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.
"No," she whispered. "This is the first time you've remembered it."
And then he broke.
Not with pain.
But with clarity, and he took his hard length to press himself inside of her. With each inch his body shuddered like a parched man discovering water. She fit perfectly around his engorged cock.
He lay there, fully sheathed in her for a long moment before he started to pump in and out of her. His thrusts growing in intensity with her screams of pleasure.
At the peak of her pleasure, right before her orgasm, his wolf pressed forward. His fangs elongating like an old friend knocking at the door. The second she screamed, a wolf he didn't even remember bit down on the crook of her shoulder.
His venom making her body tingle like fire, her orgasm ricocheting into his own and so he came deep inside of her. His cock locked in place, rutted deeply into his mate.
Both of them shaking and trembling and needy for more.
Panting under him she looked up with half lidded eyes, "I can get used to this."
Alaric laughed, a warm sound that rumbled deep in his chest, the lines between the dream and actual reality blurring in his mind.
"I hope you remember this when we both wake, I hope this isn't just all in my mind." He answered, his big sweaty hand 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 soft 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.
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.
The forest breathed around him. Every scent leapt into focus. Every sound etched in silver clarity. The colours were brighter, more vivid, even in the dark.
He took off at a run.
Silent. Swift.
The trees opened for him.
He loped the edge of her property once. Then twice. Then again—faster this time. He didn't know why he was laughing inside his own head, but he was. He hadn't shifted in decades, he only had a vague memory of what it was like --it had always seemed like flashes in a dream. Not without agony. Not without something breaking.
And now?
It was like he was home. Since meeting Isolde it's been like pieces of a puzzle silently pressing together. Chipped pieces placed back onto an empty table.
By the time he padded back toward the cottage, dawn had just begun to stretch its fingers across the treetops.
He shifted back behind the well, muscles tightening, skin returning, breath catching in his throat as magic settled back into bone and blood.
Still bare.
Still exhilarated.
He stepped around the cottage, fully intending to sneak inside and pull on whatever shirt he could find—
But she was already there.
Leaning in the doorway, wrapped in a blanket, hair tousled and half-asleep.
Eyes on 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 still full of sleep.
He lifted a brow. "So I am."
She didn't look away.
Didn't speak.
But the blanket tightened around her, and her cheeks flushed even deeper.
He stepped closer, bare feet soft on stone.
"I shifted," he said simply.
She looked up at him.
And then—smiled.
The kind that reached her eyes.
The kind that made him feel like maybe the curse was breaking after all.