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He was cold. The new skin he wore was bare and smooth and vulnerable to branch, breeze and briar. But if it would allow him to approach the man, to KNOW the one called Harte, then it would be worth every chill and cut he got.

He was the Beast, the dread king of the forest. But in the presence of this mere man he was wary, as skittish as a doe. Carefully, he stepped out of the bracken as the startled man wheeled around, poised to strike. And as they stood frozen, face to face and eye to eye, the Beast found he was no longer cold.

The man lowered his bow, eyes narrowed against the fading daylight. The beast held his ground, his heart thrumming against his chest. Could the hunter see through its camouflage so easily?

“Who are you?” the man asked. Names. It wasn’t enough for men to simply be, they had to be called something as well.

“…I am.” So quiet. So quiet and soft and weak the beast sounded, now. A panic began to fill him as he realized the depth and weight of his wish.

“You…” The man’s eyes wandered down in confusion and then halted. His cheeks reddened as his eyes widened, darting away in alarm. “Lord, you’re naked is what you are.” Is that what he was? The beast felt himself flush as his stomach knotted. He had never known shame before now; but without a name to put to the feeling, it only served to worsen his anxiety.

The man suddenly stepped forward and the beast started, in spite of himself. His lips curled back in a snarl, baring his square, stupid teeth.

The man stopped, slowly raising his hands, palms facing out to show he meant no harm. “Easy now,” he murmured, his hands reaching for the clasp on his cloak. “I’m just going to take this off so you can cover yourself. Keep yourself warm. All right?” His voice was low and warm, his amber eyes steady. The beast was snared by his gaze and was still. He remembered why he shed his fur: to bask in the hunter’s gaze, to feel the warmth of his hands that draped his cloak over his shivering shoulders. The beast breathed in, tasting the scents of musty wool, sharp leather and salty, earthy sweat.

The man looked up at the sky as he spoke. “It’ll be dark soon – too dangerous to take you back through the forest to town tonight. Which means we’ll be staying the night at camp.” He turned to the beast, brow furrowed with concern. “Think you can manage until tomorrow?”

The beast’s blunt fingers pulled the cloak tight around him as he nodded, afraid of the otherness in his voice. The man’s lips parted and curved into something that was not a snarl – something the beast wished to see more of. “It’s settled then. Now let’s get back. Nightfall’s when the beasties come out.”