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My bare skin prickles as the first rays kiss my shoulders, not with cold, but with promise. Heat seeps into my pores,and something inside me lifts its head—cautious, bruised, but reaching. This is no longer just aftermath. It’s the first breath after drowning. A beginning. A reckoning. A vow.

"You only need to find your center," Deacon murmurs, voice low and reverent as he brushes a hand along my spine. "Search your mind for your wolf—she's there, waiting. Call her forward."

He shifts in front of me, the mist rising like a storm from the ground, swirling with lightning and color, thunder cracking silently in my bones. I watch his body vanish into the mist and emerge as something primal. Beautiful. Massive. His wolf is all muscle and menace, black as midnight, eyes burning with the same feral gold I’ve come to crave.

His words take root in me, threading through muscle and marrow. I close my eyes and reach, not with hands but with instinct, diving inward. For one suspended moment, there is silence—then, a sudden, stunning surge. My wolf charges through the darkness of my mind like a wildfire, her eyes blazing, her howl echoing like a promise.

The mist rises, curling around my ankles like sentient smoke, and I suck in a breath as it climbs. It doesn't sting. It doesn't chill. It caresses. It wraps around my body with slow, deliberate reverence, as though recognizing something buried deep within me. Shards of color shimmer through the folds—violet, indigo, deep crimson—flashing like lightning in a summer storm. My breath hitches, not from pain, but awe. The mist doesn’t just welcome—itinvites, coaxing me to surrender. And I do.

It wraps around me, rolls up my legs and spine, sparking across my skin like live wires. The mist hums with electricity, each particle a whisper of wild magic. My breath catches, lungs seizing as heat and cold war inside me, every nerve ending lit up. I can taste something ancient in the air—sharp, wild, unnamed. My vision tunnels, my body vibrates, and the earth itself seemsto pulse beneath my feet. This isn’t just transformation. It’s transcendence.

When it dissipates, I’m not Sutton Blake anymore. I’m something different, something more, and yet the same.

My four paws hit the earth.My lungs fill with wild air. And I run.

Deacon runs with me, silent and sure, brushing against my flank as we cut across the fields. We dodge trees, leap rocks, chase birds still rising into the dawn. Our breath steams in the chill. Our hearts beat in time.

I don’t think. I feel. I live.

We run until the sun climbs high enough to drape golden warmth across our spines, burning away the last remnants of chill. With each pounding stride, the scent of ash and blood fades, replaced by the cleaner tang of dew-drenched earth and crushed wildflowers. Our paws drum against the soil in a rhythm older than memory, and the world around us exhales. No longer does it reek of violence—it smells of freedom, of raw vitality, of life reclaimed.

We slow together, panting, hearts still thrumming from the primal joy of the run. The grass is damp beneath our paws, the sky awash with early sunlight when Deacon nudges my side. I follow him, still trembling with energy and something more elemental. We pad side-by-side through the high grasses and along the edge of the trees, returning to the ranch house as the world fully wakes around us.

We slip through the back door, paws padding across the worn wooden floor until the familiar scent of home greets us. In the privacy of our room, the mist curls up once more. Lightning flickers inside the swirl, thunder rumbles low, and in a breathless instant, my body reforms—flesh and bone, sweat-slick and glowing.

As the last shimmer of mist fades and flesh replaces fur, I stagger forward and Deacon catches me, pulling me flush against his chest. We’re both drenched in sweat, breath ragged, hearts pounding like war drums in sync. The heat of his body sears into mine, grounding and exhilarating all at once.

His mouth brushes the curve of my bare shoulder, the kiss both reverent and possessive as we pull on our clothes. I melt into him, chest rising and falling against his, my body buzzing with the aftershock of the shift and the wild joy that still thrums in my veins. For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel light. Whole. Free.

Then my phone rings.

The sound cuts through the quiet like a blade, sharp and merciless. My hand jerks, breath still catching from the run, fromhim. Fingers trembling, I lunge for the phone, nearly knocking it off the nightstand. The screen flares to life.

Dad

I answer, but it’s not his voice that speaks.

"If you want him back alive, you’ll listen carefully."

CHAPTER 21

DEACON

The instant I hear that voice—distorted, low, slick with smug malice—every muscle in my body locks tight, like a wire drawn taut to the edge of snapping. My breath halts. Heat flashes under my skin, chased by a wave of cold dread.

"If you want him back alive, you’ll listen carefully."

Sutton freezes beside me, her entire body taut, her breath catching in her throat. I see the tremor in her fingers, the flash of fear tightening her jaw, and something primal in her eyes—raw, protective, already bracing for the worst. I hear the sharp inhale she takes, taste the rage and fear rolling off her like a storm. I reach for the phone, but she jerks away, eyes locked on the screen like it might vanish.

"Dad?" she demands, voice razor-edged.

There’s a beat of silence—long enough to stretch the air taut. Then a groan slices through, raw and ragged, like gravel scraped over bone. A pained, guttural sound that punches straight into the gut.

"Kid... don’t you dare come after me," Frank grits out. He sounds winded. Hurt. And scared. Not for himself—for her.

The bastard on the other end chuckles. "Sentimental. You have twelve hours. Bring yourself, alone, to Cinder Gap. Leave your wolf behind. If we see him... the old man dies."

The line goes dead.