Page 2 of Claimed By the Forest Reaper

---

Something follows me.

Not an animal. Not the wind. It’s in the way the leaves go still when I pause. The way the air prickles, like before a lightning strike. I catch glimpses sometimes—a flicker of movement, a shadow too dense.

“Show yourself!” I shout.

Stupid. But fear’s starting to win, anger fraying at the edges.

The fog shifts. For a second, I see eyes.

Not human. Glowing silver, like moonlit ice.

I bolt.

Branches tear at my hair. Roots rise to trip me. I fall, my knees scraping rock, and scramble up again. The forest blurs. My lungs burn.

A low sound hums through the trees—a groan of bending wood. The ground *moves* under me. I scream as a root wraps around my ankle, yanking me off my feet.

I dangle upside down, blood rushing to my skull. The world spins. Shadows writhe.

“Let go!” I kick at the root. It tightens, and panic claws up my throat.

Then—it releases.

I crash into the dirt, gasping. The root slithers back underground.

*Run. Now.*

I crawl, then stagger upright. My ankle throbs. The fog parts ahead, revealing a small clearing. In the center stands a massive oak, its trunk split down the middle. Something glows inside the crack—a soft, pulsing gold.

Magic.

I shouldn’t approach. I know better. But it’s the first warm thing I’ve seen here.

The glow brightens as I near. Inside the split trunk lies a nest of moss and twigs, cradling three eggs. They’re pure black, shot through with veins of gold.

“Don’t,” I whisper, reaching anyway.

The second my fingers brush an egg, the gold veins flare. Heat floods my hand, soothing the cut. The forest holds its breath.

A twig snaps behind me.

Slowly, I turn.

The shadows *ripple*. A figure steps forward—taller than any man, cloaked in darkness. Silver eyes cut through the fog.

My body locks.

He tilts his head, studying me. His face is all sharp angles and pale skin, glowing sigils swirling across his collarbones. White hair spills over his shoulders.

The Forest Reaper.

I should scream. Pray. Run.

But his gaze… it’s not cruel. Hungry, yeah. But hungry like the stray dog I fed last winter—desperate, trying to remember kindness.

The egg’s heat still pulses in my palm. The Reaper’s eyes drop to it. When he looks back at me, something flickers in his expression.