The rain tapped a constant rhythm against the forest canopy, each droplet finding its way through the leaves to patter onto the saturated earth below. Rustmoore National Forest drank it in like an old friend, the moss swelling, and the mushrooms stretching toward the moisture. The petrichor mixing with decomposing leaves and wet bark created a perfume that most humans would find refreshing.
But not Garou.
His nostrils flare as he catches it, a slight smell that stood out as different as it cuts through the ambient forest scents. Something that was warm-blooded, and very frightened. The corner of his mouth twitched upward before he could stop it.
"Fucking idiot," he growled to himself, his ears swiveling toward a subtle rustle thirty yards east. "Who the hell comes out in weather like this?"
His boots sank slightly into the mud as he stalked forward, each step sure footed despite the treacherous terrain. The rain plastered his hair to his forehead, with drops occasionally sliding down his neck and beneath the collar of his uniform. He really should be annoyed. He was supposed to be checking trail conditions after all, not playing babysitter to some lost hiker or lost idiot.
Yet his pulse quickened, and an unwelcome heat pooled low in his belly. His cock twitched, beginning to swell against the confines of his pants. The all too familiar shame washed over him, making him try to quickly replace it by his anger instead.
The voice in his head clawed up from his gut, wet and raw with hunger as it demanded his acknowledgement and obedience: ‘Rip. Tear. Devour their still-breathing meat. Feel their pulse fade between your teeth.’ His mouth flooded with hot saliva while his stomach clenched with a hunger no forest mushroom could ever satisfy.
"Shut up," he muttered, as he dug his nails into his palms until the pain grounded him. The rain helped, it was a cold reality against his skin. But the scent... God, the scent. Fear, sweat and meat carried a particular sweetness that always made his mouth water.
Garou closed his eyes, while forcing himself to recite ingredients for chanterelle preservation. ‘Butter. White wine. Thyme. Garlic.’ Not flesh, never flesh. Not the tender meat between shoulder blades. Not the soft vulnerability of an unprotected throat.
When he opened his eyes again, his erection strained painfully against his zipper. The conflict tore through him, the ranger sworn to protect, and the monster yearning to feed. Both aspects of himself equally real, equally demanding.
"I know you're out there!" he called out, his voice carrying through the wet forest. "This isn't some fun little game of hide and seek. The ranger station recorded your entry. Come out now, and I'll guide you back."
It was a lie, but a believable one. There had been no recorded entry. He'd caught the scent by chance, and followed it on instinct before his conscious mind could intervene. The thought made his tail thump heavily against his thigh, excitement building despite himself.
He stepped over a fallen branch just as his ears caught the faintest intake of breath from behind a rotting nurse log. Garou's lips curled into a hungry smile, his canines pressed against his lower lip, and he ran his tongue along them, imagining the way they would sink into unwilling flesh. The fantasy was so vivid he could almost taste the copper-salt of blood flooding his mouth.
’Just a look,’ he promised himself. ‘Just find them, scare them out of the woods, send them home.’ But even as he formed the thought, his body was betraying him. His pupils dilated and his breathing quickened. The rational part of his brain—the part that held a job, paid taxes, and maintained a social media presence—grew quieter with each step toward his meal.
"You know," he called out, forcing himself to be deliberately casual as he moved directly toward the hiding spot, "we get all sorts out here thinking they're survivalists. Most end up as coyote food." He chuckled, the sound rumbled deep in his chest. "Though I suppose they'd have to fight me for first dibs.”
