Hated by My Mate Spin-off: The Hunter and the Wolf

The cookie-crumb trail of blood was becoming more condensed. I was getting closer.

My legs burned with a familiar fatigue, but I welcomed the pain. Every step meant that I was that much closer to him. That much closer to exacting revenge.

The soft sound of my footfalls was barely audible as I sprinted through the woods. Eventually, they stopped altogether as I came to an abrupt halt. A cluster of bright red blood caught my attention.

A wicked grin split my cheeks at the thought.

The remaining silver bolts hung heavily in a bag on my hip, their familiar weight reassuring me. But I wouldn’t need them, because I wouldn’t miss. I never did.

The other hunters provided peace of mind, if nothing else. If I were to choke up, one of the ruthless, hungry hunters behind me would take the shot.

Relief lessened the pounding in my ears as my heartbeat slowed. We moved like a well-trained pack, narrowing in on our prey.

Soft huffing pants sounded from the brush in front of me. Despite the twilight that obscured my human vision, I could tell the werewolf was close. And it was desperate.

Injured and rabid as it may have been, it could sense the trap that we’d meticulously laid out. But that knowledge wouldn’t save the animal now. Nothing would.

Movement from the shadows around me signaled the side flanks moving in. They caged our target in like a well-oiled machine: ruthless and unstoppable.

But I wouldn’t hesitate to prove it wrong.

My crossbow was aimed in the blink of an eye. The werewolf bounded toward my small figure, coming closer and closer. But I waited.

It came close enough that I could see the insanity in its eyes. But still, I waited.

The sharp-as-knives fangs were seconds from ripping out the soft flesh of my throat when my bolt met its mark. I watched as the unbridled rage and murder in the creature’s eyes died out instantaneously.

A brief silence followed the heavy thump of the werewolf’s body as it met the wet forest floor. Old soggy leaves cushioned its fall and made the collapse somewhat anticlimactic.

Then the silence was broken by a slow clapping from behind me. It rang out harshly against the sudden calm of the night. But I wasn’t so quick to celebrate.

I slung the weapon across my back before stalking over to the limp mass. A silvery gleam of moonlight shone through a gap in the trees, illuminating my kill.

My fingers curled into a fist at the thought. But that’s not what I was looking for.

Holding my breath, I leaned over the corpse and gingerly lifted its upper lip. The skin was hot and moist under my own.

My face fell in disappointment.

The dim light revealed a full set of yellow fangs that were barred even in death. Just as I suspected, it was rabid and hungry for human flesh. But it wasn’t him.

Celebrating was the last thing on my mind at that moment. But the same couldn’t be said for the crew of hunters behind me. Any dead rogue was a win in their book.

I sighed up at the pale moon above me, needing a moment to collect my emotions. But the respite was short-lived.

Agile footsteps signaled Wendell’s approach. “Clean and efficient yet again, Evalyn. You never fail to impress me.”

Its death left a sour taste in my mouth.

My answering smile was weak, and I’m sure my eyes revealed their dissatisfaction. I never did have a good poker face.

Wendell gave my shoulder a knowing squeeze before moving toward the wolf. “A win is a win, Evalyn. Don’t forget that.”

With those parting words, the rest of the hunters quickly took his place. They were a mess of “good jobs” and back claps that I did my best to acknowledge. The group meant well, but their enthusiasm did little to quell the ache in my chest.

It was an ache that I hadn’t been able to get rid of for years.

The mantra was second nature at this point, and at the moment I couldn't help but cling to it like a lifeline. It helped to alleviate the flash of guilt that I felt when I glanced at the motionless form sprawled across the earth.

The werewolf deserved its death. I knew that. If I hadn’t killed it today, it would have gone on to maul more innocent humans.

The life of a hunter was a lonely one, but it was the only life I knew how to live.

Still, I trailed back as the others made their way—hollering—to camp. I didn’t know how they managed to be so carefree, but I envied them. It wasn’t exactly guilt that kept me from joining in, but a distinct emptiness.

I shook myself out of my self-pitying thoughts before jogging after the group. If I couldn’t celebrate, I might as well get a good night’s sleep.

Twenty minutes later, I was back at camp, and sure enough there was a celebration going on. There always was after a kill.

Flasks were passed around the firepit, and stories were shared. It was fun enough, but I’ve never exactly felt like I fit in with the others. It was like there was some part of me missing. “Evalyn, come join! You deserve a good drink after today.”

The voice came from a smiling woman brandishing a full bottle at me. Usually I wouldn’t drink, but tonight…tonight I needed something.

The others stared expectantly at me, their faces glowing faintly in the firelight. I recognized a few familiar smiles, but no sense of camaraderie grew in my chest. As always, there was some invisible divide between us.

Between me and the hunters.

I dragged my gaze back to the original woman—Megan? No. Regan?—and nodded once. “Thanks.”

The circle continued their merry chatting as I stalked over and took a swig from Regan’s bottle. The liquor burned a trail down my throat, and I fought a cough.

“You were a badass out there tonight. You must have other stories to share! I know you like to be mysterious and all, but give us something.”

My mouth opened and closed as I paused, searching for something to say. It had been a while since I’d had a conversation with anyone other than to debrief a mission.

The young couple on the swingset had been too busy making out to realize how close they’d come to a gory death. In fact, they’d likely chalked the beast’s final howl up to a neighborhood dog.

Resolved, I opened my mouth to speak.

But a twenty-something year-old man beat me to it. He jeered from across the fireplace. “Come on, don’t be stuck up! You must be Wendell’s favorite for a reason.”

I felt my body cringe away slightly, and I passed the bottle back to Regan’s tattooed hand, stalling. Accepting her offer had been a mistake, but as I said: the life of a hunter was lonely. “Nah, nothing good.” I got out, fighting to keep my voice even.

She didn’t buy it. Regan opened her mouth to argue, but I didn’t give her the chance.

“I think I’m going to turn in.”

Twisting abruptly, I walked away from the fire pit. My strides were rushed, and I could sense the awkward silence left in my wake.

I hustled back to my tent and let out a sigh of relief once I was alone. Today’s trek had been ruthless, but physical exhaustion aside, I was restless.

The tooth my fingers met with was smooth and worn with age. It hung on a nondescript strip of black leather, and the sharp tip dug into my chest when I moved abruptly. But I never took it off. The pain was a reminder.

It was a reminder of the remaining set of fangs that continued to brutalize and murder innocents. Of the fangs that orphaned me and left my family to rot.

The pain was a reminder of the rogue who murdered my family and whom I vowed to hunt down. The rogue who was missing the very fang that nestled against my chest.