The blade across my palm is dull. A sharper knife means less wincing, but the wood carved handle imprinted with the outline of a wolf is too synchronistic. There is enough blood to puddle on the fallen wet leaves. 

“Awooo,” I howl, the sound trailing into the chilled breeze. 

I call again. Then a third time. 

Three calls to summon him. The overwhelming desire in my blood is enough to crack his bones, grow his mane, ripple his muscles. He will come for me, there is no way out. 

My yearning teeters on the edge of psychosis. Too long I have felt his presence like a ghost. His breath hot on my neck in bed, his growls reverberating behind the shower curtain, his padding steps echoing while I lock the doors at nightfall. He is haunting me. 

Now, it is his turn. Every breath he takes will be mine. Every thought, littered with my face. The sound of my name will blow through pricked ears while he hunts under the full moon. 

He will follow my ghost to this place, drawn in by the scent of my drying blood. Together we will roar at the sky, and then he will send his venom into my veins. I will become his mate. 

He has no choice. A haunting for a haunting.