Page 13 of Anders (The Sunburst Pack #2)

E TTA WOKE WITH A jolt.

For one terrifying moment, she couldn’t remember where she was or how she’d gotten there. Unfamiliar curtains filtered morning light into strange patterns across an unknown bed.

Then it all came rushing back.

The basement. The newspapers. The pain in her head as memories began breaking through whatever wall had been holding them back.

Anders .

Anders shifting into a massive wolf right before her eyes.

Etta pressed her palms against her eyes, willing the image away.

People don’t turn into wolves .

It wasn’t possible.

She’d hallucinated—some kind of stress-induced breakdown. A migraine with visual disturbances.

Maybe she’d been drugged.

But the rational explanations rang hollow, each one collapsing under the weight of what she’d seen, what she’d felt.

What she’d remembered.

Even now, fragments of memory flickered through her mind—her mother’s face, not the Montana housewife she’d grown up with, but a woman with the same white-blonde hair as Etta’s own, her eyes a startling gold as she smiled down at her daughter.

My little wolf, the woman whispered in the memory. You’ll be so strong someday.

Etta shuddered, pushing back the bedcovers.

Her hands trembled as she took in her surroundings—the sparse but comfortable guest room Anders had led her to the night before, after…

After everything.

She remembered how he’d helped her up the stairs, his touch gentle despite the strength she’d seen in his transformation.

Her legs had barely worked, muscles refusing to coordinate after the shock. He’d been so careful with her, like she was made of glass that might shatter at any moment.

You’re safe, he’d told her. No one will hurt you here.

But Etta hadn’t known if she could believe him.

If she could trust him.

She still didn’t.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, noticing she was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, rumpled and stained with basement dust.

Anders had brought her straight here, not even suggesting they stop for her things.

For that small mercy, she was grateful. The thought of returning to that rental house—a place she now realized had been chosen specifically to position her where she could be watched and watch others in turn—made her stomach churn.

A sound from somewhere in the house caught her attention. She cocked her head, listening. It was the soft click of computer keys…from what had to be several rooms away.

How was she hearing that?

Etta pressed her hands to her ears, but it didn’t help. If anything, it amplified the sounds—the tap of keys, Anders’s steady breathing, the hum of electronics, even the distant chirping of birds outside.

Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since… She couldn’t remember when. Before the basement, certainly.

Wrapping her arms around her middle, she shuffled toward what she hoped was the kitchen.

The moment she opened the bedroom door, a wave of scents slammed into her. Coffee, strong and rich. Toast, slightly burned. Something clean and piney—Anders’s soap or shampoo, perhaps. And underneath it all, that wild, earthy scent she recognized as Anders himself.

The intensity of it made her stagger against the doorframe. This wasn’t normal. Humans didn’t smell things this way, didn’t hear things from rooms away.

Humans don’t. But you’re not human, are you?

The thought came unbidden, in a voice that sounded like her own but wasn’t—a voice that held a wildness she’d spent a lifetime denying.

She’d always had a keen sense of smell, she reminded herself.

Now, though, she was able to parse out individual smells. It was like coming to Sunburst had brought out a skill she’d always had but never fully recognized.

As if she’d awoken to a part of herself she’d spent her life until now working to keep hidden.

A part of myself I’ve always known was there…but was never willing to acknowledge .

No, she whispered aloud. That’s not true. It can’t be.

Even as she said it, though, another memory surfaced—her small body running through moonlight, not on two legs but four, her paws barely leaving tracks in the soft earth.

Etta forced herself to keep moving down the hallway, using the wall for support. The kitchen was bright and functional, dominated by a large center island. A plate of toast and a mug of coffee sat waiting, still steaming.

He’d known she was awake. Had heard her, just as she’d heard him.

Etta approached the island cautiously. A note had been propped against the mug: Eat something. I’m in my office down the hall if you need me. —A

Simple. Practical. Giving her space while letting her know he was nearby.

She should have found it calculating, perhaps even manipulative. But instead, something in her chest loosened at the gesture.

Still, she examined the food carefully before taking a tentative bite. The toast was plain, lightly buttered. The coffee, when she sipped it, was strong and black. The flavors exploded across her taste buds with an intensity that made her gasp.

She could taste every grain in the bread, every molecule of butter—more detail than any human palate should be capable of detecting.

Not human .

Etta set the mug down with shaking hands, accidentally catching her reflection in its polished surface. For an instant, her eyes flashed gold, the pupils narrowing to slits before returning to normal.

No, she whispered, backing away. No, no, no.

She fled to the bathroom, needing to see her face properly. In the mirror, her reflection looked normal—same white-blonde hair, same blue-green eyes. But as she stared, those eyes shifted again, gold bleeding in from the edges, the pupils contracting briefly before normalizing.

Not a trick of the light. Not a hallucination.

Real .

Etta gripped the edge of the sink, her knuckles turning white. As she did, a sharp pain lanced through her fingertips. She looked down to see her nails elongating, curving into points before retracting with a sensation like muscles cramping.

A whimper escaped her. This was happening. This was real.

She wasn’t human.

She never had been.

The revelation should have broken her. Perhaps it would have, if not for another memory that chose that moment to surface—her father, a massive man with kind eyes, teaching her to control her shift.

Feel it, sweetheart, he said in the memory. The wolf is not separate from you. It is you. Fighting it only causes pain.

Etta stared at her reflection, no longer seeing the terrified woman in Anders’s bathroom but a small child with earnest eyes, trying desperately to please her father.

That’s it, he encouraged. Accept what you are, and the change will come naturally.

The memory faded, leaving Etta trembling. She splashed cold water on her face. But even the water felt different against her skin—each droplet distinct, the smell of minerals sharp in her nose.

It was too much. Everything was too much.

Etta stumbled back to the kitchen, drawn by the need for normality, for routine. She reached for her bag before remembering it wasn’t here.

Her notebook, her pen—the tools of her trade, the anchors of her identity—were either back at the rental house or still scattered across the basement floor.

Her fingers twitched with the need to write, to document, to understand.

On the counter, beside the now cooling toast, was a small notepad and pen. Anders again, anticipating her needs. Etta snatched them up and began writing without conscious thought.

When she looked down at what she’d written, her blood ran cold: Shows accelerated synaptic response to stimuli. Chemical suppression degrading at an approximately 32 percent faster rate than projected. Recommend immediate recalibration of dosage. Priority: high. Asset compromise imminent .

The handwriting was hers, but the words belonged to someone else—someone clinical and detached, viewing her as a subject. An asset.

Oh god, Etta whispered, dropping the pen like it had burned her.

She’d been spying on the pack without knowing it. Writing reports she had no memory of writing, observing behaviors she had no conscious awareness of noting.

And now she was doing it to herself.

Rage boiled up, sudden and overwhelming.

Etta tore the page from the notepad, ripping it into tiny pieces. Then she tore out the next page, and the next, shredding them with fingers that kept threatening to shift into something not quite human.

Etta.

Anders’s voice cut through her fury. He stood in the doorway, his posture cautious but not afraid.

Not of her, anyway.

Stay back, she warned, her voice cracking.

He didn’t move. I heard the paper tearing. Thought you might need someone to talk to.

Etta laughed bitterly. Talk? About what? About how I’m apparently some kind of—of monster? About how my entire life has been a lie? About how I’ve been used as a goddamn spy without even knowing it?

You’re not a monster, Anders said quietly. You’re a wolf shifter. Like me. Like everyone in Sunburst.

Everyone? The revelation staggered her. The whole town?

The pack, he corrected. There are humans here too, but they don’t know about us. The people you’ve been interviewing? Malcolm, Larissa, the twins? All shifters.

Etta sank onto a kitchen stool, the pieces of notepad confetti scattered around her like snow. I’ve been writing about them. Documenting everything. Their behaviors, their relationships, their security measures. I don’t remember doing it, but I have pages and pages of notes.

Anders nodded, his expression grim. Someone’s been using you. The mark on your neck—it’s some kind of control mechanism, we think. Alongside chemical suppression to keep you from shifting or remembering what you are.

Chemical suppression, Etta repeated, remembering the words from her unwitting note. That’s why everything feels so…intense right now? Because of it? Or because it’s wearing off?