Chapter 1

B etsy

Betsy Ferris stood in the eye of Hurricane Clutter, surrounded by a swirling vortex of cardboard boxes and overstuffed trash bags. Her Trenton apartment, once a haven of cottage core aesthetic, now resembled the aftermath of a yard sale explosion.

"Right," she muttered, blowing a strand of chocolate brown hair out of her face. "Time to channel my inner Tetris master."

She hefted a box labeled 'Kitchen Crap,' her arms trembling like a newbie weightlifter on their first day at the gym. As she shuffled towards the door, playing a precarious game of "Don't Trip Over the Winter Boot that Doesn't Have a Match," Betsy's mind wandered to the forest cabin awaiting her.

Trees. Lots of trees. And probably squirrels. Did Connecticut have bears? Oh god, what if there were bears?

Betsy shook her head, banishing thoughts of becoming Smokey's lunch. This was her chance to ditch spreadsheets for herb spreads, to trade customer complaints for plant companions. Sure, she might not know a dandelion from a daffodil yet, but hey, fake it 'til you make it, right?

She stumbled down three flights of stairs, her legs threatening to buckle under the weight of her questionable packing skills. Outside, her trusty steed awaited—a Chevy S-10 that had seen better days. Possibly during the Bush administration—the first one.

"All right, Rust Bucket." Betsy patted the truck's hood, wincing as a flake of paint came off on her hand. "Ready for one more adventure?"

The truck, unsurprisingly, didn't answer.

As Betsy surveyed the mountain of possessions already crammed into the truck bed, reality hit her like a slap from a wet noodle. There was no way everything would fit. Unless...

"Physics, schmysics," she declared, grabbing a fistful of bungee cords. "Watch me defy the laws of nature."

What followed was less 'packing' and more 'extreme Jenga.' Betsy pushed, pulled, and at one point considered using a shoehorn to wedge boxes into increasingly improbable spaces. Her tower of belongings grew higher and more precarious, a testament to either human ingenuity or sheer stubbornness.

"Take that, Marie Kondo," Betsy crowed, stepping back to admire her handiwork. A lone sock dangled from the side like a surrender flag.

Just as she was about to declare victory, a glint of neon PVC caught her eye. Her yoga mat! Visions of zen-like forest poses danced in her head, right alongside the mental image of herself faceplanting into the ground.

"Can't forget my future Instagram content," Betsy mused, eyeing the overstuffed truck bed. Challenge accepted.

With the determination of a contestant on 'Extreme Makeover: Truck Edition,' Betsy managed to wedge the yoga mat behind the passenger's seat. It stuck out the window like the world's least aerodynamic antenna, but hey, she made it fit. That was all that mattered.

Betsy clambered into the driver's seat, wincing as something pointy—was that her father's machete that he brought back from the Philippines that she inherited?—jabbed her in the rear.

The key turned, and Rust Bucket roared to life with all the grace of a chainsaw gargling marbles. As Betsy pulled away from the curb, leaving behind the world of quarterly reports and office gossip, she caught sight of her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her green eyes were wide with a cocktail of excitement and terror, her cheeks flushed with the thrill of impending adventure (or possibly heatstroke—the truck's AC was as reliable as a weather forecast).

"Look out, Connecticut," Betsy grinned. "Here I come."

The urban jungle slowly gave way to actual jungle (or at least, what passed for jungle in New England). Skyscrapers shrank in the rearview mirror, replaced by trees that looked tall enough to have their own zip codes. The honking of impatient taxis faded, overtaken by a symphony of birdsong and rustling leaves.

Betsy rolled down the window, inhaling deeply. The scent of pine and wildflowers flooded her senses, along with a hint of... was that her forgotten gym bag? She made a mental note to deal with that potential biohazard later.

As she navigated the increasingly narrow roads, Betsy's mind wandered to the cabin awaiting her. Memories of childhood summers spent with her grandmother bubbled up like fizz in a shaken soda can. One of her favorites was sitting on the worn wooden porch where she would recount tales of mischievous forest spirits (always with a wink that made young Betsy wonder if they weren't just stories). The kitchen had been perpetually filled with the aromatic chaos of drying herbs and bubbling concoctions. The attic was a treasure trove of dusty tomes and mysterious jars that would make Harry Potter's Diagon Alley look like a discount store.

A pang of sadness hit Betsy like a surprise speed bump. Six months since Francine had passed, and the loss still felt fresh as a paper cut on the heart. But as the trees grew denser and the air grew crisper, Betsy felt a whisper of her grandmother's spirit. Or maybe it was just the machete.

The sun had begun its descent, painting the sky in hues that would make Bob Ross weep with joy, when Betsy finally turned onto the dirt road leading to the cabin. The trees leaned in close, their branches forming a canopy overhead that filtered the light into a dappled dance across the windshield.

"This looks like serial killer territory," Betsy mumbled, her knuckles white on the steering wheel.

The cabin materialized around a bend like a mirage in a desert of green. Betsy's breath caught in her throat, half from wonder and half from the questionable gas station burrito she'd inhaled three hours ago. It was exactly as she remembered—a sturdy log structure that looked like it had grown straight out of the forest floor, windows gleaming like eyes in the fading sunlight.

Betsy brought Rust Bucket to a shuddering halt, cutting the engine. The sudden silence was so profound she could almost hear her own neurons misfiring. She stepped out and took a deep breath. The air was thick with the scent of pine, earth, and something wild and ancient that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention.

A twig snapped behind her, and Betsy whirled around with all the grace of a startled flamingo. The trees at the edge of the clearing suddenly looked a lot more ominous, their shadows stretching towards her like grasping fingers. For a heart-stopping moment, she could have sworn she saw something move—something large and decidedly un-squirrel-like.

"Great," Betsy laughed nervously, her voice sounding thin in the vastness of the forest. "Day one and I'm already hallucinating. Maybe I should've packed my therapist."

She turned back to the truck, eyeing her leaning tower of possessions with the enthusiasm of someone facing a root canal. The thought of unloading it all made her want to curl up in the fetal position and whimper. Instead, she grabbed only the essentials—a suitcase of clothes, toiletries, and the sacred box containing her coffee maker. Priorities.

"Sorry, rest of my life." Betsy patted the truck. "You're gonna have to wait till tomorrow. Mama needs her beauty sleep."

One good thing about being this far in the woods was that she wouldn't have to worry about anyone jacking her truck or making off with her possessions.

As she trudged up the porch steps, each creak of old wood sounded suspiciously like "turn baaaack." Betsy fumbled with the key, half-expecting the lock to be rusted shut. But with a click that echoed in the stillness, the door swung open.

The cabin's interior greeted her with a sneeze-inducing cloud of dust and a smell that was equal parts lavender and mint. Betsy flicked on the lights, sending a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity watched over rural electricity.

"Home sweet... oh my god, is that a spider web or did someone gift wrap the ceiling?"

After a whirlwind tour that involved more sneezing than a pollen factory and a brief standoff with a particularly bold dust bunny, Betsy collapsed onto the old couch.

"Note to self," she wheezed, "buy stock in antihistamines."

Her stomach chose that moment to remind her that gas station burritos did not constitute a balanced diet. Going back out to rummage through her 'Kitchen Crap' box yielded a culinary goldmine: one packet of instant noodles and a banana that was a few hours shy of becoming a banana bread ingredient.

"Behold," Betsy announced to the empty room, holding up her gourmet findings. "The feast of champions!"

As she heated up water on the ancient stove (which, miraculously, didn't explode), Betsy wandered out onto the porch. The forest night was alive with sound—crickets chirping, leaves rustling, and was that a wolf howl or just her imagination working overtime?

The trees swayed gently, their leaves whispering secrets to each other. Fireflies danced in the clearing, nature's own light show. It was beautiful, magical, and utterly terrifying.

Because as Betsy stood there, stuffing the almost liquid banana in her mouth, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. Her eyes scanned the tree line, half-expecting to see a pair of glowing eyes or a suspiciously human-shaped shadow.

"Get a grip," she muttered, licking her fingers. "The only monster here is your overactive imagination. And possibly whatever's growing in the back of the fridge."

After her gourmet dinner (eaten straight from the pot because dishes were for people who hadn't just driven across the state), Betsy decided to call it a night. She double-checked the locks with the paranoia of someone who'd watched one too many horror movies, before heading to the bedroom.

As she changed into her pajamas—an oversized t-shirt proudly declaring "Herb Your Enthusiasm"—Betsy caught sight of herself in the old mirror above the dresser. Her reflection stared back, a mix of excitement and "oh god, what have I done" clear in her green eyes.

"Well," she said to her mirror image, "you wanted a total life overhaul. You don't do things half assed, do you?"

With a yawn that nearly unhinged her jaw, Betsy crawled into bed, pulling the quilt up to her chin. The unfamiliar creaks and groans of the cabin, combined with the forest's nocturnal symphony, should have kept her awake. But exhaustion won out, and within minutes, she was fast asleep.

CHASE

Chase's nostrils flared, drinking in the rich tapestry of scents that only he could truly appreciate. Loam and lichen, the musty funk of decaying leaves, the sharp tang of pine sap—each aroma told a story, painting a picture more vivid than any human eye could perceive. This was his domain, a realm he'd guarded for more years than he cared to count.

His massive feet, each easily the size of a dinner plate, moved with a silence that belied his bulk. Twigs and leaves bent gently beneath his weight, then sprang back as if never touched. Chase didn't consciously try to move quietly anymore; it was as natural to him as breathing. Necessary. For in silence lay safety, and in safety lay the preservation of all he held dear.

As Chase navigated the deepening twilight, his mind churned with the weighty thoughts that had become his constant companions. The forest was changing. He could sense it in the whisper of wind through leaves, in the subtle shift of animal movements, in the very air itself. Something was coming. Or perhaps it was already here, an insidious threat creeping in while his back was turned.

His path led him to the edge of a small clearing, and Chase's perpetual scowl deepened. There, like a splinter in the forest's flesh, stood Francine's cabin. The sight of it sent a pang through his chest, a feeling he ruthlessly suppressed. Sentimentality was a luxury he couldn't afford. Not when the very balance of his world hung by a thread.

Francine had been... different. In all his long years, she alone had seen him not as a monster or a myth, but as a fellow guardian. She'd understood the delicate balance of the forest, the whisper of magic that flowed through every root and branch. Her passing left a void that echoed through the woods like a silent scream.

Chase placed a massive hand against the rough bark of a nearby oak, feeling the slow pulse of life beneath his palm. This was why he endured. Why he remained apart, isolated from his own kind and the world of humans. The forest needed him, now more than ever.

His gaze hardened as it fell upon the cabin once more. With Francine gone, the time had come to reclaim this space for the forest. To erase this last vestige of human encroachment and allow nature to heal the scar.

Chase took a step forward, muscles tensing in anticipation of the task ahead. In his mind's eye, he could already see the cabin reduced to splinters, vegetation rapidly overtaking the cleared ground.

The sudden roar of an engine shattered the twilight calm like a thunderbolt.

Chase recoiled, instinctively melding with the shadows as a battered truck lurched into view. Disbelief and anger warred within him as a small, human woman tumbled out of the vehicle.

All his careful plans to keep the forest pristine from the modern world, the delicate balance he'd maintained for so long, was threatened by the intruder's arrival. Fury rose in him like a tidal wave, held in check only by centuries of hard-learned control.

Yet, as the breeze shifted, carrying the woman's scent to him, Chase felt his rage falter. Beneath the acrid taint of the human world, a familiar note teased his sensitive nose. Herbs. Wildflowers. Echoes of Francine. But at the same time, something wildly different and alluring.

Suddenly, an unexpected pull tugged at Chase's core, a sensation both foreign and strangely familiar. It was as if the forest itself was responding to the woman's presence, the very air around him humming with an energy he couldn't quite understand. A sense of unease washed over him as he felt the trees whisper and the earth beneath his feet shift ever so slightly. This was more than just an intruder; somehow, this human was connected to the forest in a way he'd never encountered before.

Intrigue warred with suspicion as Chase observed the newcomer's clumsy attempts to enter the cabin. Who was she? Why had she come to this remote place? And why did she carry Francine's scent? More importantly, why did the forest seem to welcome her in a way it never had with other humans?

Through the night, Chase maintained his vigil. Every instinct honed by years in the wilderness screamed at him to drive the intruder away, to protect his forest from this threat. Yet something held him back, some nagging sense that there was more here than met the eye.

As dawn broke, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold, the cabin door opened once more. Chase watched, brow furrowed in confusion, as the woman went to her vehicle and pulled out a strange, rolled-up mat. It was an eye watering shade of pink.

What followed defied comprehension. The human began contorting herself into bizarre positions, balancing precariously and making soft grunting noises. Chase's eyes widened in disbelief. Was this some form of human madness? A ritual to ward off forest spirits?

He leaned forward, studying her movements with a mixture of fascination and desire. In all his years observing humans from afar, he'd never witnessed anything like this. He wondered if she was some type of witch, using her powers of seduction for some unknown purpose.

As she wobbled dangerously close to the porch's edge, Chase felt an unfamiliar urge surge through him. For a heartbeat, he nearly stepped from his hiding place, ready to prevent her fall. The impulse shocked him to his core.

This human was a threat, he reminded himself sternly. A disruption to the delicate balance he'd sworn to protect. To make matters worse, a fierce need hardened his body as his cock began to swell and pound. He wanted to see what she looked like without her ridiculous clothes. He wanted to know what she tasted like. He wanted to see her face as he slipped deep inside her and claimed her.

Shocked by his reaction to this strange human, Chase retreated deeper into the forest. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he wanted to lose himself between a female's thighs. And he had never desired a human that way.