MOON BOUND WITH YOU MY SOULMATE

(POV: Sebastian)

The mountain air of Duskpine hit my lungs like a physical blow when I stepped off the small transport van. It was sharp, pine-scented, and biting. There was no bustling city noise here, no screaming fans, and no blinding arena lights, just an endless blanket of snow-draped evergreens and a that was quiet so oppressive it made my teeth ache.

A modern cabin sat at the edge of the tree line, isolated and grey against the white landscape. Smoke lazily curled from its stone chimney, the only sign of life against the vast, unforgiving expanse of the mountain pass.

Waiting on the porch was Dr. Iris Blackwell.

She wore a thick wool coat, her dark hair pulled back into a neat braid. She didn't offer a welcoming smile or a polite wave. She just watched me with those clinical, unblinking eyes as I lugged my single duffel bag up the wooden steps, each boot print heavy in the fresh powder.

"You made good time," she said, pushing the heavy oak door open. "Welcome to Duskpine, Sebastian. Leave your bags by the door."

"I thought I was getting a place of my own," I said, my voice rough from the long flight, the lack of sleep, and the sheer disbelief choking my throat. "Not a live-in cage."

"This isn't a cage. It's a controlled environment," Iris replied, stepping inside and letting me trail after her. The interior was warm, minimalist, and smelled faintly of cedar and sage. "And given that you nearly transformed into a feral predator in front of thirty thousand screaming fans, 'cage' is a generous word for the alternative. We could have opted for a concrete cell in a government black site, if you'd preferred."

I slammed my duffel down, the thud echoing sharply in the quiet, cavernous room. "Stop talking about that like it's a fact. It was a hallucination. Stress, a bad concussion, lack of sleep, take your pick. People don't just grow claws, Dr. Blackwell. Human beings don't hallucinate feeling their bones restructure themselves."

She turned slowly, leaning back against a sleek wooden desk stacked with leather-bound journals and old medical ledgers. Her gaze didn't waver.

"You broke a professional hockey player's jaw with a single, unmeasured strike, Sebastian," she said, her voice terrifyingly calm. "You smelled blood from ten yards away across a sheet of ice and described it as tempting. Do you honestly expect me to believe your mind is playing tricks on you, or are you just terrified of looking into the mirror and realizing the truth?"

Her words struck a raw, agonizing nerve. I clenched my fists tightly at my sides, half-expecting, and half-dreading to feel that strange, prickling heat beneath my skin. My knuckles still throbbed where I'd torn them open against Halvorsen's face in the arena, a dull, pulsing reminder that the violence hadn't stayed on the ice.

"You think you know me," I spat, taking a sharp step closer to her, invading her personal space to test if she'd flinch. "You think you can psycho-analyze me into believing I'm some kind of monster out of a fairy tale."

"I don't think you're a monster," Iris said softly, her voice remarkably steady despite my proximity and the towering height difference between us. "I think you're a wolf trying desperately to live in a world built for sheep. And the longer you fight your own biology, the more volatile and violent these outbursts are going to become. Next time, it won't just be a broken jaw. It might be more fatal."

The warning hung heavily in the air between us. I wanted to scream, to shatter something, to prove to her and to myself that I was entirely in control of my own body. But deep down, beneath the layers of denial I had built up since the incident, a cold fear whispered that she might actually be right.

She didn't back down an inch. Instead, she gestured toward a worn leather armchair sitting by a massive floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the dark, looming woods.

"Sit down, Sebastian," she instructed gently, the clinical edge returning to her tone. "We have a lot of grounds to cover before nightfall, and sunset comes early in the mountains."

I didn't move immediately. My boots felt glued to the hardwood floor, anchored by a sudden wave of vertigo. Every instinct in my body screamed at me to turn around, to kick the door open, to run back out into the snow and pretend none of this was happening. But there was nowhere left to run. The league had locked me out, the media was baying for my blood, and my own skin felt like a prison cell waiting to break open.

With a heavy sigh that tasted like defeat, I crossed the room and dropped into the armchair. The leather groaned under my weight. Through the massive glass window beside me, the towering pines swayed in the bitter wind, their shadows lengthening as the sun began its rapid descent behind the jagged peaks.

Iris didn't immediately sit across from me. Instead, she walked over to a small kitchenette built into the side of the cabin and poured hot water from an electric kettle into two ceramic mugs. She moved with a quiet, practiced grace, completely unfazed by my simmering hostility.

"Drink," she said, carrying one of the mugs over and placing it on the small wooden side table next to my chair. "It's lemon balm and chamomile. It won't cure what's happening to you, but it will keep your nervous system from short-circuiting while we talk."

I looked down at the steaming mug, then up at her. "I didn't ask for tea, Dr. Blackwell. I asked for answers. You talk about biology, wolves, and shifting like we're discussing a medical textbook. Explain it to me in clear Scientific terms, blood tests, cellular mutations, and give me something grounded in reality."

Iris pulled up a straight-backed wooden chair, sat down directly opposite me, and folded her hands neatly in her lap. Her dark eyes locked onto mine with a piercing intensity.

"You want science?" she asked with a dry tone. "Genetics are rarely as neat and tidy as standard textbooks make them out to be, Sebastian. For centuries, baseline humanity has coexisted alongside lineages that never fully evolved out of their predatory ancestry. Most carriers live entirely normal, mundane lives. The dormant traits pass down generation after generation, fading out until they're nothing more than an unusually fast metabolism, heightened senses, or a short temper."

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

"And then, every once in a while, a catalyst comes along. High-octane physical trauma, and extreme psychological stress, or an intense surge of adrenaline that cracks open the genetic vault. Your body didn't break down on the ice, Sebastian. It broke through. The man you punched—Halvorsen, he poked a sleeping bear. Literally."

"That's insane," I muttered, shaking my head as a humourless laugh escaped my lips. "You're describing a folklore. Werewolves."

"I didn't use the word werewolf," Iris countered smoothly. "Pop culture loves silver bullets, full moons, and howling at the sky. The reality is far more biological. It's about thermal regulation, predatory instincts, structural bone density shifts, and an adrenal output that modern human anatomy simply isn't built to contain. Your body has been fighting a civil war for years, trying to suppress an apex predator beneath the polite covering of a professional athlete."

The words echoed in the silent room, bouncing off the timber walls. I remembered the way the ice had felt under my skates, too small, too restrictive, like a cage built for something ten times my size. I remembered the way my muscles had bunched, the way the blood had smelled, the terrifying, intoxicating pull of power that had made my rational mind switch off completely.

"If this is real," I whispered, the defiance finally draining out of me, leaving a hollow, aching void in its place, "why now? Why at twenty-four? Why during a game?"

"Because hockey is war on ice, Sebastian," Iris said softly. "You spent your entire life channelling your suppressed instincts into the most violent, aggressive sport legally allowed. You used checking, fighting, and physical dominance as a pressure valve. But when you suffered that shoulder injury a few months ago, your physical outlet was ripped away. The pressure built up behind a dam that couldn't hold anymore. When Halvorsen taunted you, when he threatened you and brought up your past... your system simply stopped pretending."

She reached out, her fingers lightly tapping the edge of the wooden table to draw my wandering gaze back to hers.

"Tonight, the sun goes down early, and the temperature is going to drop well below zero. Your body is going to feel the urge to push back against the confines of this cabin. It's going to test you. And your job over the next few weeks isn't to fight it, Sebastian. It's to learn how to master it before it masters you."

I stared out the window as the last sliver of orange light vanished behind the mountain ridge, plunging the valley into absolute, consuming darkness. Somewhere out in the deep woods, a low, resonating sound echoed through the timber, a long, rolling vibration that made the glass in the windowpane hum.

It wasn't a hallucination this time. I felt it reverberate straight down my spine, calling out to something deep inside me that was finally beginning to wake up.