Page 24

HUDSON

T he front porch of the compound is calm—eerily so. The kind of quiet that feels like it’s holding its breath.

Inside, I’m elbow-deep in tech reports, analyzing cross-referenced satellite pings and motion-trigger logs with two of my most trusted pack analysts.

Screens glow in the dim room, numbers ticking like heartbeats, but I’m not seeing anything useful yet.

My jaw tightens as I lean back, rubbing the tension from my temples, pulse drumming low in my ears.

Every dead-end scan sharpens my frustration until it scrapes and claws inside my brain.

Frustration claws at the back of my neck.

Then it hits—sharp, high-pitched, and violent enough to send a bolt of awareness snapping through my spine. The sound knifes through the quiet like a warning shot—something alive and wild and absolutely not random. A sound born of panic and purpose.

Not just noise. A message.

Unmistakable.

A honk. Piercing. Followed by another. Closer. Louder.

Urgent.

I freeze. Because no ordinary goose makes a sound like that.

A second later, someone barrels down the hallway behind me, the frantic rhythm of their boots slamming the hardwood echoing off the walls like warning drums. My head snaps toward the sound, hackles rising before they even speak.

Every instinct in me is already on edge, keyed to the kind of alarm that doesn’t wait for an explanation—only action.

“Sir,” one of the younger wolves pants, out of breath, “something’s on the porch—fast, loud. Might be a bird, but it’s going wild.”

The change in his scent is subtle, but unmistakable. His elevated pulse and clipped breathing silently broadcast a warning that his words haven’t yet caught up to. He doesn’t just think it’s a threat. He feels it in his bones. And that tells me all I need to know.

I’m already moving before he finishes the sentence.

Something primal and electric roaring to life beneath my skin.

My vision narrows, senses locking in like crosshairs.

No hesitation, no second thoughts—just the raw, undeniable pull of purpose driving me forward, every nerve fired up like I’ve been lit from the inside.

A sharp honk. Then another. Aggressive. Urgent.

By the time I hit the wide front door and yank it open, a shot’s already being lined up.

“Stand down!” I bark, stepping in front of the barrel.

The guy freezes, finger twitching just shy of the trigger.

A Canada goose stands on the porch, wings spread wide, feathers puffed, honking like it’s calling down the gods.

The sound echoes off the compound’s front wall, sharp and jarring, rattling the windows and drawing startled gasps from anyone within earshot.

It’s wild, relentless—more alarm than animal.

But it’s the flash of red around its neck that locks everything into place.

It appears to be some kind of collar, and there’s only one goose I know who would have a red collar—Hank.

My stomach drops.

“That’s Hank. He's Kate's pet goose,” I growl. “If anyone lays so much as a finger on him, they answer to me. You get me?”

The guy lowers the rifle, blinking. “A... goose, sir?”

“Not just a goose. Family.”

Hank spots me. Lets out a screech-honk that rattles windows, then charges.

A knot tightens in my chest. That’s not just Hank being dramatic. It’s fear. Panic. Urgency. He’s never acted like this before—and the flash of red around his neck only makes it worse. Dread coils low in my gut as I brace for impact, already knowing this isn’t just a warning. It’s a call for help.

Wings flapping like war flags, he barrels straight toward me.

I brace instinctively, but the little bastard doesn’t stop. He crashes into my shin, beak open, wings smacking my leg like he’s scolding me for crimes against goosekind. What the hell?

“Something’s wrong,” I mutter. “Something’s very wrong.”

I crouch, look him in the eye. “Where is she?”

Hank honks again, flaps his wings, and launches.

He circles above the compound once, twice, then arcs back toward the woods with a series of wild, frantic cries.

I don’t waste time.

Thunder booms through my ribs like it’s echoing straight out of my chest, a deep, ancient drumbeat that calls something feral to the surface.

Lightning forks behind my eyes, not just seen, but felt—streaking white-hot through my blood.

The transformation hits not with pain, but with a surge of elemental force.

Mist coils up from the ground like summoned smoke, alive with shards of silver and violet, the air crackling with energy that lifts the hair on my arms. It wraps around me, swallowing human thought and skin, until all that’s left is instinct and hunger and purpose.

Everything soft and civilized rips away, leaving only power in its place.

And when the storm inside me clears, I am the wolf—every sinew primed, every instinct razor-sharp. I don’t just see the world—I feel it. Every sound, every scent, every vibration through the dirt.

I crouch for a breath; the wind brushing against my muzzle, rich with pine and Kate and something darker on the edges. Then I explode forward, four paws pounding the earth, gray fur rippling over tight muscle, claws chewing into the trail like it's trying to hold me back—and failing.

Hank is a blur in the sky, banking hard left as we approach the tree line. My muscles coil and release like pistons, the wind slicing past my ears.

I catch the first trace of her scent at the edge of the woods—sharp, familiar, laced with adrenaline.

She’s close.

My heart slams. My wolf howls inside my chest.

And then I see her.

She bursts through the trees like a shadow set loose, her new gray coat catching flecks of light between the branches—thicker, stronger, built for force over speed.

There’s more muscle in her frame now, more power in every stride.

She’s still stunning, but in a way that commands respect and sets every instinct inside me on fire.

My breath catches in my throat—relief and awe slamming into my chest all at once.

She’s here. She’s alive. And even after everything, my heart stutters like I’m seeing her for the first time.

My mate. Her eyes catch mine for half a second, and that tether between us pulls taut.

I follow her without a sound, matching her stride for stride until we reach the back trail to the house. She shifts mid-run, the swirl of mist catching the late afternoon sun and by the time she hits the porch, she’s Kate again—naked, strong, radiant.

Hank lands beside her, panting, feathers ruffled, and rubs his head against her thigh like a dog.

I shift as I bound up after her, mist curling around me like a secret. When I step onto the porch, I’m a man again—bare feet, wild hair, and the bite of wind on my skin.

She turns.

One of our people hands her a robe, which she ties around herself. Another tosses me a pair of sweatpants.

“I’m okay,” she says, tying the robe. Her voice shakes. “But that was too close.”

I pull on the sweatpants and cross the space in a blink, take her face in my hands. “What happened?”

“I was being followed. Black SUV. No plates. I shifted to lose them.”

I kiss her. Hard. Fierce.

Hank honks and flaps at our knees like he’s telling us to take it inside already.

We do.

The shower is hot, and so is the arousal and feeling that flows between us.

We press against each other beneath the spray, mouths hungry, bodies slick and straining with need.

But it’s more than just heat—it’s the desperate kind of closeness that follows a scare you can’t quite name.

I need her, not just physically, but soul-deep, to know she’s alive, here, safe in my arms. And she needs to feel it too—how tightly we’re bound, how hard I’d fight to keep her with me.

I feel the silkiness of her skin under my palms, and her body fits mine perfectly.

The water washes away the grime of the day, but not the hunger—it only amplifies it.

Her nails rake down my back, sharp and claiming, while I trail my mouth along her throat, my mark there throbbing faintly between kisses.

"Mine," I whisper into her skin, and she moans like it’s the only truth that matters.

I grip her hips, lift her easily, and she wraps her legs around me with practiced ease, breath hitching when I press her against the slick tile. "You need me?" I murmur against her lips.

"Always," she breathes.

I thrust into her in one smooth, claiming stroke, and her cry is raw, reverent.

She clings to me, forehead to mine, until we’re moving in a rhythm that’s less about lust and more about anchoring.

Every motion, every gasp, every whisper between us sharpens the bond—makes it feel even more real, more permanent.

We fall together in a crescendo of motion and heat.

Her body shudders around mine as she comes apart. I bury my face in her neck, teeth grazing the mark I left there, not breaking skin this time—just reminding her, and myself, of what we are.

Bound. Claimed. Forever.

“I was frightened,” she admits, her voice softer now. “But then I realized something—I wasn’t running like I used to. I was faster. Stronger. The gray wolf… she’s got muscle and instinct the red never had.”

She gasps as I press her harder into the tile, her tone changing from thoughtful to teasing in a heartbeat.

We tangle and twist, steam curling around our feet like the mist of the shift itself. She wraps her legs around my hips, pulls me deeper, harder, every breath a gasp, every movement a plea and a promise. Her body clenches around me, tight and wet and perfect, and I feel her shake.

Her moan rips through the air as she falls apart, nails digging into my back, thighs trembling against my hips. I hold her through it, driving into her with the kind of force that says she’s mine—claimed, cherished, and never alone.

The second wave crashes over her, and she cries out my name again, ragged and breathless.

That’s all it takes.