Cherie Hodge and his late family were wolf hunters. They were the best at it, that was, until Mr. and Mrs. Hodge were killed by a wolf. Ironic, isn't it? So, Cherie lived with his grandmother in a small village. Everyone knew each other in the village. They were happy. Mostly. But there was an issue: there was a wolf in the forest. The wolf was a bloodthirsty animal, hunger insatiable. It craved the flesh of the villagers, especially children. Even the hunters couldn't kill the wolf, as the wolf was too powerful, too strong, too fast, and much too smart for anyone to get.
Despite Cherie's grandmother warning him to steer clear of the feral beast, something about the wolf's predatory habits lured the young man closer to the beast. Maybe it was the blood, maybe it was the fangs. Or maybe, just maybe, it was those moon-silver eyes.
Cherie wasn't afraid of the wolf like the others. He wanted to be near, edging the forest much past curfew, just to see a glimpse of dark fur darting between the ensnared trees.
The villagers pleaded with Cherie to avoid the dangers that lurked deep in the forest, but he didn't care. He loved the feeling of the wolf watching him; he basked in the wolf's demonic attention. A cat and mouse game, a tug and pull. He couldn't get enough of it - he wanted more. Just a taste for a shameful, sinful night, to break free of the choking chains of what was right and what was wrong. To just feel alive even if it meant his life on the line.
He didn't care that others thought of him sick in the head with a perverted, morbid obsession with hybrid wolves, like the one in the forest. He didn't bother running, knowing the wolf could easily catch up with him. But sometimes he ran for the thrill of it just to be pinned down against the earth.
Cherie was delusional, but he loved it.
In fact, chasing the wolf allowed him to finally delve into darker, more sinister thoughts.
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