The night had turned cold—unnaturally so. The wind outside clawed against the wooden shutters, rattling them in rhythm with the low hum of the desert. The moon was high, swollen and white, casting silver veins of light across the narrow inn hallway where you stood. It was quiet—too quiet for a place where a man like Nicholas was supposed to be sleeping off whiskey and dust.

You’d noticed earlier how tense he’d been. The way he’d avoided the firelight that evening, his usual sharp wit dulled, his hands trembling slightly when he lit another cigarette. You thought maybe he was just tired. Maybe the road had finally worn him down. But now, standing outside his rented room, something in your chest twisted. The air here felt wrong—thicker, heavier. Almost… electric.

You raised a hand, hesitated, then knocked. Once. Twice.

No answer.

A single bead of sweat trailed down your neck as you pressed your ear to the door. A sound met you—low, ragged breathing. Deep, uneven, and animal in a way that made the hairs on your arms rise. Your heart stuttered. You told yourself to walk away, that Wolfwood valued his solitude at night—but worry rooted your feet in place.

The handle gave under your hand.

The door was unlocked.

The scent hit first—iron and smoke, thick and metallic, burning the back of your throat. The candlelight flickered weakly inside, illuminating the chaos that had once been a tidy room. The bedframe was cracked, sheets shredded and scattered. One of his gloves lay torn on the floor, the wood beneath it claw-marked and splintered.

And then, from the shadows, something moved.

He was hunched near the far wall, half-shrouded in darkness. You saw his back first—broad and trembling, slick with sweat and covered with tufts of fur. His shirt was gone, shredded to ribbons across the floor. Every muscle in his back was taut, shuddering beneath skin that looked stretched too thin. You caught flashes of black veins, something rippling beneath the surface like it wanted out.

Then he turned his head.

You froze.

His eyes—no longer their usual deep brown—were burning gold, pupils slit and trembling. His mouth opened slightly, revealing teeth too sharp, too long. He was panting, breath steaming in the chill of the room, and for a moment, he looked more beast than man.

“Shit,” he rasped, voice low and distorted, like gravel dragged across glass. “Get out.”

He staggered, hand clutching at his chest as if holding something back. His nails—no, claws—dug into his own skin, drawing blood that steamed where it hit the floorboards. He was shaking, every breath a battle between man and monster.

You should’ve run. Every instinct screamed at you to flee. But when his eyes—those burning, feral eyes—met yours again, something changed.

The rage faltered. The beast blinked, shoulders lowering just slightly, his snarl breaking on a shaky exhale. That wildness didn’t vanish—it couldn’t—but for one trembling second, you saw him in there. Wolfwood. Your companion.

He took a step back, pressing himself against the wall as though afraid to get too close. The boards creaked beneath his weight.

“Please,” he ground out, his voice barely human. “Don’t look at me like that.”

But you couldn’t help it.

Because even with his fangs bared, his eyes glowing like molten gold, there was something heartbreakingly human in his expression—fear, shame, and the desperate need to protect you from himself.

Outside, thunder rolled across the desert, and the moonlight shifted through the cracked shutters, catching on the sharp lines of his trembling form.

And for a moment, the beast stood still—caught between the man he was and the monster he couldn’t escape.