Page 17 of Anders (The Sunburst Pack #2)

E TTA WOKE THE NEXT morning, momentarily disoriented until the events of the previous night rushed back.

The desert clearing. Anders explaining pack bonds.

The kiss that had changed everything.

Her fingertips drifted to her lips as she remembered the electric connection that had surged between them. Not just attraction—though there was certainly that—but a deeper connection.

Mate bond , she reminded herself.

The term still felt foreign.

But it also felt right.

Stretching, Etta noticed something different about her body—a new fluidity to her movements, as if her joints had somehow reconfigured overnight. She felt more comfortable in her skin than she could ever remember.

A soft knock at the door drew her attention.

You awake? Anders called. At the sound of his deep voice, her nipples tightened.

I want him so much .

Come in, she answered, quickly running fingers through her tangled hair.

Anders entered carrying a mug of coffee, his expression carefully neutral despite the way his scent shifted subtly upon seeing her—a change she could now detect with her increasingly sensitive nose.

How are you feeling? he asked, keeping a careful distance as he handed her the coffee.

Etta took a measured sip, buying time to catalog her physical and emotional state. Different, she finally said. Like something that was tightly wound has started to uncoil.

Anders nodded. Your movements are changing—more wolflike.

Is that good?

It’s natural, he said, settling into the chair across from her bed. Your body is remembering what it was designed to do.

Etta studied him over the rim of her mug, noting how he maintained that careful professional distance despite the intensity of their connection the night before.

Part of her appreciated his restraint; another part—a wilder part—wanted to close that distance immediately.

So what’s the plan for today? she asked instead, keeping her tone deliberately light.

I thought we’d continue your education, Anders said. There’s a lot to learn about pack culture and history. The more you understand, the more context you’ll have for any returning memories.

The mention of memories sobered Etta immediately. Last night, when we… When I kissed you, something broke through. More than just sensations or flashes—actual coherent memories.

Anders leaned forward, instantly alert. What did you remember?

Being small. Running through woods with other cubs, she said, the word cubs coming naturally now. Playing games that were actually training—learning to track, to hunt, to move silently.

She paused, another memory surfacing. There was some kind of ceremony when I was about five? My first official pack gathering. My parents were so proud.

Moon ceremony, Anders said. It’s when cubs are formally introduced to the entire pack.

Etta’s throat tightened. My parents… They’re really dead, aren’t they? It wasn’t just a nightmare or implanted memory?

Anders’s expression softened with genuine sympathy. The fragments you’ve described—the attack, men in tactical gear—unfortunately match patterns of hunter attacks from years ago.

Hunters? The term sparked something—a half-remembered warning whispered by her mother. Beware the hunters. They don’t understand what we are.

Humans who know about shifters and consider us abominations. Anders’s tone turned grim. Most humans don’t know we exist, but occasionally someone discovers the truth. Some form militant groups dedicated to wiping us out.

And you think people like that killed my parents? But why take me? Why not kill me too?

Anders’s expression darkened. That’s what doesn’t fit the usual pattern, as far as I know. Hunters typically don’t take prisoners, and they definitely don’t conduct experiments. He shook his head. This organization—whatever it is—seems to have more sophisticated goals than simple extermination.

The clinical analysis should have felt cold, but Etta found Anders’s straightforward approach oddly comforting. He wasn’t sugarcoating the horror of what had happened to her, but neither was he wallowing in it. He was treating it as a problem to be solved—and somehow, that made it more manageable.

Like a news story about atrocities , she thought. Taking a clinical approach sometimes made it more bearable.

I want to go to the newspaper office, she said suddenly. There were files in the basement—old articles about missing children, strange incidents. Maybe they can tell us something about what happened to me…and if there were others.

Anders hesitated, clearly weighing security concerns against her need to investigate.

Okay, he finally agreed. But we stay together, and at the first sign of trouble, we leave. I’m not risking you being compromised again.

The protectiveness in his voice sent warmth blooming through her chest. She nodded her agreement, then rose to prepare for the day.

T HE NEWSPAPER OFFICE WAS exactly as they’d left it—the door still unlocked, papers still scattered across the basement floor from her seizure.

Anders moved through the space, checking corners and sight lines before giving her the all-clear.

Etta knelt by the pile of old newspapers she’d been reading when the memories had overwhelmed her.

Here, she said, carefully extracting a yellowed clipping. This is what triggered the memory cascade.

Anders crouched beside her, close enough that his warmth radiated against her side. The article headline read LOCAL CHILDREN MISSING—ANIMAL ATTACK SUSPECTED.

1987, Anders noted, scanning the text. Three children disappeared from the Pinon Mesa area over a six-month period. No bodies ever recovered.

A certainty formed in Etta’s gut. These weren’t random disappearances—they were targeted abductions of shifter children.

She rifled through more papers, pulling out several more articles spanning decades.

Look at the pattern, she urged. Every few years, children go missing in rural areas with known pack territories. Always attributed to animal attacks or running away. Always without bodies ever being recovered.

Anders’s expression grew increasingly grim as he examined the articles. This goes back further than I thought. Whatever organization is behind this has been operating for decades.

Etta reached for another folder but stopped abruptly, her gaze catching on something embedded in the corner of the filing cabinet. A small metallic object, no bigger than a button, nestled between metal seams.

Anders, she whispered, pointing.

He followed her gesture, his body instantly tensing. Moving with silent precision, he examined the device without touching it.

Surveillance, he confirmed in a barely audible voice. Not mine.

A chill ran down Etta’s spine as her eyes began scanning the room, suddenly spotting similar devices tucked into corners, behind shelves, under the desk.

They’re everywhere, she breathed. I put them here, didn’t I? During those times I can’t remember.

Anders didn’t answer directly, but his expression confirmed her fears. We need to check your rental house, he said. If you placed these, you likely have more equipment there.

The thought of having been an unwitting spy made her stomach churn, but Etta nodded. Let’s go.

T HE RENTAL HOUSE FELT both familiar and foreign as they approached it cautiously. Anders insisted on clearing each room before letting Etta enter, his protective instincts clearly in overdrive.

Careful, he murmured as they entered what should have been her bedroom. Don’t touch anything yet.

Etta hung back, watching as Anders methodically swept the room, checking for surveillance or traps. When he motioned that it was clear, she began searching through her own belongings with the odd sensation of going through a stranger’s things.

Here, she said, finding a hidden compartment in her suitcase. Inside was a sleek metal case containing more surveillance equipment, along with a small notebook filled with handwriting she recognized as her own.

Her hands trembled as she opened it. The contents were clinical, detached—observation notes about pack members, security patterns, patrol schedules. All written in her handwriting, yet she had no memory of recording any of it.

I documented everything, she whispered, horror creeping through her. Guard rotations, perimeter weaknesses, individual member habits. I gave them a complete security assessment of the entire pack.

Anders took the notebook, his expression carefully neutral as he flipped through pages. These were thorough, for sure.

That doesn’t change the fact that I endangered everyone. She swallowed down the bile rising in her throat.

But you didn’t know what you were doing. You were being used.

I’m still a threat. As long as I have this —she touched the mark on her neck— I could be compromised again at any moment.

Anders set the notebook aside and took her hands, his touch grounding her in the midst of rising panic.

We’ll figure it out, he promised. My security systems have been tracking your movements, cataloging your behavior patterns.

If we can understand how the control works, we might be able to counteract it.

Okay. Then show me, she said. Show me what your systems recorded. I need to see what I’ve been doing.

B ACK AT A NDERS ’ S COMMAND center, Etta watched surveillance footage of herself moving through town with increasing discomfort.

The recordings showed her normal daily activities, but interspersed were strange moments—times when her movements became mechanical, when she would stop and write furiously in her notebook, or when she would make detours to check surveillance equipment.

More disturbing were the recordings from the past few nights, as the full moon grew closer. They showed her pacing her rental house like a caged animal, her movements increasingly agitated and lupine despite her having no conscious awareness of her shifter nature.