Check Mate

Chapter one

***

His eyes sparkled like emeralds reflecting the sun.

The flattering butterflies tickle my
insides.

I am in love with the idea of you.

Your love is like the fierce wind,
I can't see it

But I can feel it.

- Myriah Young

***

I woke with a scream lodged in my throat.

My body jolted upright, drenched in sweat, my sheets tangled and damp as if I had been drowning in them. My eyes darted across the shadows of my bedroom, wild, searching for the glow of green-black eyes in the corners, for the heat of a body pinning me down, for the rasp of a growl claiming me.

Nothing.

Only my room, quiet except for the hum of the old air unit. Only the weak light of morning squeezing through the blinds.

My shaking hand fisted the comforter, fingers clawing into the soft cotton, grounding me in the mundane. Not the forest. Not him.

I pressed my palm to my throat, terrified of what I'd feel.

Smooth skin. Unmarked.

My chest sagged with relief. "Just a dream," I whispered, my voice raw. "Another nightmare."

But the echo of it clung.

His voice had sounded too real this time. His teeth too sharp, his kiss too heated, his vow too final. I could still feel the scrape of bark at my back, his hands braced on either side of me, his lips devouring mine until I gave in.

Why did it feel like memory?

⸻

I leaned back against the headboard, dragging both hands over my face. My skin was still buzzing, not from fear now but from something worse: want. Heat coiled low in my stomach, shameful and undeniable. My fingers brushed the spot on my neck where his mouth had lingered.

A sound broke free before I could stop it—a soft, traitorous moan.

Mortified, I slapped my own hand over my mouth. "Get a grip, Spring."

It wasn't real. It couldn't be. Dreams don't bite. Dreams don't whisper your name like a vow.

And yet he had. He always did.

⸻

The nightmares started months ago—always the same man, always the same hunt. Beautiful, dangerous, impossible. Too vivid to be fantasy. Too detailed to be coincidence. He was not the faceless kind of monster dreams invent; he was flesh and shadow, scar and smile.

And every time, no matter how far I ran, he caught me.

It had gotten bad enough that therapy became a standing appointment. My therapist said recurring dreams often meant unresolved trauma. My subconscious was supposedly "working something out."

Yeah. Sure. Because my subconscious just happened to give me a six-foot-three, scar-mouthed, wolf-eyed obsession who kissed me like sin and bit me like ownership.

Totally normal brain stuff.

⸻

I shivered, the memory of his wolf flashing again in my head—silver-lined black fur, eyes burning like eclipse fire. He wasn't just a predator. He was hunger in human form—and I was the only thing on his menu.