Alex had made good on his promise to teach me archery. He’d picked me up from my shared apartment with Cascade that Wednesday. He was thirty minutes late but apologized profusely. Evidently, his biology class let out later than he’d told me. I had several snarky comments ready for that, but forgot them at the sight of his sky-blue Nissan Versa Note. I nearly laughed. He’d struck me as the sort of man who’d own a truck or a Jeep, but maybe—being able to transform into a wolf—he didn’t need a vehicle capable of driving through the woods.

I’d expected a couple hours’ drive into Robertsdale, at least. The city of Mobile was known for many things—being the original home of Mardi Gras, swamps, and the Azalea Trail Maids—but good places to practice archery wasn’t one of them. To my surprise though, Alex drove us behind the campus. Past North Drive, the road that ran from the nursing school to the dorms, there were a series of buildings I’d never been in—testing labs and such. Behind them, there was a swamp monitored by overworked and underpaid biology students and a massive nature trail. I stepped from Alex’s deceptively delicate car and stared at the trees, seemingly dead from winter’s caresses.

From the car’s trunk, Alex hauled out a target, a bow, and some arrows in a quiver, which he slung over his shoulder.

“Are we allowed to shoot here?” I asked.

Alex shrugged. “People do it all the time, and I’ve never heard of anyone getting arrested. I don’t even think it’s technically on campus.”

He handed me the bow and walked out to put the target in the grass, then returned.

“Feet shoulder-width apart,” he said.

I did as he asked, holding the bow awkwardly. It didn’t look like I’d expected. I’d envisioned a single string and a wooden bow, but this bow was camouflaged. It had three strings and pulleys on each end. Very technological and definitely not something Robin Hood would’ve used.

“Now hold it with the string against your thigh,” he said.

I did, and Alex pulled an arrow from his quiver. “See the feathers?” he asked, pointing.

There were three, made of some sort of foam. One was bright green, while the other two were orange. “Yes,” I said.

“The different color goes up,” he said. “The string goes into the notch on the end.”

Alex pressed the notch on the end of the arrow into the string against my thigh. Then he gently pressed the arrow down so it rested straight.

“I may have to help you with this,” Alex said. “I probably have the poundage too high for you.”

“Poundage?” I asked.

“You can adjust how hard the bow is to pull back,” he explained as he set down the quiver. “The higher the poundage, the more force the arrow has when you loosen it.”

“Right. Makes sense.”

I straightened the bow, and Alex moved behind me. He was so close I felt the heat of his body through my light jacket. He remained behind me making small adjustments to my stance, nudging my elbow up higher and my forearm further away. “Now, put your fingers here,” he said, his breath warm on the back of my neck.

I put them where he indicated—one finger above and one below the arrow—and curled my fingers around the string. He put his fingers slightly above and below mine. “Okay,” Alex said. “On three, we pull back. You want to pull with the muscles in your back, not just your arm. Line up the green dot in your sights to the target. When you have, let me know, and we’ll let go.”

“Got it,” I said.

We pulled back. I wasn’t sure how much of the effort was mine, but I felt an almost painful pressure against my fingers. My wrist strained, and remembering what Alex had said, I tried to imagine my back muscles taking that strain and relieving my wrist. After the initial effort, the bowstring pulled smoothly back.

“Don’t hold it too long,” Alex said, “or you’ll start to shake.”

Right. Okay.

I breathed in and out and lined up the green dot with center of the target.

“There,” I said.

“Alright. On three, we’ll let go.”

I nodded and tried to hold the bow straight and steady. I realized what he meant by starting to shake. The bow, so light seconds before, seemed incredibly heavy now.

“One.”

I wasn’t going to somehow shoot myself in the foot. I could do this. This wasn’t so bad.

“Two.”

Focus on the red center. Don’t drop my arm. Focus, focus, focus.

“Three.”

I released the string at the same time as Alex. I didn’t see the arrow’s path, but I heard its resounding thunk! The arrow was lodged firmly in the target, at the outer edge of the circle furthest from the center.

“Wow. I’m glad we weren’t playing William Tell,” Alex joked.

“But I hit it,” I said.

“Barely.”

“I wouldn’t complain. At least you won’t have to go searching the woods for that arrow,” I said.

“I wouldn’t anyway. I’d make you do it.” Alex paused. “That’s why I have a cute little boyfriend. So there’s someone to fetch things for me.”

Right. I was supposed to be his boyfriend, and it was probably a good idea to get in some practice before we had to do it for real in front of his pack members.

“I’m not the one related to a dog,” I said. “Fetching sounds like it should be your forte, wolf-boy.”

“I don’t know. You bite like something wild,” Alex said, with an approving nod. “It makes up for your crappy aim.”

“Again?” I asked, pressing the bowstring against my thigh.

Alex shook his head. “Nope. Give me the bow. I’ll adjust it a bit, and we’ll see how you do on your own. We’re about the same height, so the sights should be the same. This won’t take long.”

It didn’t. After a few minutes of adjustment with an Allen key, he handed the bow back. “I think you’ll be good with that,” he said. “Do you remember how to do it?”

“I haven’t forgotten in five minutes, if that’s what you mean.”

Alex held up his hands in surrender and smiled. “Go ahead, then.”

I sensed a trap, but I wasn’t sure why. I pulled a free arrow from the quiver and put the bowstring against my thigh. “Are you going to tell me if I do something wrong?” I asked.

“Hmm…no, I don’t think so,” Alex replied. “Sink or swim, brat.”

“Brat? Oh, that’s scathing, plebeian swine,” I said.

Alex mouthed the phrase “plebeian swine” with a look that expressed bafflement and amusement in equal measure.

The different colored feather went up. I remembered that. I nocked the arrow and pushed the shaft down, so it lay straight. So far so good. Feet shoulder-width apart. Easy. Now came the hard part.

I took a deep breath and curled my fingers around the bowstring. Green dot in the sight. One more deep breath. I pulled the string back and held it in place, using the muscles in my upper back. I trembled a bit as I straightened the bow and lined up the sights. Fluorescent green on dull red. I loosened the arrow.

Sharp pain erupted across my forearm. I dropped the bow. For a second, I thought I’d shot myself. Then I heard the telltale thud. The arrow had hit the target just above the top of the center circle. Alex broke into uncontrollable laughter.

“What the hell did you do?” I asked.

I pushed up my jacket sleeve and gawked at the red mark across my forearm. In hindsight, it really hadn’t hurt that badly, but now I reeled with shock and confusion, unsure how I’d managed to hurt myself.

“You didn’t move your forearm out enough,” Alex said, running a finger over my arm just above the red mark. “The bowstring did that.”

“You could’ve warned me, you jerk!”

Alex snorted. “I thought you said you knew how to do it,” he said mockingly.

I scowled. “I’m going to become the best archer in the world,” I said. “Just to spite you.”

“I’m sure you will,” Alex replied cheerily. “I’ll watch my back.”

I grabbed another arrow, conscious of his smirking face.

“This is why I hate sports,” I said. “I get maimed playing them.”

“If it’s any consolation, that’s a pretty common rookie mistake,” Alex offered. “I can’t tell you how many times I scraped my arm when I was starting out. I should’ve thought to bring you a pair of bracers. I don’t use them, but they would’ve kept that from happening.”

I ducked my head, feeling awkward in the face of such sincerity. “I think my jacket prevented the worst of it,” I said, as I properly nocked the arrow.

“I’m sure,” Alex said. “When you go to pull back, wait a second. I’ll help you position your forearm, so it doesn’t happen again.”

I nodded, planting my feet shoulder-width apart.

I pulled back on the string, let my back muscles take up the strain, and waited. Gently, Alex pulled my forearm a few inches back. I lined up the sights and made sure I kept my arm just as he’d positioned it. Deep breath. In and out. Thud!

The arrow hit the center of the target, albeit at the very edge. Bullseye!

“I did it!” I exclaimed.

“Yes! Well-done!”

Alex held up his hand for a high-five. I happily obliged him. “I did it,” I said. “How many do I need to shoot everyday to be really good?”

“Maybe start with ten or twenty?” Alex offered. “Did you…want this to be an everyday thing?”

I hesitated. “Well, I could do it myself if I bought a bow,” I said.

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” Alex replied. “If we’re going to pretend to be boyfriends, we probably ought to spend some time together anyway. I’m supposed to know you really well, after all.”

I grabbed another arrow. My insides felt like they were twisting in knots. Going to the edge of the forest and shooting arrows like this as an everyday thing: It sounded like fun. I nocked the arrow and drew the bowstring back, carefully moving my forearm. Alex nodded, confirming that I’d done it properly. Deep breath. I loosened it.

I didn’t hit the center, but I struck one of the inner rings. I shot another and another, until my aim started declining.

“You’re getting tired,” Alex said. “Let’s hang it up for the day, okay?”

He was right, but I was still reluctant to relinquish the bow. Who’d have known I’d ever enjoy something like this? I put the bow in his trunk and followed him to the target. Alex braced his foot against it and pulled each arrow free by its shaft, cleaning bits of foam block from their tips and making sure they were undamaged. As he approved each arrow, I returned them to the quiver.

It was getting dark. I noticed how the moonlight fell across his face, highlighting his sharp cheekbones and the hollow of his throat, just above his collar bone. As Alex handed me the last arrow, our eyes met. I said nothing, surveying his face—so tantalizingly close to my own. I imagined those lips on mine.

It was just an errant thought. Totally normal that I would think of it when his lips were so near mine. “Your eyes remind me of onyx,” Alex said. “I’d never noticed how dark and shiny they were.”

“Thank you.”

Alex rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, don’t get used to compliments,” he said. “I don’t want you getting a big head and thinking you’re the pretty one in this relationship.”

I rolled my eyes. “I already know I’m the pretty one,” I said. “You’re too muscular to be pretty.”

“Keep dreaming, sweetheart,” Alex said.

Alex sauntered back to his car with the target slung over his shoulder. I followed behind trying to school my face into a stern expression, just in case he turned around. There wasn’t really anything attractive about all his grandiose posturing, nothing at all. Being pretend boyfriends was for the best, because if this was a real relationship he’d have driven me into an early grave.

* * *

True to his word, Alex took me shooting every evening for the next two weeks. On that last cool Friday night, the moon nearly full, he said it: I want you to meet my packmates. I agreed, of course.

I’d like to say I agreed from some profound sense of duty or honor. At the very least, I wish I could’ve said I agreed because I was invested in getting free food—from cafes that my meager stipend could never afford—and archery lessons. The more time I spent with Alex, though, the more I wondered if my feelings didn’t run just a little deeper than they should. Maybe I’d been caught up in this illusion of a relationship. Maybe that was why I felt my stomach churn when he casually corrected the way I held my forearm or when he called me those horrible pet names.

I didn’t really like him. It was just a little crush, brought on by the thrill of spending time with an attractive and funny man.

It’d been my ex’s sense of humor that initially drew me to him, and as loathe as I was to admit it, there were some similarities between him and Alex.

I steeled myself while I waited by the edge of the nature trail where Alex had left me. Clothes didn’t hold up well to a werewolf’s transformation, and evidently, the pack had a predetermined place where they left their clothes. I noted the darkness of the surrounding forest with some trepidation. Sure, I’d brought a flashlight, knowing I wouldn’t be able to see in the woods proper, but I’d never liked darkness. I wasn’t sure I liked forests, either.

Though I’d expected a pack of wolves, I couldn’t help the way my breath caught when I saw them. Alex mentioned this wouldn’t be everyone—just a few he’d known the longest. I had no way of deciphering who was who, but I knew their names. One was Zara, his archrival. Another was Ben, Alex’s best friend since they were three. The last was Skye, Alex’s first cousin.

There were four of them, and they were beautiful. Their fur shone and their eyes gleamed like quicksilver in the moonlight. One, a dusty blond, padded up to me and nudged it’s head against my hand.

“Hello,” I said.

The wolf sat on its haunches and blinked its gray eyes.

Ah, so those were the same.

“If some sort of tree-monster attacks me, I’m going to kill you,” I said.

Alex opened his mouth and seemed to grin. I was probably meant to be reassured by the gesture, and I might’ve been, had it not revealed Alex’s very sharp teeth. Seemingly oblivious to my nervousness—or tactfully ignoring it—Alex strode away and joined the other wolves. They were massive. One was as black as a star-hungry night, one a creamy white, and the last was a blond like Alex, but with green eyes.

With barely contained excitement, they padded into the woods. I flicked on my flashlight and followed. Although the beam of light made an admirable effort to pierce through the darkness, I still couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead of me. I heard the wolves, though, darting undeterred through the thick underbrush. Sometimes, I caught a glimpse of fur, a shining streak in the darkness.

They began to howl. My heart hammered against my chest, although not in fear. I’d never heard wolves howl before; their chorus created a haunting melody. I felt as though I was witnessing something sacred or forbidden.

I stopped and sat on the damp, leaf-litter strewn grass. It was a place where the thickness of the forest broke. Decades ago, it might’ve been a riverbed. The wolves raced across it, howling and playing. Their paws were silent. The creamy-white one stood out the most; it looked as if it’d been brought to earth and bathed in moonlight. Once, the wolf paused and looked at me. Because of the distance, I couldn’t discern it’s eye color, only an inky blackness where the eyes were. I didn’t dare raise my flashlight to its face, for fear of irritating it. Abruptly, it sped away to chase the black wolf, kicking leaves up in its wake. Panting, Alex settled beside me. Tentatively, I reached out and patted the fur across his shoulders. It wasn’t as soft as I’d imagined—coarser and rougher, but all the same, stroking him wasn’t an unpleasant sensation.

“This is really nice,” I said. “Thank you.”

He licked my knee and darted away to rejoin his packmates as they left to become human once more. I remained there until he came back to get me.