Hunted by the Alpha

The forest is too quiet.

Sage notices it first—the absence of sound. No birds. No insects. Just wind through the trees and her own breathing, visible in the cold October air.

She adjusts her camera lens, focusing on a deer trail that disappears into dense undergrowth. The light is perfect. Golden hour in the Pacific Northwest, everything painted in amber and shadow.

This shot will be incredible.

She's been tracking this particular elk herd for three days. Her editor at Wild Earth magazine wants the cover shot by Monday, and Sage never misses a deadline.

Her boots crunch through fallen leaves.

Deeper into the woods.

Her phone lost signal two hours ago. Her GPS shows she's somewhere in the Cascade Mountains, about forty miles from the nearest town. Private land, technically, but she filed all the permits. She's allowed to be here.

Right?

Sage checks her map again. The boundary markers should have been obvious, but she hasn't seen any. Just endless trees and that strange, oppressive silence.

A twig snaps behind her.

She freezes.

Slowly, she turns. Her hand goes to the bear spray on her belt.

Nothing.

Just shadows between the trees. The forest darkening as the sun sinks lower.

Time to head back.

Sage marks her position, planning her route to camp. She's set up three miles south, near a stream. She'll return at dawn when the elk are most active.

She takes five steps.

A howl splits the air.

Not a coyote. Not a wolf. Something bigger. Deeper. The sound raises every hair on the back of her neck and triggers something primal in her hindbrain that screams PREDATOR.

Run.

Sage runs.

Her camera bag slams against her back with every step. Branches whip her face. Her breath comes in ragged gasps. Behind her, she hears something crashing through the undergrowth.

Something huge.

Something fast.

The trees thin ahead. She bursts into a clearing and immediately realizes her mistake. This isn't her route. She's gone deeper into the forest, not toward her camp.

Another howl.

Closer. Much closer.

Sage spins, trying to orient herself. The setting sun casts long shadows. Everything looks the same. She's lost.

A growl rumbles from the treeline.

She turns slowly.

He's there.

Not human. Not entirely wolf. Something in between—and massive. Easily seven feet tall, covered in dark fur, with golden eyes that glow in the failing light. His shoulders are broader than any human's, his chest heaving with breath that fogs the air.

Werewolf.

The rational part of Sage's brain says they don't exist. The instinctual part says she's about to die.

T...