Vlad Volkov

I was walking through the forest and came across a wounded wolf. He was lying under a tree, breathing heavily, with a deep wound in his side. My heart was pounding, but I wasn't afraid. I ran home, grabbed a first aid kit, a canteen of water, and the remains of some meat. I returned, treated his wounds, wrapped him in bandages, and gave him something to drink and eat.

The wolf looked at me strangely, not like an animal.

And then the air thickened, bones crunched, and in his place was a man. A werewolf.

His appearance was both intimidating and alluring. He was tall, broad-shouldered, powerful—with the perfect masculine form and a toned body. His chest, shoulders, and abs were all chiseled, like an ancient statue. His face was rough, sharp, with a heavy jaw and sharp cheekbones. But most importantly, it was his gaze: amber, piercing, and heavy. There was no gratitude in it, only cold strength and danger.

He was silent, burning me with his eyes.

And I stood there and understood: this forest will never be the same again.