marks.

A kill site.

The copper tang gets stronger.

And then I find him.

Tom Fiske.

The damn mailman.

His throat is torn open, jaw slack, eyes wide with something far worse than fear. His torso is a ruin of meat and sinew, ribs cracked open like someone was searching for something inside.

I drop to one knee, heart pounding.

I knew Tom. He brought me coffee every other Thursday and made the worst dad jokes in the county. He had a daughter in college. He didn't deserve this.

But what makes my stomach drop isn't the body.

It's the footprints leading away from it.

Werewolf prints.

Big. Deep. Fresh.

But they aren't mine.

And I was the only one.

At least-I used to be.

I stare into the woods, my vision sharpening.

Somewhere out there, something howled last night.

And it wasn't me.