A fact rooted itself in her mind, unshakable: this was a full-grown wolf, walking straight out of the sea.
Her breath faltered. She stumbled back until her legs struck an old, half-buried plank. Driftwood, maybe part of a wreck.
Her instincts screamed for a barrier.
Snatching the plank, she gripped it like a shield. Splinters bit into her palms, but she held fast, arms locked, knees quivering, body poised to bolt.
But where could she run?
The wolf halted about twenty feet away. Water streamed from its coat in silver rivulets. It planted its paws wide, squared its stance, ears pricked. Golden eyes fixed unblinking on Noemi.
Then it growled.
The sound was low, bone-deep, not loud but heavy enough to vibrate through her marrow like distant thunder.
Noemi raised the plank higher, locking her elbows. She searched her memory—every nature show, every survival tip. Make yourself look big. Don’t run.
“Stay back,” she said. Her voice cracked, but held.
The growl ebbed into silence.
Then the wolf bared its teeth—long, pale, perfect—and barked once. The sound was sharp, explosive, echoing off the dunes.
Panic slammed through her chest. The plank felt ridiculous in her grip, a child’s shield against something carved out of legend. Her imagination leapt forward: the wolf lunging, its jaws closing, bone splintering.
“No, no,” she whispered, her grip faltering. “I don’t want to fight.”
Slowly, she lowered the plank, showing it wasn’t a weapon. The wolf’s gaze tracked the movement. When she dropped it with a dull thud to the sand, the animal didn’t pounce. Its lips eased, just slightly.
Hands open, fingers spread, she edged back a step, then another. Palms lifted in peace. “Easy, boy. I’m not here to hurt you.”
Her voice trembled, her knees quivered, but she didn’t break.
The wolf’s ears twitched. It closed its mouth. Tilted its head. Watching. Measuring.