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I don’t stop to watch, beelining for the staircase. Reaching the top, the hallway upstairs is brightly lit and cleaner than when we first explored it. Sterile. Gleaming. The halls shine like ahospital, as if polish and bright lights could wash the blood off the walls.

A woman steps out of an office with a binder clutched to her chest. She sees me—and behind me, Nora. Nora’s fist finds the woman’s nose with a sickening crunch. The binder flies. So does she. I barely look over because I know where I’m going.

There are flashing red lights over the cages we saw before. A warning system. I ignore the warnings, running along the cages, looking for my brother. The first two are empty. My gut twists, bracing for disappointment. What if we’re wrong? What if Monica didn’t have it right? What if….

I reach the third?—

“Holy shit…” Nora mutters, sliding to a stop beside me.

Sam.

He’s curled in the corner like a broken bird. Pale. Punctured. Shaking.

My breath chokes. He looks up—barely.

“Took you long enough,” he whispers.

“No time for that,” I bark.

I fumble at the lock. My fingers slip. Again. Goddammit—why now? Why can’t I get this right?

Nora shoves me aside—calm, steady. The lock clicks, and the cage swings open.

Sam stumbles out and collapses into my arms. He’s shaking, half-conscious—but breathing.

He’s alive.

And that’s all that matters. For now.

25

STACY

Sam’s return from the dead is like a spark in dry brush—instantaneous combustion. One second, everything is still, the world quiet and tentative in its grief. Afraid to hope he’s really alive—then in the next, joy ignites in every corner of Dawson. It’s a wildfire of celebration and disbelief that spreads faster than anyone could ever contain.

Shifters pour into the Crawfords’ neighborhood, eyes wide and wild, expressions lit with disbelief and delight. Even from where I stand on the outskirts of the yard, the pulse of energy is electric. They want to touch him, to make sure he’s real. To believe their own eyes.

It’s chaos. Beautiful, absurd, noisy chaos. Laughing, crying, loud-voiced shifters practically form a parade, stomping through the Crawfords’ front yard like it’s Mardi Gras. Each one determined to get a hug or a high-five from Samuel. And Sam—despite the abuse he’s endured—is thriving on it. He’s all teeth and dimples, that easygoing swagger I know so well back in full force. He embraces everyone like he never left, as if the world hadn’t fallen apart in his absence.

And Erica hasn’t let go of his hand, not even once. I watch her closely, worried about my friend. She thought she’d lost everything, and this is a miracle—but it’s a lot to take in. I don’t miss how her grip tightens, knuckles pale, whenever someone brushes too close. She’s smiling, sure, glowing with the kind of joy that could only come from a resurrection—but the haunted edge in her eyes gives her away.

I know my friend and they may not see it, but I do. She hasn’t shaken the nightmare of those eight days. Eight days of believing the love of her life had died. Eight days of mourning him. I don’t blame her for clinging like he might disappear again the moment she lets go. Honestly, I’m shocked she didn’t lock both of them in his cabin and swallow the key. I might have if it were me.

The celebration stretches long into the night—music, laughter, pine smoke from the bonfire, and beer heavy in the air. I dance with Ray under the stars, pressing our bodies together, the world once again feeling whole and warm. The weight of loss lingers around the edges, but it’s thinner and no longer suffocating. The way Ray looks at his brothers, I know—truly know—how much this means to them all. Sam is more than blood. He’s glue. The kind that holds a fractured family together.

When morning comes, Ray and I are tangled in his bed. Our limbs loop lazily over one another, heat trapped beneath the sheets. I shift slowly, peeling his arm from where it rests behind my neck, carefully trying not to wake him. His scent clings—musk and warmth and that smell that is distinctly him—which tugs a smile from my lips. I lean over and press a kiss to the edge of his jaw, slow and lingering.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” I whisper, nose brushing his cheek.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “What time is it?”

“Seven twenty,” I say, glancing across the room at the clock. “I’ll make coffee.”

I slip out of bed, padding across the hardwood with a lightness in my step I haven’t felt in what feels like forever. My mood is buoyant, as if the shadows weighing on us have finally loosened their grip. But as soon as I come down the stairs a familiar, rich scent hits me before I reach the bottom. Coffee. Already made. I pause at the threshold, pulse racing, blinking in surprise.

Helena.

Of course she’s here. Behind the kitchen island like she owns the place, stirring a straw through her coffee with lazy elegance. She lifts her gaze when I enter.