The Woods ✔

Prologue

Michael, having dozed off in his worn-out armchair, jerked his head up when he heard the scratching noise at his front door. He listened closely but couldn't hear anything besides the roaring storm outside and the crackling fire which warmed the inside of his cabin pleasantly.

He sighed. Probably just his imagination. After all, who would scratch at his door in the middle of the night and especially while heaven unleashed this beast of a storm on the forest?

Probably just some desperate raccoon searching for food. Michael chuckled. Never would he feed one of these little nuisances and risk having a few days later a whole army of them in his front yard. They were awfully bad at keeping secrets.

He stretched, the leather of the armchair groaning, and got up. He nearly made it to his bedroom when he heard the scratching again. This time he scowled at the door and willed the visitor to go away. He hadn't had any visitors a while now and he was glad about it. The hopelessly lost tourists who were hiking in the area and asking for directions were enough for him.

So, the question was again, who in their right mind would scratch in the middle of nowhere on his door? Because he actually lived in the middle of nowhere and was content with his secluded home. Nobody bothered him and he could enjoy the peaceful forest around him. Perhaps it was just how he was, perhaps it was the fact that he was a bear shifter but he simply couldn't stand other people. They made his skin itch. Therefore living deep in the woods was perfect.

The scratching made the hairs on his arms stand up.

"Stupid raccoons," he muttered under his breath while stalking to the door, set on giving the critter a piece of his mind. He flung open the door, ready to kick out anything that wanted to come in, but paused.

There on his doorstep cowered a shivering bundle, soaked through and having left a muddy trail on the wooden boards of his front porch. But it wasn't a raccoon. Even in the dim light he knew that it was lither and had more of a feline-like build. Perhaps a forest-cat.

It let out a heartbreaking cry and he gripped the door harder. Clearly a cub calling out for its mother. Michael knew that he should close the door. Either the mother came and took care of the cub or nature would take its course. He shouldn't interfere. He really shouldn't.

The pitiful creature stumbled a few tiny steps forward and plopped down, its head resting on his foot. He could feel the freezing cold water running down his bare skin. Its big, bright blue eyes were gazing fearfully up at him.

"Don't look at me like that," he grumbled and wiggled his toes to get the cub to stand up. It didn't move, even snuggled closer. In the dim light he was able to make out the wet and dirty fur. The dark spots would fade upon maturing but at the moment they helped the cub to blend into its surroundings while the mother was off hunting and couldn't protect it.

Michael sighed again. Closing the door and forgetting about the cub was the best thing to do. What if the mother showed up and saw her cub with a bear? She would go batshit crazy on him for sure.

But deep down he knew that the older cougar was dead. No mother would allow its child to wander around alone in this storm. The cub would certainly die if he closed the door.

"Just for this one night, understood?" he warned and the little thing whined quietly. He groaned. Why was he talking to a cougar cub? Perhaps the solitude finally drove him crazy.

Shaking off the thought, he grabbed the soaking wet animal by the thick scruff and carried it inside. It curled in on itself out of reflexe and kept quiet until he set it on an old towel to dry it off. It began crying out for its mother like a siren and he grimaced. He suspected that this night would be very long.

Even after getting it as dry as possible the cub wouldn't stop whining and squirming. Michael stared at it helplessly. Obviously he wasn't a female and therefore had no idea what to do about it. Hell, he didn't even have some weird motherly instincts!

"Can you just tell me what you want? I can't read minds," he tried to argue but the cub was totally unimpressed. It continued to do whatever it did and got on his nerves.

"Are you hungry?" he tried hopefully but it paid him no mind. Was it hurt? He gently trailed his fingers through the damp fur but couldn't feel any injuries.

"So, you're just a moody brat throwing a fit?" He shook his head and scratched his beard. The cub nipped at his finger and latched onto it even harder when he tried to free his hand. He narrowed his eyes at it and shook his hand but it wouldn't let go. But finally it was quiet besides some playful growls.

"You're a weird one," he told the little thing who simply blinked and proceeded to happily gnaw his finger off.

He sighed - something he seemed to make a habit out of - and carried it to the armchair where he plopped down and placed it on his stomach. The cub watched the fire totally transfixed and even forgot about its new chew toy. Michael inspected his abused finger but the little teeth hadn't done any real damage.

The cub yawned exhausted and settled down. It cleaned the fur with its rough tongue and cried out a few more times before blinking tiredly and curling up. Michael gently sifted his fingers through the soft hairs on its neck and the cub snorted tiredly.

"Get some sleep, little one," he mumbled and watched the cub slowly relaxing on top of him.

Outside the storm still roared with unrestricted force and destroyed everything that was not strong enough to withstand its rage. But here, literally in the big bear's cave, the cub was safe and sound.