The realization sits in my chest like swallowed glass.

I pull away from Rowan, stumbling back until my spine hits a tree. The bark digs through my shirt but I welcome the bite of it, something solid and real to anchor me while my world tilts sideways.

"I need to go."

He doesn't move to stop me. Just watches with those devastating amber eyes that see too much, know too much.

I turn and walk. Then run.

The forest blurs around me as I crash through undergrowth, branches catching at my hair, my clothes. My braid finally gives up entirely, copper strands whipping across my face. I don't slow down.

Because if I stop moving, I'll have to think about what just happened.

About the fact that I might be falling for a man trapped in a bear's body.

About how completely fucked that is.

About how Declan knew exactly what he was doing when he told me the truth, watching my face with those ice-blue eyes like he was cataloging every micro-expression.

I'm being used. Manipulated. Kept here like some kind of fairy tale solution to an impossible problem.

Love him and break the curse, Isla. It's the only way.

"Fuck that," I gasp out loud, vaulting over a fallen log. "Fuck all of this."

I run until my lungs burn and my legs shake, until I'm deep enough in the forest that the lodge is just a memory behind me. Then I brace my hands on my knees and drag in air that tastes like pine and earth and my own fury.

When I straighten, Rowan is there.

Of course he is.

He must have followed silently, that massive body moving through the forest without sound. He stands about twenty feet away, not approaching, just... waiting.

The patience of a predator.

Or a man who's learned he can't force anything anymore.

"You don't get to follow me," I snap. "You don't get to—" My voice cracks. "Jesus Christ, you can't even defend yourself. You can't explain or justify or tell me I'm wrong. You just stand there with those fucking eyes and—"

He takes one step forward.

"Don't."

He stops.

My hands are shaking. I curl them into fists, nails biting crescents into my palms.

"Is it true?" The words come out raw. "Are you actually in there? Is there a man trapped inside, or is Declan just desperate enough to lie about everything?"

Rowan's ears flatten slightly. Then he deliberately, slowly, sits. The movement is too controlled, too purposeful. Not like an animal settling. Like someone choosing to make themselves less threatening.

Like someone who understands exactly what I'm asking.

"Show me," I demand. "If you're really human inside, prove it. Do something a bear wouldn't do. Something that shows me you're not just... instinct and hunger wearing his shape."

For a long moment, he doesn't move.

Then he stands and walks past me, brushing close enough that his fur grazes my arm. The scent of cedar smoke and wild honey wraps around me, dizzying and warm.

He pauses, looking back over his shoulder.

An invitation.

"This is insane," I mutter. But I follow.

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He leads me deeper into the forest, away from any trail I recognize. The terrain gets rougher, rockier. My photographer's brain catalogs details automatically—the way the light filters differently here, older growth, less human interference.

We've been walking for maybe twenty minutes when I see it.

A cabin.

Small, tucked into a clearing so overgrown it's almost invisible. The logs are weathered silver, the roof mossy. It looks abandoned, forgotten.

Rowan stops at the door.

It's not locked. Why would it be? What's he going to do, turn the handle?

Except he does something stranger. He rears up on his hind legs—Jesus, he's massive like this, easily nine feet—and uses one huge paw to push the door open.

The movement is careful. Deliberate.

Human.

My heart hammers against my ribs as I step inside.

The cabin is one room, sparsely furnished. A bed with a bare mattress. A table and chair. A wood stove cold and dark.

And paintings.

Everywhere.

They cover the walls, lean in stacks against the furniture, scatter across the floor. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.

I move closer to the nearest one, my breath catching.

It's the forest at dawn, mist rising through the trees. The detail is incredible—every needle on the pines rendered with almost photographic precision, the quality of light so perfect it makes my chest ache.

The next painting shows the river, water captured mid-rush over stones, so vivid I can almost hear it.

Another: a red-tailed hawk, wings spread, every feather distinct.

They're beautiful. Heartbreaking.

And clearly painted by someone holding a brush in their mouth.

I can see it in the slight awkwardness of some strokes, the way certain details are rendered with painstaking care while others are looser, more impressionistic. The paintings of someone working with incredible skill despite impossible limitations.

"You made these," I whisper.

Behind me, Rowan makes a low sound. Not a growl. Something softer.

Confirmation.

I move through the cabin in a daze, looking at each painting. They're all of the wilderness—the territory he can't leave, the world that's become his prison. But they're not angry or dark. They're full of beauty, of careful observation.

Of desperate humanity.

"You've been doing this for three years?" My voice sounds strange, too high. "Holding onto yourself like this?"

Another soft sound.

I turn to face him, this massive creature who creates art with his jaws because it's the only way to remember he's a man.

"Rowan..."

He moves past me to the far corner of the cabin, to a painting turned face-down on the floor. Uses his nose to flip it over.

My knees go weak.

It's me.

I'm standing at the edge of a cliff, camera raised to my face, copper hair wild in the wind. The late afternoon sun sets my braid on fire, catches the freckles across my shoulders where my tank top exposes them. My expression is intent, focused, lost in the work.

The detail is devastating. He's captured the exact spray of freckles across my nose. The way my left eyebrow sits slightly higher than my right. The small scar on my collarbone from a climbing accident when I was sixteen.

He's painted me the way I look through my own camera lens—completely absorbed, unguarded, real.

The way no one has ever really seen me.

"When did you..." My throat closes. "I've only been here a few days."

But I know the answer. He's been watching me since I arrived. Maybe before. Maybe he saw me in the forest weeks ago when I was shooting the wolf pack, and I never even knew.

He's been seeing me while I've been trying so hard to stay invisible.

The painting isn't just technically skilled. It's intimate. The work of someone who's studied every detail, memorized every feature. Who's looked at me with the kind of attention that strips away all pretense.

Who's painted me like I matter.

Like I'm worth preserving.

Something breaks open in my chest.

"I can't do this," I say, but my voice cracks on the words. "I can't be your salvation. I don't know how to save anyone. I couldn't even save—"

The grief rises up so fast it chokes me.

Five years since Emma vanished into the wilderness. Five years of searching, of photographing remote places, of hoping I'd find some trace of her. Five years of telling myself I was fine alone, that I didn't need anyone, that caring about people only led to loss.

Five years of running from exactly this feeling.

This terrifying, overwhelming sense that someone sees me. Really sees me.

And I might lose them too.

"I'm not brave enough," I whisper. "I'm not—"

Rowan moves. Two steps and he's in front of me, close enough that his warmth surrounds me. Close enough that his scent fills my lungs with every shaking breath.

He presses his massive head against my chest, right over my hammering heart.

So gentle. So careful.

Like he knows exactly how fragile I am right now.

And that's what destroys me.

Not the manipulation or the curse or the impossible situation. But this—the tenderness of a man trapped in a monster's body, offering comfort when he's the one who's suffered for three years.

The sob tears out of me before I can stop it.

I sink down, my back against the wall, and Rowan comes with me. He settles beside me, that enormous body curled around mine like a living fortress. I bury my face in his fur and cry.

For Emma, lost to the mountains.

For Rowan, lost to this curse.

For myself, lost to loneliness I've pretended doesn't hurt.

I cry until my throat is raw and my eyes burn and there's nothing left inside me but exhaustion and truth.

"I see you," I finally whisper against his fur. "I see you, Rowan. The man you are. The man you're fighting to stay."

He shudders against me. The movement is too controlled to be animal, too desperate to be anything but human.

I pull back enough to look at him. His amber eyes are wet.

Bears can't cry.

But men can.

"This is so fucked up," I say, and laugh—a broken, slightly hysterical sound. "I'm falling for someone who can't even tell me his favorite color. Who can't hold me properly or kiss me or say my name."

He makes a sound low in his chest. Not quite a growl. Something that vibrates through me like a purr, like thunder, like a voice trying desperately to form words.

I reach up and touch his scarred muzzle, trace the line of an old wound with my fingertips.

"What happened to you?" I ask softly. "What did she do?"

His eyes close. When they open again, there's such pain in them it steals my breath.

"The witch," I realize. "Morgana. Declan said she cursed you because you rejected her."

Rowan's lip curls back from his teeth—not a threat, a snarl of pure frustration.

"You didn't just reject her, did you? You fought back. These scars..." I touch another, then another. "You tried to break the curse yourself."

He presses into my touch, and I feel it again—that shudder of recognition, of being seen.

We stay like that as the light outside shifts, afternoon sliding toward evening. My fingers in his fur, his warmth surrounding me, the paintings watching from the walls like witnesses.

"I don't know if I can love you," I finally say. "I don't know if I'm capable of that anymore. But I see you. And I'm not going anywhere."

It's not a promise of love. It's not the cure Declan wants, the magic solution to break the curse.

But it's true. And it's all I have to offer.

Rowan shifts, and suddenly his nose is against my throat, right where my pulse hammers. He breathes in deep, scenting me.

The intimacy of it sends heat flooding through my body.

"You can't do that," I whisper, but I don't move away. "That's not fair."

He does it again, slower this time. His breath is hot against my skin, his nose cold. The contrast makes me shiver.

Cedar smoke and wild honey. The scent is stronger this close, almost overwhelming. It fills my head, makes my thoughts scatter.

"Rowan..." His name comes out breathless.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, and what I see in his eyes makes my stomach flip.

Hunger. Want. Need.

Not animal instinct. Human desire.

"We can't," I say, even as my body betrays me, leaning into his warmth. "This is—you're—"

He huffs, and I swear it sounds like frustration.

"You want to?" The question comes out before I can stop it. "You want me?"

Those amber eyes hold mine, unwavering.

Yes.

The answer is so clear it doesn't need words.

"Jesus Christ." I press my hands to my face. "This is insane. You're a bear. You're literally a nine-foot bear and I'm—"

He makes a sound that might be amusement. Then he very deliberately shifts, moving so he's lying on his side. Still huge, still powerful, but less intimidating. Almost... vulnerable.

Offering himself. Letting me choose.

My heart is trying to break out of my chest.

I should leave. Should put distance between us, protect myself, remember all the very good reasons why this is a terrible idea.

Instead, I lie down beside him.

He goes very still. Barely breathing.

I press my back against his chest, and his warmth envelops me completely. After a moment, he curls around me, one massive paw resting carefully over my hip.

Not trapping. Holding.

"This doesn't mean anything," I lie.

His chest rumbles against my back. Definitely amusement this time.

"Shut up," I mutter.

We lie there as shadows lengthen across the cabin floor, as the paintings watch us with their wild beauty. I should be terrified. Should be planning my escape.

Instead, I feel safer than I have in five years.

And that's the most terrifying thing of all.

"Tell me something," I whisper. "If you could talk right now, what would you say?"

He's quiet for a long moment. Then he shifts, and his nose presses against the back of my neck, right at my hairline.

Breathing me in like I'm air and he's been drowning.

I understand.

I see you too.

My eyes burn with fresh tears, but I blink them back.

"We're both so fucked," I say softly.

His agreement rumbles through me.

Outside, the forest darkens. Inside, surrounded by evidence of Rowan's desperate humanity, held in the arms of a beast who touches me like I'm precious, I let myself admit the truth.

I'm not falling for him.

I've already fallen.

And tomorrow, when reality crashes back in, when Declan starts pushing and the curse keeps breaking Rowan down and the impossibility of this situation becomes undeniable—tomorrow, I'll deal with all of it.

But tonight, I let myself have this.

This moment of being seen.

Of seeing him.

Of not being alone.

Rowan's breathing evens out, his body relaxing against mine. I don't know if bears sleep like this, or if it's the man inside choosing to rest.

I don't know if love can really break a curse, or if I'm just another failed attempt waiting to happen.

I don't know anything except that his warmth surrounds me and his scent fills my lungs and for the first time since Emma disappeared, I'm not running.

My eyes drift closed.

And in the space between waking and sleep, I swear I hear a voice—rough and deep and achingly familiar from my dreams.

Stay.

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I wake to the smell of nightshade and old magic.

The scent is wrong, foreign, cutting through the cedar and honey like poison through water.

Rowan is already awake, his body gone rigid against mine. A growl builds in his chest, low and dangerous.

I sit up, my photographer's instincts cataloging details before my brain fully processes them.

The cabin door is open.

I know I watched Rowan close it.

And standing in the doorway, backlit by moonlight, is a woman.

She's beautiful in a way that makes my skin crawl—too perfect, too still. Silver-streaked black hair, pale skin that seems to glow, eyes like black glass that reflect no light.

She smiles, and it doesn't reach those empty eyes.

"Hello, Isla," she says, her voice like silk over broken glass. "We need to talk about the monster you're sleeping with."

Rowan surges to his feet with a roar that shakes the cabin walls.

And I know, with absolute certainty, that I'm looking at Morgana Thorne.

The witch who destroyed him.

Who's come to destroy me too.