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Gideon curses under his breath. “He’s getting bolder. Sutton saw the tracks."

"That’s why my clothes are missing from where I left them?"

"She hasn't said much yet, but she's been on her computer for quite a while. It’s clear she knows something’s off. That girl’s smarter than we gave her credit for.”

“I never underestimated her intelligence. I take it she didn’t run.”

“Of course she didn’t. Sutton’s your mate.”

I tug on my jeans, then shove my feet into the boots with practiced force. “She deserves the truth.”

Gideon nods. “Then go give it to her. And hurry. Rush isn’t going to want to wait long.”

"Tell him what we found yesterday and what I found this morning. The Reaper's been close, he isn't alone and he doesn't care if we know."

Gideon nods as I push open the door and step inside.

The moment I step through the back door, I feel Sutton’s energy hit me like a live wire—tense, contained, electric. She’s in the kitchen, perched on the edge of a barstool, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Not angry—cautious. Curious. And maybe a little bruised beneath it all. Her presence floods the space like a challenge I’m not sure I’ve earned the right to answer yet.

Gideon follows me in, grabs a handful of cookies, and retreats back outside saying, “I’ll give you two some privacy.”

My clothes from last night are laid out neatly on the island, a silent acknowledgment of what I had to become hours ago.

"Nice of you to finally show," Sutton says, lifting an eyebrow. Her voice is even, but her fingers drum the counter like she’s holding something back.

I move to the island buttoning up my jeans, letting the silence stretch. “Gideon brought these out to me. Figured I shouldn’t walk in the door naked.”

“Probably a good call,” she mutters.

As I approach, she’s watching me—not just watching, analyzing. Reading every movement like she’s memorizing a playbook for war. Her gaze flicks from my face to the tension in my shoulders, down to my hands, as if trying to decipher what I’m hiding under the surface. I feel it—her scrutiny, sharp and cool, a needle threading its way under my skin. She’s always been observant, but this is different. She’s not trying to figure me out. She’s trying to decide if she can still trust me.

“Talk to me, Sutton,” I tell her.

She sets her mug down. “I figured out the gist of it, but not everything.”

I nod and step closer, keeping my tone even. “Then let me say it plain. I’m a wolf-shifter and you’re my fated mate.”

She takes in the information and says, “Just like that?”

I nod. “Just like that—no metaphor, no maybe. Just truth. Wolves like me don’t date, don’t dabble, don’t fall in and out of love. We mate once, claiming our fated mate for life. When we find the one, it hits us like a thunderclap—inescapable, irreversible. The bond we feel? It’s not just emotional. It sinks into bone, blood, instinct. You’re already part of me, whether you meant to be or not. And I wouldn’t undo that for anything in this world or the next.”

She’s silent, but the way her breath catches tells me she hears it. Feels it. Her shoulders tense, and a fine tremble skims across her collarbone. She stiffens, her fingers curling tighter around the ceramic mug, knuckles white. A flicker of something crosses her face—uncertainty, maybe even fear—but it’s gone before I can name it, like smoke caught on the wind.

"And if I don't want to be claimed?"

"Then you won't be. I won't force something sacred. You always have a choice. But it doesn't change the fact that I feel it. Bone-deep. The moment I met you, something inside me locked onto you like you were the other half of a map I didn’t know I was following."

She’s quiet, eyes flicking down to her mug. Her fingers tighten slightly around the handle, knuckles paling, and a subtle change in her posture suggests the weight of my words settling deep in her chest. I catch the slightest quiver in her breath before she steadies herself, blinking once like she’s locking her emotions behind glass.

"Some of the books I read weren't exactly scholarly. There's an awful lot of romance books that feature shifters. Do they have it right?"

“Some of it’s fantasy. Some of it’s real or at least based on reality. You could become like me. Not by accident. Not without intention. And never without a cost.”

Her gaze jerks up. “Cost?”

“It’s not like accepting my ring and changing your last name. You’d have to want it in every cell. Accept the risk. The pain. The transition isn’t just physical—it rewrites what you are at a cellular level. There's no going back.”

She crosses her arms tighter. “So it’s dangerous?”