Page 31

He huffs a dry laugh. "Yeah, I figured."

I walk to the window, frustration simmering under my skin, a restless heat prickling beneath the surface. Like that’s going to distract me. The street outside is quiet, too quiet. Still no Deacon. Not out front, not on the sidewalk, not pacing like a caged wolf the way he was yesterday. No shadow in the doorway. No flicker of movement. Just stillness—and the growing knot of worry twisting tighter in my gut.

And that’s when it hits me.

Not a thought. Not a theory. A knowing.

Like a click behind my breastbone, sharp and sudden. The silence. The absence. The eerie calm broken by the hum of a man who isn't Deacon. Something prickles down my spine, and all at once, I know he's not just out on a morning errand. He's out there, somewhere close—and hiding something I was never supposed to see.

Something he never meant for me to know, much less understand.

I let my gaze slide toward the back patio door. Locked, but easy enough to unlock. Gideon hums something under his breath, the kind of tune you hear in war movies before everything explodes. I wait until he’s focused on the oven again and then slowly, quietly open the back door and slip outside.

The morning air is heavy with humidity, thick and clinging to my skin like a second layer. But beneath it, there’s a faint traceof something wild—earthy and sharp, like the air before a storm and damp moss clinging to stone. It catches in the back of my throat, metallic and electric, stirring something primal inside me I can’t name. I step onto the patio, bare feet pressing into the cool concrete, and look around. At first, nothing. Just the quiet hush of a Galveston morning—the kind that masks secrets beneath sunshine and stillness. But then I spot them.

Boot prints. Large. Deep in the mud along the edge of the garden where my rosemary bush is overgrown... and next to them—paw prints.

I crouch down, my breath hitching as I reach out with trembling fingers. The soil is damp, still soft from last night’s rain, and I trace the outline of one of the paw prints. It's massive. The spread of the toes, the indentation of the pads—it’s unmistakable. Wolf. But not just any wolf. The size alone rules that out.

My fingertip comes away dirty, smudged with mud and something more primal. My pulse stutters, and I press my hand against the ground beside it, comparing the size. It dwarfs mine. The earth still holds the echo of heat, of weight, like whoever left it was just here. Watching. Hunting.

And yet, there’s no fear in me. Only wonder. Only a strange, electric certainty that I’ve just stepped into a truth I can’t unsee—one that crackles through me like static before a lightning strike, impossible to ignore, impossible to forget.

My breath catches, a shiver racing down my spine as the morning air suddenly feels colder. Goosebumps rise along my arms. Not just any animal. These are too big. Too distinct. Wolf.

I follow the tracks to a low bush near the alley fence and crouch. Nestled under the branches is a bundle of clothing. Neatly folded. Familiar.

My heart kicks up, thudding wildly in my chest like it’s trying to outrun the thoughts suddenly crashing into my mind. It’snot just the paw prints, not just the clothes—it’s the creeping certainty that something impossible might actually be real. My breath shortens, skin prickling with a mixture of dread and awe. Every cell in my body screams to run, to deny what I’m seeing… but some deeper, quieter part of me—the part that knows Deacon, that trusts him—tells me to stay. To believe. To follow this truth wherever it leads.

Deacon. What the actual hell?

The door slams behind me.

“Sutton!” Gideon’s voice is sharp, full of command. He jogs into the yard, half pissed, half alarmed. “You weren’t supposed to...”

I stand, holding the bundle in both hands. “Care to explain?”

His eyes narrow, the muscles in his jaw ticking. “Not really. Put those down.”

“Not a chance.”

“Damn it.” He runs a hand through his hair. “This isn’t what you think.”

“Oh, really? Because what I think is that Deacon disappeared in the middle of the night, there are wolf tracks in my backyard, and his clothes are sitting under a bush like he peeled them off before going full... what? Werewolf?”

Gideon exhales slowly, starts to say something, thinks better if it, and then says lamely as he hangs his head. “It’s not my secret to tell.”

My arms tighten around the clothes. “But there is a secret, right?”

He hesitates. And that alone tells me everything.

“There’s a reason Team W doesn’t play by the same rules as everyone else,” he finally says. “And Deacon’s not just a soldier.”

I swallow hard. “So what is he?”

Gideon alter his expression, but he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to, just shakes his head.

I nod, every thought in my head twisting like knots in a rope. “Got it.”