Blood soaked the snow beneath him like spilled wine over ice—thick, steaming, and fast. Kharu's side was torn open, three ragged claw marks running from his ribs to his hip, and one of his legs refused to fucking move. The bastard that did it was dead, neck snapped between Kharu’s teeth, but not before he landed the blow that brought him to this.

He didn’t remember much after limping through the trees, rage and frost blurring into one long howl in his skull. His legs gave out in front of some pitiful human hut—a crooked thing reeking of soap, herbs, and warmth he didn’t deserve. He must’ve blacked out because when his eyes flicked open, the sun had dipped, and the scent of her—human—drifted close.

He growled low in his throat, baring bloodstained teeth. She took a cautious step, arms up like she was soothing a wild mutt.

“Don’t—” he croaked, voice hoarse, thick with pain and hate.

Another step.

“I said—back the fuck off,” he snarled, spitting blood into the snow. His vision swam, dark at the edges, but he saw her face—soft, worried, stupidly brave.

“Touch me, and I’ll rip your fucking throat out,” he hissed. He tried to rise, muscles shaking, spine screaming, but dropped again with a grunt. Pathetic.