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HUDSON

T he scent hits me as I step out of my truck up on Sorrow Ridge—faint, unfamiliar, and laced with something that doesn’t belong.

It’s not rot, not quite. More like old blood soaked into cedar, masked in cheap pine oil and poor intentions.

I slow, boots grinding into the frost-hardened earth.

The air’s too still, too clean. Wild Hollow always smells like damp stone, pine needles, and ash.

This? This is artificial. Covered up. Wrong.

A second scent hangs lower in the mix—faint but acidic.

Old sweat and iron, almost metallic. Like someone nervous.

Or bleeding. It clings low to the ground, lingering near the moss like it’s trying to hide.

Not fresh, but not old enough to ignore.

It crawls through me in a way I can’t shake—like prey just realizing it’s being hunted. Too late to run.

I kneel near the base of an old marker stone, the kind that’s been standing longer than the county lines, etched by claw and hand back when pack law carried more weight than any man’s decree.

It’s covered in moss, a soft green shroud, but I can still make out the symbols beneath. Worn. Faded. Sacred.

Except this one shows signs of tampering.

Deep gouges cut across the stone—not natural erosion or weather, but fresh, angry slashes meant to deface. It’s like someone wanted to erase the past… or provoke the ones still loyal to it.

The scratch marks are fresh. Deep. Not random—deliberate. A message, maybe. Or a challenge. They cut through the moss like someone was in a hurry but wanted it to last.

I let my hand hover over it, not touching. The scent is here too. Weak but present. Someone’s crossed into protected land—and they didn’t bother to ask. It’s pack land. Not Rawlings-owned or leased, but sacred ground written into bloodlines. It belongs to no one and yet it is ours nonetheless.

My wolf pushes against my skin, restless.

Curious. Not just about the scent, but about her.

About why my pulse hasn’t settled since she appeared with fire in her eyes and that goose at her side.

The need to shift, to feel the forest from the inside out, isn't just instinct. It’s a distraction.

One that doesn’t work nearly as well as it used to.

I step behind a dense thicket and remove and fold my clothes neatly—habit. Practical. Necessary. They won’t come with me. Shifting strips everything away, including the fabric and flesh of human life. When the mist rises, all that’s left is the wolf.

The change comes easier for me than most. My wolf never fights the shift—it waits for it, hungry.

Still, I fold the clothes. Maybe it’s about control.

Or maybe it’s just a reminder that I’m shifting back—that there’s a man who walks this forest too, not just a beast.

The first time I learned that lesson, I wasn’t careful.

I shifted back in a clearing, surrounded by three of the old pack elders, naked as the day I was born with nothing but a single pine branch and a bruised ego.

My old alpha tossed me a hoodie and jeans, saying nothing, but the disappointment was loud enough to stick.

Lesson learned.

The shift comes easy, like exhaling tension into the ground.

The mist rolls up around me—cool and charged, curling with streaks of pale silver.

Thunder rumbles low, distant but real, as the world fades and the forest sharpens.

Energy gathers in my bones, lightning-bright and fast, and when the mist drops, I’m running.

Gray fur, fast breath, wind in my ears. I’m big in this form—taller at the shoulder than most, built like a boulder with claws.

My coat is thick, storm-colored, threaded with pale silver along the ridge and tail.

My eyes stay the same—ice-pale, sharp. The kind that makes prey freeze and challengers think twice.

I move silent, fast, each paw a whisper against the forest floor.

The trees part for me, and the cold doesn’t bite as deep when I run like this—born to the wild, spine humming with instinct and purpose. The man thinks. The wolf knows.

Everything is clearer now. The scent leads north, shallow prints pressed into the frozen ground.

They veer just enough to suggest intention, not accident.

Whoever left them moved through here with purpose, not panic.

I follow, low to the ground, every step silent, body aligned with the rhythm of the wild.

Frost cracks softly beneath each pad, but I stay fluid—a shadow stitched into the trees.

My nose stays close to the trail, drinking in every broken pine needle and overturned leaf.

The prints pause once, near a ridge of rock—a hesitation.

A decision point. Then they push forward, deeper into Rawlings pack-protected land.

This isn’t just a boundary violation. This is a test. A provocation.

And I’ve never been one to walk away from either.

Whoever came this way didn’t care who they pissed off.

They crossed a line etched in blood and memory, one the pack still honors even if the world forgets.

That kind of boldness isn’t random. It’s calculated.

Which means someone wants to be noticed.

Or worse—wants to start something they think they can finish.

I track the scent for miles—over streambeds crusted with black ice, across fallen logs frozen into the forest floor, weaving through the tight choke of pine and laurel until the branches claw at my flanks.

Partway in, the trail doubles back—sharp, deliberate, crossing itself at an angle designed to confuse.

Whoever laid it knew exactly what they were doing.

It’s not a desperate run; it’s bait. A lure.

A challenge. The kind of move that says, ‘Come find me’ —and I’ve never been one to turn down a dare.

The prints end at another stone marker, this one older than the last, crumbling and half-swallowed by roots gnarled like arthritic fingers.

These stones weren’t just territorial—they were oaths.

Set by hand and claw when the first packs bound themselves to this land.

But they too have been marked by deep gouges.

Moss climbs the face like it’s trying to hide the past etched beneath.

The scent dies here too—abrupt, like someone stepped out of existence or vanished into thin air.

That means nothing good.

They were here for a reason. The question churns in the back of my skull, heavy as a coming storm. Not just scouting. Not just passing through. Whoever it was, they came with purpose—and left without a trace. That doesn’t happen by accident. Not in my territory.

Fifteen minutes later, I crest a rise overlooking Old Buck Hollow, where the trees knot together like fingers clenching a secret. It’s the kind of place stories come from—the old ones told in low voices over moonshine and firelight. Nothing here moves. Not the wind. Not the leaves. Not the birds.

I shift back slowly; the mist swirling thick around me before fading. It leaves me crouched and bare in the damp leaves, steam rising off my skin where heat meets cold. The air bites hard now, and there's no coat, no boots—nothing but skin and instinct. I ignore the sting. I’ve endured worse.

I crouch low and reach down, brushing moss off the stone, every movement quiet, watchful. More gouges. Someone appears to be marking something—new territory? Trail routes? They were here for a reason. But what?

A twig snaps behind me. The sound cuts sharply through the quiet, but the scent hits first—citrus, warm spice, something that curls low in my gut like heat meeting gasoline. I know it before I see her. Kate. I could find her blindfolded.

And there it is—that damn buzzing in my skull, the subtle change in the air, the pull like a hook lodged somewhere behind my ribs.

I felt it earlier, tried to dismiss it as adrenaline, as memory, as anything else.

But standing here, naked and already half undone, there’s no use pretending.

That dizziness, the disorientation, the way everything around her feels louder, sharper—it’s the mark of being in the presence of a fated mate.

And it pisses me off.

I didn’t think fate had a mate left for me.

Didn’t believe I’d ever feel this. Not after everything I’ve seen, everything I’ve done.

I thought I had sealed that door shut a long time ago.

But here she is. And here I am—relieved in some raw, stupid part of me, and annoyed as hell at the rest. Because of course it’s her.

Of course it’s Kate McKinley, all sass and wildfire and stubborn smiles.

The universe must have a twisted sense of humor.

I don’t bother turning. “You following me now, McKinley?”

Her voice comes like warm whiskey. It slides over me, low and steady, and something in my gut clenches.

My body reacts before my brain catches up—tightening, warming, wanting.

I try to will it down, but I’m naked in every sense of the word, and her scent—sharp citrus and something sun-warmed—is not helping.

“You’re not the only one who noticed the markers had been tampered with.”

I rise to my feet and turn, slow and steady.

Kate stands ten feet away, and I can feel the heat of her gaze before I meet it.

Her eyes sweep over me—broad chest, scarred arms, every exposed inch of skin—and linger just a beat too long at my hips.

Her cheeks darken, but she doesn’t look away.

If anything, she lifts her chin like she dares me to call her on it.

She sees everything. The muscles tight from shifting, the steam still rising off my skin, the visible result of her presence and the way it’s messing with every instinct I’ve got.

My arousal’s impossible to hide, and she notices it—blinks once, slow, but doesn’t flinch.

That almost undoes me more than anything.