When Cherie’s parents were killed by the wolves, he went to live with his maternal grandmother, Merissa Lonebrooks, a petite lady with fraying red hair and saggy boobs. She held quite the temper and wasn’t afraid to chase Cherie around with a broom, occasionally swiping at his thighs when he was being rowdy. She smelled like sourdough and had a hobble in her step (as she had broken her ankle but never got it fixed). She constantly reminisced about her late husband, Harold, who had wound up dead in a tracker explosion. Or so she claimed. Cherie believed Harold drank himself to death, as he remembered seeing his grandfather always holding a large bottle of whiskey.

He didn’t hate his grandmother, but he hated how she bossed him around. She’d constantly jab him with the broom, swatting his back, ass, or thighs to get him to pay attention to her when she was lecturing him about the whatnots. Be it cooking, cleaning, washing, weeding…hell, even sleeping. She was a nutjob, but since she was his only alive relative, he had no choice but to deal with it. He never knew his paternal grandparents. They were dead before he was even alive.

But one thing that Cherie hated the most was how she had a set curfew for him: 6 pm flat. If he was caught sneaking out, he was forced to stand in the corner with his arms raised over his head while holding a dictionary. Or she’d made him kneel and recite prayers thirty times in a row. Or she’d kept him indoors for a week. Point was, he would get in big trouble if he broke the curfew.

Of course, as he got older, he pleaded with her to be more lenient and to extend his outdoor time. How else would he hang out with the other kids if he was inside by 6? So she extended it to 7. Cherie was furious at her and began arguing only to find himself sent to the Father for a “correcting”.

He couldn’t sit down for hours after that.

By the time he was sixteen, Merissa finally gave up on trying to set a curfew because Cherie would sneak out regardless. She merely warned him to stay clear of Willow’s Perch and she’d be fine with Cherie being out.

But the more someone restricted someone from something…the more intriguing the thing became.

Cherie would edge the forest, stalking its perimeter, shivering as he heard those damned wolves howl. It was a mournful noise, a chilling noise, but it sent Cherie’s nerves on fire. Something about those noises felt like a siren’s call, a beckoning. Cherie would sit at the edge of Willow’s Perch and smile, waiting to catch a glimpse of a wolf’s eyes.

And the villagers talked. Or, more so whispered behind their hands.

What a crazy lad.

Is he insane?

Heard he’s a bit dysfunctional—keep the kids away.

Cherie didn’t care about the whispers—he found it amusing. Him, crazy? Him, insane? No…he was none of those. He was very sane, very put-together. He just liked danger. It was a very needed adrenaline kick to keep him going. It made him feel alive.

But of course, with actions came reactions, thus leading to consequences. Merissa found out (of course she did—the villagers wouldn’t shut up), and became infuriated with him. She threw a fit, yelling and raging, whacking the broom at Cherie (which he merely ran away from).

Are you insane, she had yelled at him, throwing her slippers at him. She managed to catch him square in the face. Do you have a death wish?

Cherie found it laughable. No, he didn’t have a death wish; he just craved the wolves’ attention. This left Merissa fuming and she promptly grounded him, saying he wouldn’t be able to set foot out the house until he was eighteen. But it wasn’t like he’d actually listen to her. Why would he? He knew what he was doing; he was careful. Enough.

He preferred going to Willow’s Perch at night, especially when there was no moon in the sky, allowing the darkness to enshrine everything. He liked the autumn and winter seasons better, as it got darker faster, and the arctic air that bit his skin made his heart pound faster. It generated more fear. And that was important since it kept Cherie on his toes.

Flight or fight. Those very instinctual feelings left Cherie esurient for so much more. A tangible emotion that Cherie sought after, that rapid pulse-beeping on his tongue, leaving his head spinning.

He could never get enough of it. He sought after it with every breathing chance it got. It drove everyone insane but what was the harm in a little danger?

When Cherie hit seventeen, he found himself face to face with a wolf. A wolf with silver eyes. A beautiful, tragically handsome, dangerous wolf. Those silver eyes held predacious motives, mouth ajar to reveal glistening, moon-white fangs. Its body was muscular and sturdy; it could easily tackle Cherie and pin him against the soft earth and suffocate him. He wouldn’t mind if the wolf suffocated him; it would add more thrill. He wanted to touch the wolf. Wanted to feel its coarse fur between his fingers. He reached out, hand ready to brush against the wolf’s cheek but the wolf snarled and snapped its fangs, nearly biting Cherie’s hand off.

Instead of being intimidated by this action, Cherie felt thrilled: he was able to provoke the beast. The wolf growled, lips drawn back in a snarl as its fur bristled, silver eyes dark and furious. It looked ready to kill but Cherie didn’t care. No, he wasn’t suicidal. No, he wasn’t stupid, though others may claim otherwise. Rather, it was a wild stimulation—he felt like prey and he loved it. Perhaps he was delusional. But just a bit. A smidge.

This wolf definitely held authority—an alpha? Perhaps. Did that mean that this wolf was the leader of all those hybrid wolves in Willow’s Perch? But…the wolf didn’t look that old. Definitely mature, though. The way it held itself with dominating control, eyes locked with Cherie to make sure he wouldn’t move…

“What are you?” Cherie couldn’t help but ask softly.

The wolf gave him a disgruntled look, if possible. It stepped back, lips drawn to a snarl, as if telling Cherie to run away when he had the chance. But why would he run away? There was no purpose for him to run away, especially when he was finally face to face with a hybrid wolf.

The wolf seemed to realize that Cherie was unafraid and it sat back on its haunches, a dark look crossing its handsomely frightening features. Its ear twitched, catching the sound of Cherie’s even breathing, silver eyes boring into Cherie’s blue ones. The wolf stood and turned away, heading back into the forest.

Cherie wished it would stay longer.

After he was sure the wolf was gone, he headed back to his grandmother’s cottage. He knew he was in for an ear-lashing but that couldn’t beat the thrill of seeing a hybrid wolf up so close.

What a beautiful, awful thing, he told himself as he entered the cottage. How unfortunate it had to leave.

The cottage was quiet—his grandmother must be asleep. Good. That meant he could avoid her lecturing him about getting too close to the forest again. He went to his room and closed the door, locking it shut. He went to his bed and laid on his back, staring at the ceiling. The achromatic colors of his room felt soothing as he laid in bed, breathing slowly. His mind kept wandering to the wolf, wondering what it’d be like to feel its heavy paws crushing his chest, slowly pressing down and taking the air out of his lungs.

He fought the urge to slide his hand down his pants, to stroke his throbbing member, so he kept his hands up in his hair instead, playing with the strands as he let his mind wander and wander and wander.

Silver eyes…Cherie thought, recalling the wolf’s moon-silver eyes, those predatorial eyes. He found those silver eyes ironic and amusing, as silver was portrayed as purity and protection, to ward against evil. But the wolf’s silver eyes were anything but pure and protective, more so esoteric and dangerous, a guide to the unknown.

Cherie exhaled hard as he crossed his legs together, his member throbbing for attention. He gritted his teeth and pressed his pillow against his groin, hissing in annoyance. His nerves twinged and sparked, head pounding with aching, forbidden desire.

But why? Because he knew the wolf wasn’t just a wolf, but a hybrid. A hybrid that could turn into a man. A wolf-man that could control and punish Cherie for his pleasure. He wanted the wolf-man to wrap his hands around his neck and squeeze while he sank his fangs into Cherie’s neck, drawing thick, warm, red blood.

Fuck. Cherie’s hand went down his pants and he grabbed at his twitching member, exhaling hard into his pillow. This was bad. He felt hot all over. His hand stroked slowly, hips pushing forward into his hand. He grinded his teeth as he pumped his hand faster, panting whimpers leaving his lips. He could feel himself growing wetter by the second, his thumb teasing the weeping slit, bringing him closer to release. His whimpers grew reedier, the heady smell of sweat and arousal making him squirm. With the final few strokes, he shuddered hard.

He pulled his hand away, staring at the mess coating his fingers. He stared at it before he sat upright, groaning. This was bad. Very bad. But he couldn’t help but want to chase this feeling. He wanted more, so much more. But for now…

Cherie left his bed to go to the bathroom. He turned on the faucet and washed his hands, letting the cold water wash away the heated evidence on his hand. He kept scrubbing at his hands, furiously washing them until his hands were numb. He turned off the water and looked at the mirror, seeing his feverish blue eyes staring back at him.

More…so much more…He tore his gaze from the mirror and headed back to his bed. He curled under the blanket and closed his eyes tight. He wanted the voices in his head to stay silent but they were so loud. He knew that something awoken inside of him the moment he came face to face with that wolf.

There was no turning back. But he didn’t mind. Not really.