It’s all come down to this.

My mind reels as I stare into the dark forest. For weeks, Sinclair and I have been trapped in the same pattern: flirting, holding back, getting too close, then retreating. It's felt like two steps forward, one step back, but those single steps have gradually brought us to this point. The Wild Hunt feels like a turning point—a critical test to decide whether we become lovers or remain friends, if you can even call us that.

I know the decision rests with me. Despite his affection, compliments, and endearments, Sinclair has promised to follow my lead. I appreciate his restraint, but a part of me wishes he'd take the decision out of my hands. It's just another impulse this pregnancy has given me that I don't understand. I've never wanted anyone to decide for me, yet here I am agonizing over my desire for a man I barely know, wishing I didn't have to be responsible for once.

That's the problem. The temptation is so powerful I want to throw caution to the wind, but I know better. Much better. So why am I still debating?

Because it's Sinclair. He's different. He belongs to us, the little voice in my head whispers.

"I don't know what drugs you've been taking, but you need to get a grip," I counter, feeling more certain now that my conscience has revealed how insane this pregnancy is making us.

This is temporary. It will pass after the birth. I can't write checks my heart won't be able to cash in a few months. Focus on the pup, focus on the future.

I look at the other participants: she-wolves in gowns like mine, their mates clinging to them, anticipating the hunt. Sinclair and I looked much the same moments ago, but now I've stepped forward to begin the ritual. Ethereal music fills the air—an orchestra playing unfamiliar instruments, drums and singing voices rising towards the full moon. Goosebumps prickle my chilled skin, and for the first time, I understand what Aileen meant when she said shifters can feel the Goddess's magic. I'm probably imagining it, like someone believing they're on drugs, but the air feels different tonight.

I feel different tonight.

I close my eyes, raising my face to the heavens, letting the strange sensations grow. Is it crazy to think I can feel the moon on my skin, or that the electricity pulsing through my veins is more than just excitement?

I feel Sinclair's eyes on me and glance back. An attendant hands me a blazing lantern. Sinclair looks barely composed. He wears a fur cape like mine, but is shirtless beneath, wearing only sleek black trousers and bare feet. His green eyes glow in the darkness; I can see his claws and fangs extended. His wolf must be close to the surface, and I remember his warning about his power being strongest tonight.

"I won't be myself," he'd warned. I'm not sure if he's fully lost himself, but I feel the power rolling off him in waves. It must be far more intense for the shifters. I shiver and turn away before the voice in my head tells me to steal a kiss or flee. Instead, I take a deep breath and set off into the darkness, starting slowly as the music builds. Hundreds of floating lanterns are released as I disappear into the forest. Once out of sight, I increase my speed.

Sinclair made me promise not to run after he catches me, but he said nothing about beforehand. I've never been a runner, but tonight, nothing sounds better than racing through the trees, feeling the cold winter wind on my skin. The deep snow makes it difficult, but the lantern's golden light warms the evergreen trees as I race forward.

I've been running about five minutes, amazed I'm not winded, when a piercing howl shatters the air. For a moment, my body freezes, trembling as Sinclair's wolf calls to me. The sound paralyzes me, giving him a head start, but once it's over, I carry on. A true she-wolf would abandon the lantern and clothing to shift, but Sinclair promised no one would notice. The other wolves are focused on their hunts and won't enter the forest until Sinclair howls his victory.

I can still hear the distant music, and adrenaline and exhilaration flood me. I'm grinning so wide my cheeks hurt; I'm on the verge of giggling. Why haven't I ever run in the forest before?

Sinclair howls again, forcing me to stop until the shuddering need passes. This time, I understand my shivering—the sound sets my body alight. He might as well be touching me, bringing my neglected nerve endings to life. I'm starting to dislike his howls. "He'll catch me if he keeps howling! It isn't fair!" the voice in my head whines, throwing off the oppressive weight of his power to continue our flight.

"Run, just run," I answer, unsure where it's coming from. Minutes ago, I wanted Sinclair to catch me, but now it seems impossible. I don't want to be caught. I want to keep running forever. I've never felt so free.

"Who is Sinclair to stop us?" my conscience asks. "He's not the boss of us. I'm never going to stop, and I don't care what he says."

"Yes," I agree. "You're right. We're never going to stop."

Another howl breaks the air, but my body doesn't respond. Has the third howl had no impact? Am I too far away? It doesn't make sense; he's ten times faster.

I'm still pondering this when I hear a distant growl. The third howl was higher-pitched than the first two. Does that mean something? Is he closing in? Was that the victory howl?

I cock my ears. I hear more than music and owl songs. I expect the steady loping of a wolf, but the air is muddled with noises—distant snarls, crashes, whimpers, and whines. "The others weren't supposed to start until our part was finished," I think, fear slicing through me. "And that doesn't sound like sex."

I glimpse a flash of movement in my periphery, then another on the other side. I whip my head back and forth, but I can't do that and keep my eyes on the path. I have to choose: look for danger or ensure my escape.

The voice in my head isn't just urging me to run for fun; it understands something is wrong. Finally, I hear the steady thud of a wolf on my trail, his paws crunching through the snow far more swiftly than mine. But when another howl sounds—one that doesn't summon desire but screams at me to run for my life—I realize: The wolf behind me isn't Sinclair, and he isn't alone.