ALARIC
It started with the scent of pine and fire.
And her.
He stood at the edge of a lake, its surface black and silver beneath the moon, the air heavy with something ancient—something waiting.
And then she stepped from the water.
Naked. Unafraid.
Isolde.
But not quite.
Her hair was longer. Her posture, regal. Her skin shimmered with something more than magic—memory. She walked like a woman who had done this before. Like a woman who had loved him in lives he couldn't recall.
He couldn't move.
Not until her eyes found his—and then he was crossing the shore, boots forgotten, breath gone.
She reached for him.
And he went to her like he'd done it a hundred times before.
When their mouths met, it wasn't new.
It was a reunion.
Flesh on flesh. Want braided with grief. Hands sliding along curves his fingers remembered before his thoughts could catch up.
Her skin was warm.
She gasped into his kiss when his hands gripped her hips.
And gods—he knew that sound.
They sank into the moss together, and time shattered around them.
He traced every line of her with reverence. Hunger. Wonder.
He knew how her breath hitched when he kissed her neck.
He knew how to coax a moan from her lips with just the pressure of his palm.
Their bodies moved like they had once been carved from the same spell—meant to fit, to burn, to rise.
She whispered his name into the curve of his shoulder—not just Alaric.
But others. Older names.
Names that didn't belong to this life, but still made him ache.
He pressed his forehead to hers, panting, stunned by how much he needed her and how little of it made sense.
"I've had this dream before," he said, voice rough.
She smiled.
"Yes," she whispered. "This is the first time you've remembered it."
And then he broke.
Not with pain.
But with clarity, and need.
He guided himself inside her, slow, deliberate --his body shuddering like a parched man discovering water.
She took him deep, her heat clenching around his engorged cock like a forgotten home. For a breathless moment, he stilled --fully sheathed, trembling -- before the rhythm took him.
In and out, slower then faster, until her cries matched the echo of their bodies reuniting, filling the clearing like a carnal symphony.
At the peak of her pleasure, as her body arched and shuddered beneath him, his wolf surged forward --fangs lengthening like an old friend knocking at the door.
When her scream tore through the air, a beast he didn't remember leaned down --and bit. Right at the curve of her shoulder.
Venom laced the mark, fire dancing through her veins. Her orgasm crashed through her body and ricocheted into his own. He came with a ragged groan, buried deep inside her -- cock locked in place, rutting as if to claim her beyond a doubt.
They shook together. Trembled. Needy for more.
Panting under him she looked up with half lidded eyes, "I could get used to this."
Alaric laughed, a warm sound that rumbled deep in his chest, the lines between the dream and waking blurring.
"I hope you remember this when we both wake. I hope this isn't just all in my mind," he murmured, his large, calloused thumb tracing the mark he'd left on her neck.
But she didn't remember.
She couldn't.
It was his dream.
--
ALARIC
He woke with a gasp.
Not loud. Not violent.
But enough to make him sit bolt upright, chest heaving, the dream clinging to his skin like sweat.
The fire had gone low.
The room was quiet.
Isolde lay beside him, sound asleep.
Soft breaths. Hair tangled across her cheek. One hand curled beneath her chin like a child's.
She looked untouched by the dream. Or maybe—fulfilled by it, he hoped.
Alaric ran a hand through his hair, shaking. He could still feel her lips, taste her on his tongue, feel her tight heat wrapped around his cock. Still hear her voice—whispering names he didn't remember but couldn't forget.
His body hummed. Not just from want.
From possibility.
For the first time in longer than he could remember, something called to him.
Low.
Instinctive.
A quiet voice in the back of his mind.
Shift.
He stood slowly, careful not to wake her.
Shaking like a leaf from excitement he stepped into the cool night, the door creaking gently behind him. The air outside kissed his bare skin like the forest had been waiting.
He closed his eyes.
And then—
He let go.
It was effortless.
Like a breath he'd been holding since childhood.
Bones shifted. Muscle lengthened, rearranged. Skin pulled and fur broke free like it had never left him. The magic was gentle—not like before, not wild or fractured. Not pain.
Joy.
He landed on four paws.
And the world sang.
Every scent leapt into focus. Every sound etched itself in silver clarity.
The colours of the forest flared bright—even in the dark.
He ran.
Silent. Swift.
The trees opened for him.
He loped the edge of her property once. Then twice. Then again—faster each time.
Inside his mind, he laughed. He hadn't shifted in decades—had only vague flashes of what it felt like. It had always seemed like agony. Like breaking.
And now?
It felt like coming home.
Since meeting Isolde, it was as if pieces of him had been sliding back into place—an ancient puzzle assembling in silence.
By the time he padded back toward the cottage, dawn was stretching pale fingers through the treetops.
He shifted back behind the well, magic settling into bone and blood, breath catching in his throat.
Still bare.
Still exhilarated.
He rounded the cottage, intending to slip inside—
But she was already there.
Leaning in the doorway, wrapped in a blanket. Hair tousled. Eyes still soft with sleep.
Watching him.
She blinked once.
Then again.
Then turned a shade of red that made his grin curl slow and wicked.
"You're naked," she said, voice husky with sleep.
He lifted a brow. "So I am."
She didn't look away.
Didn't speak.
But the blanket pulled tighter around her, and her cheeks flushed even deeper.
He padded closer, bare feet silent on stone.
"I shifted," he said simply.
She looked up at him.
And smiled.
A real smile. One that reached her eyes.
One that made him believe—if only for this moment—that maybe the curse was breaking after all.