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The silence is instant and crushing. A single breath could shatter it.

“But…I heard him howl,” Raul murmurs. “I know it was him.”

“I believe you,” Monica says gently. “That it was Sam’s voice and that the wolf looked like him. But we’ve been played. Someone wanted us to believe Sam died, but he didn’t.”

“There were signs of a fight,” Ray adds. “It looked like a goddamn war zone.”

“Exactly.” Monica’s voice hardens. “The question is who staged it—and why.”

I feel my pulse pounding behind my eyes. Is this real? Could it be true?

“There’s only one group who benefits from this lie,” she continues. “That facility in the woods—you said there were cages. Steel reinforced. Too strong for any wild animal. Those weren’t meant for beasts. They were built for shifters.”

Ray’s whole body stiffens. “You think they’ve got Sam?”

“I am certain of it,” Monica says. “And if we don’t act soon, he may not survive whatever they’re doing to him.”

Raul growls—a low, primal sound—and pushes to his feet. “I’m going to tear them apart.”

“No, you’re not,” Monica barks, seizing his arm and yanking him back. “They have security. Armed guards. You charge in alone, we bury another brother.”

“She’s right,” Ray says, stepping between them. “I want revenge as much as you do, but we have to be smart. Scout it first. Plan it out.”

Raul grits his teeth. “Fine. I’ll send scouts. But once they’re back?—”

“We break Sam out,” Ray finishes, eyes burning. “We kill every bastard in that place, and bring him home.”

A tremor ripples through the room.

“I can’t believe it,” Erica whispers. “I want to believe it. But… I’ll wait for the champagne until I see him. Alive.”

“You will,” Ray says. “I swear it.”

He leaves first, his jaw clenched, grief transformed into purpose. I follow him into the night. My heart’s racing. My hands won’t stop shaking. Because against all odds… I believe her.

Monica isn’t a woman who gambles. She’s careful. Calculated. She wouldn’t make a claim like this without proof. Whatever was in those tests—whatever she found—it’s enough to reignite hope in a room that’s known nothing but despair.

Sam is alive.

The Crawfords didn’t bury their brother.

We’re bringing him home.

23

RAY

Monica amazes me.

Even now, with grief etched into every soft line around her eyes, she holds herself together with a kind of quiet resilience that demands respect. She’s hurting—God knows we all are—but she doesn’t let it slow her down. There’s something almost surgical about how she moves through the chaos, like she’s carved out just enough space to hold the pain at bay—long enough to get things done.

And shehasdone something—more than any of us, really. It wasn’t much on the surface. A few comments, a careful observation or two. But it was enough to shed light on a truth I hadn’t even considered.

No one challenged Sam to a fight. No bruises, no brawl, no sign of a last stand. He didn’t go down swinging. He was… taken. Captured.

The word feels foreign—alien, even—as it echoes in my mind. Like it belongs in a thriller, not in the raw ache that pulses in my chest when I think about Sammy. My brother and my bestfriend. The man who once lifted me by the scruff of my shirt and told me I’d better learn to love myself before someone else tried and failed.

The sunset bleeds into night, painting the sky’s edge with fire and ash. I blink as the trees blur through my wet eyes.