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But I have to.

If I stay, I drag her and Kate into the fire still chasing me.

So I do what I swore I wouldn’t.

I leave.

Quietly, I press a kiss to her temple. She stirs but doesn’t wake. My fingers linger a beat too long on the curve of her hip before I pull away.

The note I’ve written sits on the counter, sealed and weighted with one of the smooth stones from her windowsill—the pale gray one with the amber streak she once told me she found during a storm. Said it reminded her of the way the sky cracked open when something big was coming. I always thought it looked like it was holding lightning inside. Just like her.

I love you, but I can't stay.

They would use you and Kate against me.

This was never just about Wild Hollow.

It was about you.

I step out into the dawn; the sky is streaked with fire and gold. The air bites at my skin, but I don’t flinch. I strip down slowly, folding my clothes and stuffing them in the backpack slung over my shoulder.

One last look back at the place that could’ve been mine.

Then I drop to all fours, let the thunder roll through me, and dissolve into fur and muscle and speed. No bones cracking. No pain. Just a shimmer of lightning and shards of color exploding into motion.

I run into the sunrise, the icy wind slicing across my fur, eyes locked on the horizon. My lungs burn with every breath, but I don't slow. The pull of instinct drives me forward—faster, harder, farther—like if I run fast enough, far enough, I can outrun the ache I left behind.

And I don’t look back.