Page 8

KATE

T he woods don't just breathe. They judge.

I feel it in the way the wind changes, brushing the back of my neck like a whisper meant for someone else.

The basket of preserves digs into my hip as I readjust my grip around the handle and keep walking.

The path toward the Ridley cabin isn’t long, but it’s steep enough to remind me why I usually send deliveries with someone less inclined to talk back to pine trees.

But I needed the quiet. Or I thought I did.

Silence out here stretches like skin over bone—thin and uneasy.

I thought maybe the wind would carry some trace of Luke, some ghost of an answer the others are too afraid to speak.

But the only thing the stillness does is turn up the volume on everything I’ve been trying not to hear.

Instead of peace, I’ve found the echo of my doubt.

Now, I’m not so sure.

The farther I walk, the louder the silence gets—like it’s no longer absence but anticipation.

The kind of quiet that knows something’s coming. My skin prickles, every instinct sharpening, as if the trees themselves are bracing for what they already know is waiting ahead.

The air thickens with that uncanny weight again—the same sensation I felt near the carved marker.

It’s not just the hush, it’s the pressure, like a hundred unseen eyes tracking every step.

Like the trees aren’t just holding their breath—they’re waiting for judgment.

Something ancient. Something older than pack law or blood feuds.

Like the forest itself remembers what we’ve all tried to forget. And it’s about to remind me.

A low growl cuts through the mist—guttural and deliberate, not a warning, but a promise.

It snakes between the trees like smoke, cold and unmistakably directed at me.

My breath catches, spine straightening. That sound doesn’t come from a startled animal.

It’s territorial. Intentional. A claim before a challenge.

I stop. Feet planted, breath shallow, every part of me strung tight like a bow. Not out of fear. Out of instinct. Out of memory. Because I’ve been in this position before—cornered, assessed, underestimated. But not like this.

They’re not trying to hide. That’s the first insult.

They want me to see them. To know I’m being watched.

Confronted. Measured. Like prey—or worse, like a trespasser daring to pretend she belongs on their land.

It’s the kind of calculated show-of-force bullshit that comes with pack politics, sharpened by bias and soaked in tradition. And they expect me to fold.

Two wolves—both gray, bigger than me in human or wolf form—step out from the underbrush like they own the trail. Which, technically, their pack does. Blood and geography have always divided Wild Hollow, and this stretch has always belonged to the Rawlings.

I stiffen automatically, not with fear but with the kind of wariness that comes from experience.

I know what it means to be outnumbered. I know what it means to be underestimated.

There’s a hot knot of tension between my shoulder blades—not panic, but a kind of readiness, a challenge unspoken.

I feel them sizing me up, as if I am something to dismiss or devour.

And somewhere under the instinct to protect and defend, a sliver of anger rises.

Not because they’re here. But because they expect me to be less just because I’m red. Because I’m McKinley.

One shifts. The fog boils around him, lightning crackling at the edges, and when it clears, a man stands there—naked, unbothered by the cold or the exposure. A sneer cuts deep across his face; he crosses his arms over his broad chest, daring me to flinch at his presence or pride.

“Well,” he says. “If it isn’t the red wolf herself.”

“Wow,” I reply. “A full sentence and only one slur—not very impressive. You should try to do better.”

The other remains in wolf form, pacing behind him—his massive paws silent on the damp earth, yellow eyes fixed on me like he’s waiting for a command.

Muscles bunch beneath his gray coat, every step radiating tension.

He’s a sentinel, a reminder that even in silence, I’m being hunted.

And if things go sideways, he’ll be the first to lunge.

“You’re out of your territory,” the man says.

“I’m making a delivery,” I say, nudging the delivery basket into view. “Widow Ridley’s running low on pear preserves.”

“You passed the line half-a-mile back.”

“Lines get blurry when no one has the nerve to redraw them.”

He blinks, just once, like I caught him off-script. “We don’t need to redraw. We just enforce.”

“Then maybe enforce something useful.”

I cock my head, letting a slow smirk curl my lips.

“Like a decent sense of direction. Or manners.”

He doesn’t laugh. Not even a twitch of his mouth.

Just stares, head tilted slightly, like he’s weighing whether sarcasm qualifies as disrespect or if I’m just another red wolf with a big mouth.

Big surprise—humor’s wasted on a man who treats rank like religion and thinks dominance is a personality trait.

“What do you want?” I ask, sharper now.

“To remind you what side of the Hollow you’re on.”

“Thanks,” I say sweetly. “Consider me reminded. Now move.”

He doesn’t budge. The pacing wolf pauses mid-step, ears flicking toward his pack mate, then toward me.

Their stillness is deliberate, calculated.

A tactic. They’re holding the line—not with brute force, but with the tension of unspoken threat.

It's the kind of silence that makes a girl wonder how fast she’d have to move to survive the first lunge.

And how many teeth she could leave bloodied if it came to that.

I move the basket to my left hand, the edge biting into my palm.

My right hand stays loose at my side, fingers flexing once, twice—ready.

Just in case I need to drop the basket and fight.

Because these aren’t just pack wolves posturing.

They’re waiting for an excuse. And I’m not about to give them the first move.

“I hear you and the alpha are getting close,” he says, his tone oily. "Few in our pack are going to take kindly to that." He spits on the ground and mutters something that sounds like "McKinley trash."

My jaw tightens, but not from anger—more from surprise. I didn’t think anyone had noticed, not when I can’t even say how I feel about it myself. “Is that your business?”

“It’s pack business. Rawlings land, Rawlings rules.”

“Funny, I didn’t see you at the general store when the roof caved in. Or at the last supply run. I got more help from humans and a few off-pack shifters than I ever did from the Rawlings. So don’t pretend it’s pack business now, since someone saw Hudson near me.”

“You’re a McKinley,” he spits. “You don’t belong here.”

“Neither does your attitude, and yet, here we are.”

He steps forward, slow and sure, like he expects me to shrink back. Like he’s done this before and it always works.

I don’t move. I won’t. Not just because of pride—though there’s plenty of that—but because giving ground now would be more than retreat. It’d be surrender. And I’ve spent my whole damn life proving I don’t kneel to anyone.

His eyes narrow, then slide over me like I’m a thing to be evaluated.

Possessed. He’s not just looking—he’s cataloging, like he’s already decided what I’m worth and what it’d take to break me.

My pulse spikes. My fingers twitch. I calculate pressure points, leverage, timing—how fast I could move, how much damage I could do before the second wolf lunges.

And just when the air feels like it might snap under the tension, a low hiss echoes from the trees.

They hear it, too. Their posturing flickers.

I smile, slow and sharp, letting the corners of my mouth curl with satisfaction. I tilt my head just slightly, eyes locked on the wolves like I’m daring them to deny it. “You hear that?” I ask, voice low and threaded with iron. “That’s the forest, remembering who really built these trails.”

He opens his mouth to retort, lips curling into what I’m sure would’ve been something smug and stupid—but I’m done playing nice. The basket hits the ground with a thud, contents spilling, and I let the rage and instinct crack open inside me. I call forward my she-wolf without hesitation.

The mist explodes around me, thick and fast, laced with lightning and sound, a whirlwind pulled from the belly of the Hollow.

It rises like breath from the earth, wrapping around me, cloaking me in color and power.

It doesn’t hurt—it never has—but it burns in its own way, a wild unmaking that feels like truth.

And I revel in it.

The shift is freedom in its purest form—bone-deep and soul-sharp, like stepping back into something truer than skin.

Every cell vibrates, every sense snaps into focus.

I feel the dirt grind beneath my pads, the press of roots like veins beneath the surface.

I taste the sharp bite of moss on the wind, hear the wings of a crow before it breaks from a branch.

There’s no fear here. No hesitation. Just power—feral and right.

When the mist clears, I'm crouched low on four feet, claws biting into the dirt, fur bristling with heat and defiance. Muscles coiled, instincts sharp, I’m not just ready—I’m daring them to try me. I’m red. I’m wolf. I’m done pretending to be anything less.

The pacing wolf stops pacing. The man beside him turns his head, gives a subtle nod, and the mist swells around his bare feet.

It coils upward, bright and sudden, swirling with that charged crackle only shifters know.

His form collapses inward, bends, warps, and then he’s gone—replaced by a wolf, silver-gray and broad-shouldered, with the same sneer now etched into fur.