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20

ROLLO

The sun dipped low over the treetops, painting the sanctuary in shades of honey and rust. The greenhouse still smelled faintly of blooming moonvine—his and Delilah’s magic lingering like a secret whispered into the soil.

Rollo stood just outside the barn, a hammer in one hand and a loose board under his boot. The day had been quiet. The kind of quiet that made his skin itch.

That’s when he heard the familiar crunch of gravel. He looked up, already halfway bracing for a wild fox or one of the crows from the northern pines—until he saw him.

Dax Tarrow.

Another bear shifter. One of the few left in town who still wore their animal like a second skin rather than a weapon. His beard had grown out, silver streaks threading through the black like old roots, and his shirt looked like he’d slept in it—and probably had.

Rollo straightened, squinting. “Didn’t expect to seeyouaround here.”

Dax grinned, crooked and tired. “Didn’t expect to come. But… I had a feeling.”

Rollo motioned him toward the porch and set the hammer down. “You here for a visit, or did something bite you on the way in?”

Dax settled onto the bench with a grunt, pulling a flask from his jacket and offering it. “Both.”

Rollo took a swig. Strong. Smoky. Burned in all the right ways. Like chewing embers.

“You look better than the last time I saw you,” Dax said, side-eying him with a crooked grin. “Less haunted.”

Rollo let out a short, dry laugh. “Don’t let the flannel fool you. Still haunted. Just better at hiding it.”

Dax tipped his chin, skeptical. “Nah, this ain’t just better stitching on the same scars. You’re lighter. You’re walking different.”

Rollo didn’t answer at first, but his gaze flicked to the greenhouse, where faint blossoms still glowed from last night.

“Delilah’s back.”

That made Dax’s eyebrows lift. “Huh.Now that explains it. I’d heard whispers she was in town again, but I didn’t think you two would be?—”

“Back at it?” Rollo finished, voice dry but not bitter.

“Well,” Dax shrugged, “last I knew, y’all were on opposite sides of a silent war.”

“We were,” Rollo admitted, running a hand down his face. “But... things shifted. Doesn’t mean it’s easy.”

Dax gave a low whistle. “Damn. You reallyaredifferent.”

Rollo glanced back at him. “That what brought you here? Personal check-in?”

Dax’s smile faded. He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. “No. I came to tell you something. Something’s been chewing at me.”

Rollo straightened, his gut already tightening. “I’m listening.”

“I was out near Hollow’s Pass last week,” Dax began, “tracking a rumor about a stag gone feral. Thought maybe it was just noise—but Iswearon my mother’s roots, I saw him.”

Rollo didn’t move. “Garrick?”

Dax nodded grimly. “Didn’t get close. But the gait? The scent? That was him. Same twitch in his left leg, same crooked shoulder from the time he took that blow near the old temple ridge. Ain’t no mistaking him.”

Rollo’s stomach turned. “He was near town?”

“Too near,” Dax said. “But that’s not what spooked me most.”