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Erica lifts both hands again. “No, ma’am.”

“Then I suggest you shut up,” Monica says, all sugar and menace. “Pregnant. Sleep-deprived. Raging with hormones. Youreallydon’t want to test me.”

I’m still laughing, but the sound softens as Erica’s words echo in my head. Three out of three. It sounds ridiculous. Like a silly competition. And yet… it has a certain ring to it.

Not because I want to complete the set. Not because I want a trophy. I just want a chance. A night. A moment. Just me and him. No interference. No jokes. No brothers barging in. No Erica turning everything into a sex joke.

Just quiet. Just Ray. Just… maybe.

If I’m lucky, he’ll let me see whatever it is he hides behind that teasing grin.

Maybe I’ll even get to touch it. Or maybe I’ll burn trying.

4

RAY

Lunch with the humans? Not happening. No way.

I don’t care what Raul or Sam say—I’m not going. Let them argue, guilt-trip me, throw brotherly concern in my face. It still won’t matter. I’ve been counting the hours until Stacy leaves this mountain. I’m not about to sit across from her, force a smile, and pretend everything’s fine just because my brothers think my absence might hurt her feelings.

They don’t get it, and I do not give a shit if they do or don’t. As I leave Raul’s cabin, I hear the familiar rumble of my beast stirring beneath my skin. A low pulse builds in my gut—not for escape, but for space. For the wild. For air that hasn’t touched walls.

Let me out.

His voice isn’t words exactly, just instinct crashing through like a wave. He wants to run. To tear through trees, taste the wind, vanish into earth and scent and sky. It’s his nature.

I push the wolf down, though not cruelly. What I need is the opposite—stillness. Control. Space to think. We’re the same, himand I. He’s just louder when the world feels like it’s spinning off its axis.

My boots crunch against the dirt as I put distance between myself and the cabins, heading toward the woods where I’ve always been more at home than any building. Sunlight flickers through the thick canopy in narrow slants, casting long shadows across the undergrowth. A few golden beams punch through the green and paint soft halos over dead leaves, mossy rocks, patches of fern.

Cool air kisses my skin the moment I cross into the shade. The hush of the forest wraps around welcoming with its gentle quiet. Peace. Closing my eyes, I envision the tension draining from my body. Enjoying the air, I give myself a moment before putting my attention on my reason for coming.

I came to find her. The Witch of Crawford, Helena.

“She sneaks up on you when you least expect it.”

Sam’s voice echoes in my memory. He’s said that more than once, like some reverent mantra. He talks about Helena like she’s a living myth, a force of nature with lipstick and magic in her blood. He’s never tried to hide his awe and I don’t think he could if he wanted to.

My eyes scan the trees automatically, searching for her shape. That lean frame, that dark hair—Helena, the witch in black. The one who saved this place. The one everyone talks about in hushed, grateful tones. The forest is still and empty. She’s not here. I know she hasn’t been seen for weeks.

Which doesn’t really surprise me. After she defeated Roberta Connors, stopped the darkness that nearly swallowed our world—she could’ve taken a throne if she had wanted. Could havestayed and basked in the admiration of every shifter and human in a fifty-mile radius.

That’s not Helena, though. She had slipped away to my grandfather Edward’s hidden retreat. Back to silence and solitude. Exactly where I wish I was.

“Hey, you.” Her voice cuts through the quiet like light through leaves—sharp, sudden, unwelcome.

No. No, not now.

There’s no mistaking her voice or her scent. I turn slowly, jaw tight, spine stiffening even before my eyes confirm what I already know.

Stacy.

She crosses the invisible line between forest and human world with an effortless strut like she owns the ground beneath her. Striding forward with her eyes locked onto me.

“Sam said I might find you here,” she says, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Then he’s in for an earful,” I mutter, turning away.