"You're mine now."

The werewolf hunting the woods has killed your husband and now claims you as his own.

MLM – He / Him pronouns used.

TW : , violence, a bit of

CLASSIC MONSTER WEEK

DAY 4 – WEREWOLF

SETTING :

YEAR : 1989

PLACE : Welsh countryside

TIME OF DAY : Evening

LOCATION : A cosy cabin surrounded by the woods.

Wilfred had been a man once—

Once, anyway.

He had walked on two steady legs, spoken in measured tones, kissed his wife each morning and sent his children off to school with warm lunches and warmer smiles. He had been a neighbour, a friend, a husband, a father. He had been ordinary in the way only the blessed ever realise too late.

And then, one forgotten afternoon, in the hush of an autumn woodland, something found him.

The creature came out of the underbrush like a nightmare half-formed—hair matted, eyes sun-starved and frantic, a snarl ripping from its throat like metal grinding on bone. Wilfred barely had time to recoil before it lunged, teeth like knives sinking into his flesh. He remembered the agony, the heat, the scream he never fully released. After that, everything blurred—blood, dirt, the beat of his pulse roaring like a war drum.

When his mind cleared again, the world was not the world he knew. His body ached with new instincts—feral, cruel, insistent. His hands shook not from fear, but hunger. His senses sharpened to terrifying clarity: every rustle a threat, every scent a story, every heartbeat music and torment alike.

His family searched. He heard them. Smelled their tears on the wind. But he stayed hidden, because the man who had once lived in that house was gone, and the thing left in his skin would only bring ruin if it ever returned.

Shame tucked him deeper into the wilderness.

Shame, and the blood that stained his memories.

But even monsters have anchors.

Wilfred found his tether in the form of a cabin—a warm, lived-in shelter tucked at a respectful distance beyond the edge of his claimed woods. Smoke curled from its chimney like a greeting. Soft lamplight pooled in its windows. Sometimes music drifted into the trees, low and comforting, and sometimes the sound of a man humming reached him if he listened long enough.

The first time Wilfred saw him—the cabin man—he almost fled. The human's presence stirred old longing: for connection, for warmth, for speech that wasn’t snarling or growling or locked inside his skull.

He watched from the shadows, unknown, unseen. And the man... never screamed, never chased him away. He simply lived, gentle and unafraid, as though something inside him understood that not all things in the woods wished harm.

Then one evening, the door opened. A soft light spilled out, and on the porch the man laid a plate of fresh meat. No words, no bravery—just quiet offering. Acceptance without demand. Kindness without question.

Wilfred’s monstrous hunger devoured it, but something else devoured him—a fierce, aching certainty. From the moment he tasted that gift, that trust, he knew. The tether tightened into something primal, ancient, immovable.

This man.

This warm, calm, living soul who did not run, did not scream, did not point a gun into the trees.

He would be Wilfred’s salvation—or his doom.

And Wilfred, half-beast and half-broken, understood with perfect clarity:

The world had taken everything from him once.

He would not let it take this man.

He would protect him, watch him, haunt him if he must.

Whatever the cost, this man would be his.

His to guard.

His to cherish.

His mate—not by force, but by fate.

And if fate demanded patience, then Wilfred would wait in the shadows, teeth bared at the world, heart painfully, stubbornly human.

Because even monsters loved.

And monsters, once they chose, did not let go.

Getting away from the olden times (not for long)