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That last word lands like a punch to the chest. I stare while my heart hammers too fast. My lips part, a breath catching in my throat. I want to say something. Anything. But the weight of his words steals my breath.

He moves before I recover. Wrapping his long, strong arms around my waist. I barely have time to register it before I’m enveloped in him—his scent, his warmth, the press of his chest against mine.

And God, it feels good. Too good.

A soft kiss grazes my temple, and something cracks open. That flutter in my chest turns into a full-on storm, wild and uncontainable. I don’t care that I can’t move my arms in his grip. I melt.

It’s stupid. It’s reckless. It’sdangerousto let myself feel this much, but I can’t deny that I do.

“Bike ride,” he whispers into my ear, voice like velvet. “All the way to New York… when I get back.”

I let out a shaky breath—a quiet huff, half laugh, half sob. “Okay.”

A hundred and thirty miles. I imagine the wind tearing through my hair, sun painting the sky above us, his hand in mine. I canseeit. I canfeelit. None of it means anything if he doesn’t make it back.

I bury my face against his chest, squeezing my eyes shut. I want to freeze this moment and keep it safe. I want to believe in that stupid road trip dream like a child believing in fairy tales. But the truth doesn’t care about dreams.

There are no guarantees. Not for Ray. Not for anyone going into that fight. Yet there is a flicker of hope that sparks inside me. Tiny and fragile, but alive.

It’s like he’s feeding a fire inside me. By the way he holds me like I’m the only thing that matters. By the way he speaks of fighting not for glory or pride—but for us. I cling to that fire, praying it will be enough to see him through the night. Because I’ve never wanted anything more than that ride to New York.

With him. Alive. Free.

32

STACY

I’m worried.

No—that’s not strong enough.

I’m terrified.

My stomach twists with dread, an invisible vice squeezing tighter with every minute that passes.

This wasn’t supposed to be a drawn-out battle—no careful war strategies, no lines in the sand. Just instinct versus instinct. Claw against claw. Blood, dirt, and muscle.

And yet… there’s nothing. No howls of victory. No scent of returning wolves. Only the soft rustle of wind through the trees and the hollow coo of a distant cuckoo.

Even the forest feels wrong. It’s too still, like it’s holding its breath.

“Relax, Red,” Erica says, leaning against the porch railing, arms crossed like she hasn’t a care in the world. “I’m sure they’re all right. It’s not their first rodeo.”

I stop pacing, whip around, and glare—heat rising to my cheeks.

“Rodeo? Are you kidding me? They may be dying out there, and you’re calling it a rodeo?”

She flinches at my tone, her casual facade slipping.

“Hey, don’t get upset on me, girl,” she says, her voice softening. “They’ve done this before. They’re experienced. They know what they’re doing.”

“You should have gone with them,” I snap, the words cutting sharper than I mean them. “They need you and your witch powers. You know they could’ve used you.”

She tightens her jaw, eyes narrowing. She straightens, squaring her shoulders.

“I know,” she says, meeting my angry look with her own. “But Sammy didn’t want me there.”

“Since when do you take orders from?—”