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“Maybe,” I admit, voice hoarse. “I guess…I…I like her. More than I want to. She’s…young. Beautiful. Sharp. And she doesn’t take shit from anyone.”

“She’s also heading back to Dawson,” Helena says, and the softness in her voice catches me off guard. “Right now along with Erica, but they’re not going to make it there easily.”

I straighten up. “What do you mean?”

She reaches into her cloak and pulls out her orb. The familiar swirl of darkness glows faintly as it spins in her lap. Her hand hovers above it, fingers barely touching. A moment later, the image forms.

I see Erica’s car winding along a narrow road. The forest presses close on either side. The road curves sharply, treacherously. Then—headlights flare and illuminate a massive tree trunk that lies across the road, its branches tangled against the guardrail like skeletal fingers.

The BMW slows. Taillights flash. They’re stuck.

“They’ll be fine, right?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

Helena doesn’t reply.

Instead, she asks, “So. What’s it going to be, Raymond? Keep pretending this is just about the wolf? Or admit the truth?”

The weight of her words hangs in the air. Suddenly, it’s not about instinct. It’s not even about Stacy. It’s about me—facing what I’ve buried, and finally owning it.

I rise to my feet. I don’t speak because the decision is made. Helena smiles faintly, as if she’s seen this outcome all along.

“Go,” she says. “They’ll need more than a fire department tonight.”

I nod once. “Thanks.”

The river continues its imperturbable rush as I stride back to the truck. The night air wraps around, electric and alive. I feel the change, but it’s not in the way I’m used to. This is different because it’s in my heart.

This isn’t about saving her—it’s about showing her she matters. No more hiding behind the wolf. No more excuses. Just truth.

It’s about being the man who deserves her. And this time, I’m not going to screw it up.

9

STACY

“Come on, Phantom. Pick up. Pick up.”

Erica’s voice cuts through the stillness like a blade—sharp, tense, but stubbornly hopeful. So typical of her. She calls Sam by his stupid pet name like it’s going to summon him through sheer willpower.

I wish I could be like her. Hopeful. Unshaken. Capable of turning fear into a joke and throwing it at the dark. But we’ve been unable to get through to Sam, or Raul, or even Nora. No one’s answering and no one’s coming.

Seven calls. Seven voicemails. Seven little failures stacking up like the mist creeping over the ridge ahead.

She shoves her phone into her jeans, staring at the trees that are blocking the road. One massive tree blocks the road ahead—and somehow, it took another down with it. Now we’re trapped between them. She puts her hands on her hips, shakes her head.

“Magic?” I ask, only half-joking, hoping for some witchy miracle.

“I… can’t,” she mutters, shaking her head. Frustration draws her mouth tight. “I don’t know how to use it like that.”

I’m standing close to the mangled barrier staring at the drop. I wrap my arms over my chest like a shield, lifting my gaze to stare at the silhouettes of the mountaintops. The sun is setting, making them look like they are carved from shadow. Jagged and silently watching us.

“Shit,” I mutter.

Coming back to Dawson for the weekend should’ve been enough trouble. But no—this is my life. The universe loves to fuck with me.

“I guess we can walk,” Erica says.

Her voice is flat but edged with something brittle. I whip around, eyes widening and mouth open before I finish moving.