Page 23

KATE

T he morning light crawls across the bedroom wall, catching on the curve of Hudson’s shoulder where he sleeps beside me.

His scent still clings to my skin—pine, musk, something darker.

Something… mine. I lie there, barely breathing, heart thudding loud enough to count. It should feel like peace. Like safety.

But all I can think about is Luke.

Last night, after Hudson turned out the light, I lay curled against him, pretending to sleep while my mind whirled.

His breath was slow and steady at my back, one arm slung over my waist. I could tell he wasn’t asleep either.

His nearness should have comforted me. Instead, the darkness crept in around the edges of my calm.

"You keep thinking so loud I’m going to start charging rent," I murmured against Hudson’s shoulder, trying to make light of the storm churning in my chest. My voice came out rougher than I intended.

He moved slightly, his arm tightening around my waist. "You’re not wrong," he said. "But we both know he’s still out there."

I nodded, the words sitting like stones in my throat. "Yeah. We do. So why hasn’t he come to me?"

"Maybe because whatever he’s into—he thinks it’d kill you."

That sat in my chest like ice. I rolled to face him, traced the stubble along his jaw. He caught my wrist, kissed the inside.

"I’ve got you now," he said. "We’ll find him. You’re not doing it alone. Not anymore."

He kissed me then—slow, deep, anchoring. And I let him. Let the heat between us quiet everything else. But even as his hands roamed, even as his body pressed against mine like he was trying to erase the world for a little while, Luke’s shadow lingered in the corners of the room.

I’d never said goodbye to Luke. Not properly, but then I hadn't known he was leaving. And now I was starting to wonder if I’d ever get the chance.

This morning, I wake to the ache of last night—the way Hudson held me like I was breakable and bulletproof all at once.

The way his lips tried to soothe the fear he couldn’t quite chase away.

And the way, even in Hudson’s arms, Luke’s shadow still pressed against my ribs.

I wake to the sting of questions unanswered and the knowing that peace, for me, is always temporary.

I turn onto my back, eyes tracing the sleek ceiling overhead—clean, well-kept, like everything else in the Rawlings compound.

No cracks, no stains, no visible flaws. But it doesn’t matter.

I’m not looking for imperfections—I’m searching for distractions.

That sealed surveillance device Hudson found—that Luke planted—shoved all the questions I’d tried to bury straight back into the center of my chest. And now they’re sitting there like a stone I can’t swallow.

Luke was watching us. Still is, maybe. And I can’t figure out if that makes me angry or just heartbroken. What were you doing, Luke? What were you trying to protect me from?

I close my eyes, and the memory rushes in like it’s been waiting. That day on the bridge. Luke standing just to the left of Hudson, the two of them younger, harder-edged. They’d fought—over me, of course. Hudson wanted something. Luke didn’t trust him. Typical big brother move.

But it was the way Luke looked at me afterward.

Like he knew. Like he saw something coming that none of us could stop.

I was seventeen and furious and tired of being treated like a baby.

But he wasn’t just being overprotective.

He was worried. That memory—him standing rigid, fists balled, watching Hudson walk away—burns hotter now than it did then.

Because maybe he wasn’t just being a pain in the ass.

Maybe he was already running. Already pulling at threads that were wrapping around his neck.

The shower hisses on in the attached bath. Hudson has managed to get up and move without my noticing while I’m musing to myself. I sit on the edge of the bed, my feet brushing the old floorboards. Then I stand, dress, and leave without a sound.

Elena’s apartment over the bookstore smells like roasted coffee, worn leather, and lavender—like memory and comfort and something sharper underneath. She raises an eyebrow when she sees me, but says nothing. Just steps aside.

“I need answers,” I say.

“I figured.” She gestures toward the kettle on the stove. “Tea’s hot.”

“I’m not here for tea.”

“No, you’re here to shake the dust off ghosts.”

We sit. Or rather, I perch on the edge of her armchair, every muscle tight, my foot bouncing while Elena moves with the glacial patience of someone who’s holding more answers than she's ready to give. She pours tea into two mismatched mugs—one chipped at the rim, the other stained at the bottom from too many refills. Her hands are steady, her face unreadable. I don’t touch mine.

The scent of bergamot wafts up anyway, irritatingly calm in the face of everything twisting inside me.

“Elena,” I say carefully, “how deeply were you involved with Luke?”

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look surprised. Just sets the kettle down with a quiet finality, clicks off the burner like she’s been waiting for this moment longer than I’ve known, and takes a long sip of her tea—buying time, maybe. Or bracing herself.

“I loved him,” she says finally.

The words hit hard, sharper than I expect.

She’s never said it before—not to me, not to anyone, I’d bet.

Her voice didn’t break, but something in her eyes flickered like it wanted to.

For a second, I see past the sharp edges and steady hands.

I see grief. I see love that never got the ending it deserved.

And suddenly, I’m not just angry for me. I’m angry for her, too.

“And he trusted you.”

She nods. “He did.”

“So where did he go?”

“That’s not an answer I have.”

“Elena.” I lean forward. “Don’t stall me. Not now.”

She exhales, slow and ragged, like she’s about to do something she promised herself she never would.

Then she leans forward and reaches beneath the cushion of the chair, her hand disappearing into the shadows there.

When her hand reappears, she holds a small, worn tin box, dented at the edges, as if it has spent too long in a pocket that weathered too many storms. She opens it with a quiet snap.

Inside, nestled between old receipts, yellowed notes, and a photograph of Luke I didn’t know she had, is a sealed USB drive.

She stares at it for a second, thumb brushing the metal, and I realize this isn’t just a handoff. It’s a confession. A release. A goodbye she never got to give.

“I went looking for answers after he disappeared. I found this. There was a note wrapped around it telling me not to open it unless things got... bad.”

“Give me your definition of bad... because I'm thinking when he disappeared without a trace would qualify for bad.”

She looks me dead in the eye. “I understand what you're saying, but he was gone, so I thought I should just hold on to it. But with how spooky everything seems right now, now would be the time.”

I take the flash drive. It feels heavier than it should.

“Be careful with that, Kate. Whatever’s on it—he was afraid of it.”

At the store, I find Hank perched on the counter, one foot planted firmly in a half-crushed box of granola bars, his beady eyes sharp as ever. He glares at me, lets out a low, indignant honk, then resumes picking apart the wrapper with his beak. Determined, chaotic, and completely unfazed.

“Hey,” I say softly, crouching near the counter. “We’re moving.”

He tilts his head, blinks, and honks again—quieter this time. Then, with a flutter of wings, he hops down from the counter to the floor, webbed feet slapping softly against the tile. He waddles in a slow circle before pecking at my boot. I take it as understanding.

“To the compound. Safer there. Less chance of you getting mistaken for some rogue snack.”

In the backroom, I dig through a storage drawer until I find what I’m looking for—an old strip of red leather I’d been saving.

I cut it, punch a few holes, and fasten a small buckle.

Not because Hank is a pet, but because if anyone in the Rawlings pack sees a goose flapping through their woods without a mark, someone might decide he’s dinner.

He watches me with suspicious patience while I loop it around his long neck, craning his head in that sassy, jerky way only Hank can manage.

The collar settles snug just above the base of his feathers.

He honks once—sharp and offended—and hops backward a step.

Then he fans his wings wide and flaps hard, sending a burst of wind into my face, like he's making a point.

A beat later, he gives me a side-eye glare, ruffles his feathers, and stands there like a smug little statue.

Still his own bird. Still ungovernable.

“I know,” I mutter, adjusting the fit. “You’re still free. You’re still a menace. Just... don’t get eaten, okay?”

He lets out a snort-honk that sounds like agreement. Or insult. Hard to tell with Hank.

Still, he doesn’t shake the collar off.

We head towards the Rawlings’ compound in the late afternoon, the truck rattling down the gravel lane with a low, familiar hum.

The shadows stretch long across the dashboard as the sun slips behind the ridgeline in molten streaks of orange and gold.

I roll the window halfway down, letting in the crisp air and the scent of pine and earth.

Hank snoozes in the passenger seat, beak tucked beneath his wing, his round body bobbing gently with every bump in the road.

His soft, rhythmic honks are more like sleepy sighs now, barely audible under the low rumble of the engine.

Every so often, he moves and adjusts his wings, rustling softly like leaves in the wind.

It should be peaceful. The kind of quiet that comes at the end of a long day. But it isn’t. The silence presses too heavy against the windows, like the woods themselves are holding their breath.

When I hit the old fire road, the change in my surroundings is almost instant. The shadows stretch longer, deeper. The trees crowd closer to the road like they’re trying to hide something—or trap me in. My pulse spikes, sharp and instinctive.

The hairs on my arms rise. Not from cold. From danger.

Something’s wrong. Deep wrong. The kind that crawls up your spine and whispers run.

The air is too still—dead still. No wind to rustle the pines. No birdsong. Not even the scrape of branches against the truck. Just silence, thick and unnatural, like the woods are waiting for something awful to happen.

Even Hank stirs, feathers puffing as he lifts his head, uneasy. His tail twitches once, twice.

I glance in the rearview mirror.

At first—nothing.

Then—there. A flicker. Movement.

A dark vehicle, hugging the curve of the road several car lengths back. Low profile. No lights. Windows blacked out like eyes that don’t blink.

A predator’s silhouette.

My grip tightens on the wheel until my knuckles ache. My pulse jumps, fast and shallow, like prey scent on the air.

“Wake up,” I whisper.

Hank lifts his head, feathers ruffling as he blinks groggily and lets out a low, confused honk. His eyes flick toward the windshield, head tilting in quick, sharp jerks like he’s trying to lock onto something I can’t see yet.

“We’re being followed.”

The fire road narrows. Trees crowd close. No place to turn off.

Unless...

I slam the brakes so hard the tires scream, gravel spraying like shrapnel as the truck fishtails sideways.

The wheel jerks under my grip, fighting me, but I don’t let go.

I wrench it hard, forcing the vehicle into a jarring skid toward the tree line.

My heart hammers. Adrenaline screams in my veins.

Before the truck fully stops, I’m already moving. I throw the door open so hard it slams against its hinges, then hit the ground running, boots pounding dirt and instinct snapping into place like teeth around a throat.

“Fly, Hank!”

He launches skyward without a word.

I sprint toward the trees, heart in my throat and blood roaring in my ears. The shift comes not with pain, but with power—an eruption of sensation as the world explodes in a kaleidoscope of color. Shards of lightning crack through the air, a roll of thunder echoing low and deep in my chest.

Mist rises around me, curling over my skin like smoke with weight. My breath catches, not from fear, but from the rush of becoming wolf. One step I’m flesh and frantic energy—the next, I’m fur and focus, instinct honed to a razor's edge.

And then I’m the wolf.

But not the red wolf I grew up knowing—this is different. More muscle coils under my fur, power radiating through limbs built for crashing through brush and outrunning danger. Gray fur, streaked with the tawny marks that mark my lineage now, ripples with every stride.

I feel heavier. Stronger. Feral in a way the red never was.

When I used to run, it was for escape. Now, I run with teeth bared and shoulders braced for the fight. This body was made for war.

I tear into the trees, heart pounding, paws digging into moss and dirt. The wind howls in my ears. Behind me, tires screech.

But they won’t catch me.

Let them try.

I’ll lead them straight into hell if I have to.