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KATE

M y family’s history is interwoven with Wild Hollow like moonshine in mason jars—unofficial, unfiltered, and just dangerous enough to be respected.

We weren’t the kind that held council seats or threw our weight around in meetings.

We were the kind that got things done in the shadows, behind barns and under the cover of the mists or fog.

Moonshiners, smugglers, poker cheats and charmers—we’ve been called worse. And most of it’s true.

But not all of it.

Some of us wanted something more. Something different.

Like my brother, Luke.

Luke McKinley wasn’t like the rest of the family. He questioned everything—the way the pack handled disputes, the old rituals no one could explain. Said rules without reason were just chains.

I remember once when we were kids, we found a wounded fox caught in a snare behind the east ridge.

The rest of us wanted to put it down quick—clean, merciful.

But Luke? He sat with it for hours, hands bloody, trying to free it without causing more pain.

Said we owed it that much. That there was a difference between mercy and convenience.

It was the first time I saw he thought differently—felt deeper.

That he couldn’t walk away from something broken, not without trying to fix it.

He was sharp, introspective, always thinking ten steps ahead.

He’d sit at the edge of the porch for hours, staring out at the tree line like it might offer answers none of us were ready to hear.

Where most of us leaned into the McKinley legacy of moonshine and mischief, Luke wanted something more.

He didn’t just talk about change—he believed in it.

Said Wild Hollow deserved better. Said we did, too.

I didn’t always understand him. But I trusted him.

And then he was gone.

He used to fix things. Radios. Trucks. People.

Said it was all about understanding the pieces and how they fit.

Said the pack didn’t need more rules—it needed more repair.

I still remember him crouched over an old CB radio in the store's back room, grease on his hands, saying, “Kate, if you fix the little things, the big ones won’t fall apart.”

I didn’t know then that he was already falling apart himself.

That the fire in his voice when he talked about change was covering for the cracks beneath.

That every late-night drive, every unanswered question, every time he stared out at the mountains for too long was a sign he was unraveling.

He smiled less. Argued more. Started showing up late to family dinners, smelling like anxiety and whiskey.

And I—I was too busy trying to keep the store afloat to notice he was slipping through our fingers like water. By the time I did, he was already gone.

My brother had a restless edge, a fire that didn’t want to burn crooked like the rest of us. He talked about getting out, about going legit. Said the pack could be more than just whispers in the shadows and old grudges wrapped in fur.

The Hollow needed better, he said—needed people willing to stop pretending the old ways worked just because they were old.

He had ideas. Plans. Kept notebooks full of diagrams and half-formed strategies.

Used to show them to me late at night when the store was quiet, and the moon was high.

Sometimes he’d pace, too keyed up to sit, muttering about how we needed structure, balance, a future that didn’t look like the past in wolf’s clothing.

But then he disappeared.

One day he was arguing with Waylon in the back lot; the next, he was gone.

They all said he left. Got tired of Wild Hollow and finally took off, but I never believed that. Not for a second.

“Stop digging, Kate,” Waylon snaps, slamming a case of canned beans on the counter hard enough to make Hank honk and flutter up onto the register.

I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m not digging. I’m remembering.”

“Same damn thing,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand through his beard. “Luke’s gone. You keep stirring that pot, you’re gonna get someone burned.”

“Maybe it’s time some things caught fire.” I shoot back, low and steady. It lands heavy between us, thick with defiance. “You two had it out the day before he vanished. What was that fight about, Waylon?”

He flinches, just a tick—barely enough to catch if you didn’t know him.

But I do. I’ve seen that look before—on faces trying not to lie.

The way his jaw locks, the way his eyes dart just a little too quick to the left.

It’s a tell, sharp and fleeting. A crack in the armor I’ve spent my whole life learning to read.

It tells me there’s something he doesn’t want me digging into. Something dangerous. Something about Luke.

“Let it go,” he says. “Luke made his choice.”

“You mean the choice to disappear without a trace? Without saying goodbye to me? Not even a damn note. He left me staring at an empty chair at breakfast, pretending he was just late. I waited hours before I let myself call it what it was. And even then, I didn’t believe it. I still don’t.”

Waylon leans in, voice low. “You think the new sheriff’s gonna save you if you go poking into things best left buried?”

I blink and feel my pulse rise. Not fear—fury. The kind that starts low and burns hot, the kind that doesn’t back down. “This is about Hudson now?”

“You think we don’t remember the way you used to look at him? The way folks around town still say you do?”

Heat flares in my cheeks. “I look at everyone like they’re trouble.”

But even as I say it, the question burns in the back of my mind: how many people are watching me, really? And why? Is it just the McKinley name? My inability to rein in my smart mouth? Or is it something else—something tied to Luke, to the things he knew and the questions I keep asking?

What secrets was he close to? Who did he threaten without realizing it?

Because the way Waylon said it, the way his eyes flicked just a little too knowingly—it wasn’t just about Hudson.

It was about them . Whoever they are. And whatever they want, I’m starting to think it’s got nothing to do with me—and everything to do with what Luke left behind.

“Yeah, but you’re smiling when you talk about him.”

I scoff, turning away. “You’re full of shit, Waylon.”

He doesn’t argue. Just slams the door on his way out, rattling the bell like it owes him money.

The sound echoes too long in the silence he leaves behind, and I hate how it makes my skin itch.

Hank honks once in disdain and settles back onto the counter, glaring at the door like he expects someone else to walk in behind Waylon.

I stare at the door a second longer, pulse skittering.

How many people are watching me, really?

And how long have they been doing it? Is it just the old guard, trying to keep the McKinleys in their box?

Or are there more eyes in the dark now—curious ones, suspicious ones, waiting for me to step wrong?

Whatever Waylon isn’t saying... it’s painting a target I can’t quite see.

The McKinleys had always seen themselves as sovereign from the Rawlings pack. They hadn’t answered to the Rawlings pack in years—not officially. Which really meant we played by our own rules and answered to no one.

“Don’t give me that look,” I mutter. “He’s being cagey as hell.”

Hank lets out a quiet coo and flaps his wings, the sound low and almost sympathetic.

He waddles a step closer on the counter, puffing up like he’s ready to defend me from ghosts or gossip, whichever comes first. I scratch behind his head absently, grateful for the soft weight of his presence.

He’s not just a goose. He’s family. One of the few I trust without question.

“Yeah,” I murmur. “Me too.”

I grab my coat and a basket of preserves and canned peaches for the widow Ridley.

She’s been alone since last spring, and the least I can do is help keep her shelves stocked.

The trail there cuts near one of the old boundary lines—the kind etched more in memory and blood than on maps.

The kind that used to mean something, back when there were rules about where humans, shifters, and secrets belonged—and when those who broke them knew what it cost. I used to wonder if those lines were about safety or power.

Lately, I’m not so sure they weren’t both.

The mist is heavier today. It clings low to the ground, thick enough to muffle footsteps and memory.

I adjust the weight of the basket in my arms, fingers tightening around the handle as I keep my eyes ahead.

The trees look the same—bare branches reaching like ribs into the sky— but they feel different.

Weighted. Expectant. The kind of quiet that isn’t stillness but waiting. A hush too full to be empty.

Like the forest is listening.

I’ve walked this trail since I was a kid—chased fireflies along it, kissed boys I shouldn’t have behind the old shed off the bend. Every rock, every root should feel like part of my spine.

But today, it feels like the forest doesn’t know me. Or worse, it remembers me differently—remembers my blood, my family, our missteps. Like it’s watching to see what kind of McKinley I really am.

Something rustles in the underbrush—small, quick. I pause, listen. Hank isn’t with me, but I can feel that same tension humming in my skin. Like I’m not alone. The woods don’t look wrong. They just feel wrong.

Which is probably why I don’t see the marker until I’m already a few steps past it—halfway through a thought, eyes on the fog, not the ground.

By the time I catch the difference in terrain, the subtle shape of carved stone buried in moss, my boot has already brushed the edge.

The air changes, heavier, charged like a storm waiting to break.

And I know before I turn around that I’ve crossed a line I shouldn’t have.

It's almost as if the forest is watching—at least that’s what it feels like—a kind of waiting, calculating, curious.

I pause at the boundary line. Not over it this time. Not today. I remember too well the way it felt—the change in the air, the quiet that wasn't really quiet, the way every hair on my arms stood at attention like they'd been saluting something older and meaner than me.

But I don’t turn back. Not yet. I kneel near the stone, not touching it, just..

. observing. The cold seeps through the worn knees of my jeans, grounding me in the dirt and dead leaves.

I stir some of them absently, brushing away frost-laced moss to get a better look.

The gouges are still fresh. Hudson wasn’t wrong—whoever marked it did so with intent.

Someone’s testing the line, pressing at old boundaries.

And maybe I am too.

The scent is faint, but there. Someone who doesn’t belong.

Not Hudson—his scent is clean, electric, edged with pine and authority.

Not family either. This one is muskier, tinged with oil and rust. Male.

Not old enough to be one of the elders, not bold enough to be Waylon.

A stranger. I try to place it, catalog the pieces—what they wore, how they moved, why they were here.

And I come up blank. That’s the part that bothers me most.

I breathe it in and hold it.

Then I rise, square my shoulders, and start back toward the ridge. The forest doesn’t stop me, but it’s still listening.