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He didn't know where she lived.
He didn't know anything about her.
In the beginning, he used to spend his lonely days wondering about her. And he would always come up with no logical explanation. What he knew was that she didn't live in the village. The bigoted villagers feared what they couldn't comprehend, and no one comprehended magic. And there was magic inside her; of that, he was sure.
They believed her to be a witch. But she was not. He knew now she was more.
In the beginning, he didn't know when she would come to him. She just did, and took, and left. Not that he complained. He wanted it. He wanted her. To be hers. And the more she took, the more he wanted.
And what he wouldn't give now to run with her in the wild. To hunt with her. To mate with her.
Suddenly everything was clear.
"Bite me," he pleaded, his voice muffled against her neck.
They didn't make it to the bed tonight. Again.
He was taking her against the wooden wall, its creaking loud, their moans louder, echoing through the woods outside.
She would come to him – blood on her lips, ethereal in her nakedness – every night the moon was full and high in the black sky.
He didn't even know the risk he had run the first time, the blood of her last prey still warm on her tongue. She was driven to his hut like a moth to a flame. He smelled like summer spices, she would later confess. Like home.
Sometimes, when the bloodlust subsided and she lay spent and sated in his arms, she would tell him of her home, of her family, her peaceful family, that the villagers took from her with force, with fire and forks.
She was the last of her pack.
And so she killed.
She had killed a lot tonight; this, he could tell. The more she killed, the wetter she was. And so wet she was tonight.
It was late and he was half asleep already; he didn't think she would come anymore. But then the door had flown open, and there she was. Panting. Waiting. They didn't need words.
In the beginning, he thought she could read his mind, condition his will somehow, but no, those were just the twisted preconceptions they had instilled in his brain when he was just a boy growing up in the village. He had his reasons when he left all that madness behind and went to build his life anew in the deep of the woods. That streak of white in his brownish hair is the mark of the devil, they used to say, leave him alone! And thankfully they did.
She was waiting, watching, and furiously he stood up and went to her, discarding his clothes, helping her rip off what was left when he reached her. She jumped up in his arms, small but deadly thing that she was, his hands wrapping around her arse to support her weight. And as he buried his face between her breasts, her legs locked around his waist and she let herself slide down, onto his waiting cock.
"Please," he begged again. "Bite me."
He was so close now. So eager to feel her inner muscles spasming around him, robbing him of his own release.
He was hesitant at first – how could he be so cruel to risk and damn her with a bastard child in those dark times. How naive he was. He really didn't know anything about her.
At times he even thought she was a dream. But dreams couldn't growl. Dreams couldn't hold him so tight it almost hurt. Dreams couldn't whisper ver anni anha zhilak yera in his ear when he closed his eyes before drifting off to sleep.
And his soul be damned, he wanted everything with her. He wanted his seed to take root in her womb, he wanted to grow old and howl at the moon and die with her.
But all that he wanted just wasn't meant to be. She was born with magic running through her veins, and he was not, he was a weak, useless human, destined to wither, alone.
Unless...
"Bite me!" He cried out this time. And his movements stilled.
The cold winds of winter blew through the open door. She dug her nails into his shoulders, her eyes searching his.
So much lust in her eyes, so much love.
So much fear.
With a sudden twist, she pushed them off the wall, her tightness still enveloping him when he lost his balance and fell, fell until his back hit the floor and his cock thrust deep inside her so forcefully it was her turn to cry out.
But she didn't stop.
She was straddling him, riding him – so close, he was so close!
And she bit.
She bit into his flesh, and just before she lowered to his neck he stole a last glance at her eyes.
Still so much fear in her eyes.
For turning was painful. The first turning most of all.
He had spotted her one night, when she ventured so close to his hut before changing back. He saw black fur turning into alabaster skin. He witnessed her cries of pain.
Painful and long and he could die! But what was his life if not a reflection of hers? What was he without her? He was no one. And he would risk it all, to be with her, to be like her.
She bit, savagely, until she drew blood, and he came, intensely, screaming the name she forbade him to use because no one, we are no one! And when their breathing and pulse evened out, the cold winds blew still, and again a whisper, soft but resolved, floated to his ear.
"Mine."
*
Years later, the villagers all dead, the black wolf and her brownish companion still roamed the woods at night.
Together.
For life.