The ShapeShifter Colony
The Canariae village was nothing like the ones Melodie had imagined.
She had expected a place hidden in fear, with timid people looking over their shoulders, terrified of the Awyan.
But instead—
She found a functioning society, built within the dense trees, with people who looked like her.
And yet—
They did not welcome her.
The moment she arrived, the villagers' eyes locked onto her fine silks, their gazes cold and cautious.
They knew what she was.
A palace slave.
A Canariae who had lived under the Awyan.
And they knew better than to harbor a runaway.
The village elder, a tall woman with weathered skin and sharp brown eyes, watched Melodie with clear suspicion.
"What do you want?" she asked in fluent English, her voice low and unreadable.
Melodie hesitated.
Then, carefully, she responded.
"I need clothes. And directions to the border."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Some of them spoke in Spanish, others in Korean, but the tone was the same.
Distrust.
A younger man, likely a hunter, stepped forward.
"Why should we help you?" he asked in heavily accented English.
Melodie met his gaze.
"Because I have no intention of staying here," she said flatly.
That seemed to ease the tension slightly.
The elder sighed, rubbing her temples.
"Fine," she muttered. "But we won't give you something for nothing."
Melodie understood immediately.
She untied the silks from her body, letting them slip off before holding them out.
"Trade."
The elder's eyes flashed with anticipation, scanning the fine fabric.
Silk was valuable.
But so was safety.
After a moment, she nodded.
One of the villagers shoved a bundle of ragged clothes into Melodie's arms, along with a pair of worn-out shoes and a small satchel with food and water.
"Take it," the elder said. "And go."
Melodie didn't hesitate.
She changed quickly, pulling on the rough wool tunic and pants, then strapped the satchel over her shoulder.
"Which way to the border?" she asked.
The hunter pointed east.
"Follow the river. Three days' walk."
Melodie nodded.
She turned without another word and set off into the night.
She had no time to waste.
She needed to find Erolyn.
________________________________________________________________________________________
Meanwhile, Malec had finally caught up.
The moment his horse entered the clearing, he spotted Erolyn and his men setting up camp.
Without hesitation, Malec jumped off his horse, his eyes wild, furious, searching.
"Where is she?"
Erolyn, who had been tending to his gloves again, barely looked up.
"Who?" he asked lazily.
Malec's tan eyes burned.
"Do not test me, Erolyn."
Erolyn sighed dramatically, standing up.
"Malec, you wound me. I would never test you."
Malec did not move.
Did not blink.
His muscles coiled tight.
His breathing was ragged, dangerous.
Something was wrong.
He wasn't just angry.
He was crazed.
A mad dog without his bone.
Erolyn's smirk faltered slightly.
"Where. Is. She?" Malec repeated, his voice low and deadly.
Erolyn glanced at his men, who all stayed silent, watching.
He exhaled slowly.
"I believe she was heading toward the east," he finally said.
Malec did not respond.
Did not react.
Then—
Steel flashed.
Before anyone could move, Malec drew his dagger and drove it into the thigh of one of Erolyn's soldiers.
The man let out a sharp cry, stumbling to the ground, clutching his leg.
The wound was not fatal.
But it was a warning.
Erolyn's soldiers tensed, hands on their swords, eyes moving back and forth between Malec and their fallen comrade.
Erolyn remained unmoving.
Then, finally—
He sighed.
"Really, Malec?"
Malec's tan eyes were pure fire.
"The village," Erolyn muttered, pointing toward the trees. "That's where she went."
Malec exhaled sharply, then turned.
He remounted his horse, his focus locked onto his new destination.
He didn't thank Erolyn.
Didn't acknowledge him.
He had what he needed.
He was already gone.
Melodie had been walking for hours.
The night was cold, the forest eerily quiet.
Too quiet.
Then—
A howl.
Low. Deep. Close.
Melodie froze.
Her pulse spiked.
More howls answered, circling around her.
Then—movement.
Shapes shifting in the darkness.
Large. Fast.
She ran.
Her feet pounded the ground, her breath sharp in the cold air.
Branches whipped against her skin, tearing at her clothes.
Then—
Pain.
Something slammed into her side, knocking her to the ground.
She gasped, struggling, but rough hands grabbed her, dragging her through the dirt.
"We got her," a voice growled.
Not a beast's voice.
A man's.
Melodie twisted, her vision spinning.
What she saw made her blood run cold.
They weren't just wolves.
They were shapeshifters.
Short stocky men with unnatural glowing eyes, their features half-wild, their bodies lined with scars.
Scavengers.
Raiders.
Kidnappers.
She had heard the stories.
They took women and children from villages, forcing them into their packs.
And if they didn't obey—
They were eaten.
Melodie was hauled into their lair, a hidden cavern in the forest.
Cages lined the walls, filled with others—women, children, all hollow-eyed and terrified.
One of the shifters, a muscular yet short man with dark, matted hair, stepped forward.
His yellow eyes gleamed as he looked her over.
"You're strong," he murmured. "You will join us."
Melodie glared.
"Not a chance."
The man grinned.
"Then we'll eat you instead."
She tensed.
But before she could react, he grabbed her and forced her against the cage wall.
"You could make this easier," he murmured, his fingers trailing over her arm. "Be my mate. Be part of the pack."
Melodie noticed this man was thinner and had a smaller frame than the others. This was not a male….but a female with a male ego.
Her mind raced.
She had to get out of this.
And somewhere out there—
Malec was coming.
Melodie stared coldly at the shapeshifter in front of her, whose yellow eyes gleamed with irritation.
"You refuse?" the creature growled.
Melodie's jaw tightened.
"Yes."
The shifter's muscles tensed, and her lips curled back, revealing sharp, predatory teeth.
"Why?" she hissed.
The other shapeshifters watched in silence, their gazes flickering between the two women.
Melodie lifted her chin defiantly.
"Because I'm not interested," she said flatly.
A low murmur rippled through the gathered shifters.
The female's clawed fingers twitched, her irritation growing.
"Then what good are you to the tribe?" she snapped.
"If you are of no use, you'll be eaten."
Melodie's mind raced.
She was in no position to fight them all.
She had to think fast.
Her voice remained calm, firm, steady.
"I am a medic."
The shapeshifters stilled.
"A what?"
Melodie's gaze swept across the cave, then locked onto a pale-faced young man lying in the corner.
His leg was broken, swollen and angry red with infection.
And the only thing the shifters had been doing was licking the wound.
"Him," Melodie pointed. "If you want to keep him alive, I can help."
The shifters exchanged glances, uncertainty flashing across their animalistic faces.
The brutish female leader hesitated for only a moment before grabbing Melodie's wrist and dragging her over.
"Fix him," she ordered. "Or we eat you."
Fantastic.
Melodie knelt beside the wounded young man, examining the extent of the damage.
It was bad.
His leg had been broken for days, and due to their idiotic animal healing techniques, it was riddled with infection.
They had wrapped it in dirty rags and done nothing but lick at the wound—which, shocker, did nothing except make it worse.
Melodie sighed heavily.
"What do you need?" the female shifter asked impatiently.
Melodie turned to her with an exasperated expression.
"Boiling water," she said.
The shapeshifter tilted her head.
"Boiling… what?"
Melodie's stomach dropped.
They don't know how to boil water.
They were primitive.
They lived for survival, not for community, progress, or hygiene.
Melodie exhaled sharply, forcing herself to think.
"You have pots, right?" she asked.
One of the younger shifters nodded, bringing out clay pots—roughly made but functional.
Melodie took one and ran out of the cave, using the rainwater collected in the leaves.
She then found a small fire pit, placing the pot over the embers, feeding the fire until the water bubbled.
"This," she said, pointing to the steaming pot, "is how you clean things properly."
The shifters muttered among themselves, some intrigued, others skeptical.
But Melodie ignored them.
She quickly grabbed what she could—rags, dry twigs, and herbs from outside that resembled medicinal plants from her world.
She had no antibiotics.
No proper tools.
But she had enough.
She dipped the rags in the hot water, squeezing out the excess, then used the herbal-infused liquid to clean the infection.
The injured shifter groaned in pain, but Melodie held firm.
She set his bone into place, creating a makeshift cast from the twigs and tightly binding his leg.
When she finished, she looked at the leader, her expression unwavering.
"Leave it dry. Two weeks minimum. Keep it clean. Or he dies."
The brutish female shifter watched her for a long moment.
Then—she nodded.
"Fine," she said simply. "You live. For now."
Melodie felt relief wash over her—but only briefly.
Because the moment she tried to step away, the female shifter grabbed her again.
She was dragged toward a pile of straw bedding in the corner of the cave.
"You sleep here," the woman said, pulling Melodie down beside her.
Melodie stiffened.
"You still trying to mate with me?" she muttered dryly.
The shifter only grinned.
"You're mine," she said simply.
Melodie sighed.
She was too exhausted to argue.
The fight could come tomorrow.
Tonight, she would rest.
That was a mistake.
Melodie was jolted awake by the sound of screams.
Her eyes snapped open, and she was immediately hit by the scent of blood.
The cave was in chaos.
Shapeshifters were roaring, attacking something.
Melodie scrambled to her feet, her head spinning, trying to make sense of the situation.
Then—she saw it.
A figure in the center of the battle.
A towering presence.
With wild, untamed hair—half tied back, half flowing freely—his sharp features illuminated by the glow of torches.
And molten tan eyes that burned with fury.
Malec.
His stance was unshaken, his expression deadly.
A mad dog without his bone.
The shapeshifters stayed frozen, not daring to challenge the man standing in their midst.
Malec's tan eyes burned, his entire frame coiled with restrained fury.
For the first time, Melodie felt truly small.
She had seen him angry before.
But this?
This was something else entirely.
"Foro ley tomus du norati," Malec growled again, his voice deep and guttural.
The leader of the shapeshifters—**the woman who had tried to claim Melodie as her own—**stood her ground, but only barely.
Her yellow eyes flickered, and she took a single step back.
Malec said something low and sharp, his voice like a blade against stone.
And the shifters reacted immediately—
They backed away.
One of them, half-shifted, pointed at Melodie, betraying her completely.
The leader hissed in protest, but when Malec turned to her, she immediately moved out of his way.
Melodie swallowed hard.
He was coming straight for her.
Before she could react, Malec's large hand grabbed her wrist, his grip iron-tight.
She struggled instinctively, but he yanked her off her feet, pulling her close so she had no room to fight back.
His jaw was tense, his nostrils flared as he exhaled harshly through his nose.
For a moment, it looked like he was about to hit her.
But instead—
He spun on his heel and dragged her out of the lair.
Dragged her through the trees.
Dragged her straight to his horse.
Melodie stumbled behind him, her heart pounding, her stomach twisting.
He was too quiet.
Too controlled.
It made her nervous.
She expected him to lash out, to yell, to throw her onto the ground in rage.
But instead—he was shaking.
Not from fear.
Not from exhaustion.
From pure, contained fury.
When they reached his horse, he finally stopped, turning sharply to face her.
His grip didn't loosen.
Instead, he lifted his other hand, pointed at her chest, then at the darkened horizon where they had come from.
His voice was sharp, cold, yet trembling with anger.
"Duro ley meka norati."
She didn't understand the words, but she understood the message.
How dare you.
Melodie's own anger flared up.
"You think I was just going to stay there like a good little pet?" she snapped.
Malec's tan eyes darkened.
He pointed at her again, his expression livid, and spat out a string of words she couldn't comprehend.
She gritted her teeth in frustration.
"I don't understand you, asshole!"
His jaw clenched.
The veins in his neck strained.
Then—suddenly—his grip on her tightened, and he pulled her in even closer, lowering his head until their foreheads nearly touched.
His breathing was heavy, ragged, and his lips parted as if he wanted to say something else.
But he didn't.
Because he couldn't.
The language barrier was in his way.
And for the first time—it frustrated him just as much as it frustrated her.
Malec finally let out a slow, sharp breath.
Then, with controlled force, he turned her around and threw her up onto the horse.
She gasped, gripping onto the saddle to keep herself from falling.
Before she could react, Malec swung up behind her, his strong arms boxing her in as he grabbed the reins.
Then, without another word, he kicked the horse forward.
Melodie stiffened as they took off, her mind racing.
But Malec was lost in his own thoughts.
The moment they returned, he would have Luko teach her his language.
Because next time—
There would be no misunderstandings.
He would make sure she understood him perfectly.
The ride was long, cold, and silent.
Malec kept his body tense, his arms locked tightly around her.
He expected her to struggle, to resist.
But she didn't.
Instead—
Her body started to relax.
Her breathing slowed.
Then, to his utter disbelief—
She leaned back against him.
At first, he thought it was another trick.
But when he glanced down, he saw her eyelashes fluttering closed.
She was falling asleep.
Against him.
His entire body reacted immediately.
Not just his muscles.
But his skin. His blood. His breath.
His stomach tightened.
His pulse kicked.
And before he could stop it—his body stirred.
Shit.
Malec shifted slightly, trying to ignore the sudden heat pooling in his core.
What the hell was this?
This wasn't normal.
Yes, she was a female.
Yes, she was warm, soft, and smelled clean.
But she was also infuriating. Reckless.
And his captive.
So why did her presence calm him?
Why did he feel… at peace now that she was back?
He exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening on the reins.
She was his.
His responsibility.
His problem.
And when they got back—he would punish her.
Because this behavior could not continue.
It wouldn't.
Sighing, he glanced down at her again.
Troublesome little female.
What was he going to do with her?