Page 9 of Anders (The Sunburst Pack #2)
E TTA SAT AT HER desk in the newspaper office, staring at her laptop screen without really seeing it.
For what felt like the hundredth time that morning, her mind drifted back to Anders Hamilton and that electric moment when he’d been so close she could practically taste his unique scent—earthy and wild, with hints of pine and something dangerous she couldn’t quite identify.
Stop it , she chided herself. You’re not some lovesick teenager .
But her body apparently hadn’t gotten that memo.
Every time she thought about how he’d leaned toward her, how his eyes had darkened to that impossible shade of gold…
Her fingers moved across the keyboard of their own accord, typing: Displays exceptional situational awareness.
Maintains constant visual contact with entrances/exits.
Moves with predatory grace suggesting extensive combat training, though military background doesn’t fully account for motion patterns .
Etta blinked at the words on her screen.
She hadn’t meant to write that. Just like she hadn’t meant to fill three pages of her notebook with similar observations about Malcolm and Larissa’s synchronized movements during their interview, or the way the Stewart twins seemed to communicate without speaking.
Not entirely uncommon for twins , she reminded herself.
She minimized the document but not before noting she’d somehow typed another paragraph: Community members demonstrate pack-like social behaviors. Defer to M & L despite lack of official authority. Clear hierarchy exists beyond surface-level business relationships .
Pack-like? she muttered. Where the hell did that come from?
Shaking her head, she pulled out her interview notes, spreading them across her desk. She needed to focus on actual reporting, not whatever weird compulsion kept making her document the townspeople’s behaviors like some kind of fucked-up anthropologist.
But as she reviewed her notes, those odd details jumped out at her again.
From her interview with Malcolm and Larissa: Ranching association handles territory disputes. Established boundaries must be respected .
She’d underlined territory three times, though she couldn’t remember doing it.
From Nick and Sarah: Community makes decisions as a whole. Important matters brought before c —
The word was scratched out, replaced with town leaders.
She flipped through more pages. The Stewart twins had talked about perimeter maintenance rather than fence repair. Una had mentioned training the young ones instead of teaching the children.
A headache started building behind her eyes as she tried to make sense of it all. The ranchers seemed to own vast tracts of land, but she’d seen surprisingly few cattle during her drives around the area. Their conversations about livestock were always vague, redirected to other topics.
Her gaze fell on her most recent notes about a local interviewee, an older resident named Raymond Gonzales who’d mentioned my mate, Stephanie before laughing off the comment as an old man’s wandering mind.
But Etta had noted he didn’t seem to be losing his mind at all: Demonstrates enhanced sensory awareness. Detected approaching visitors before door opened. Tracked movement through walls .
Etta frowned. That couldn’t be right. She didn’t remember writing that, and anyway, it was impossible. People couldn’t track movement through walls.
Just like they couldn’t smell someone approaching, or hear conversations from impossibly far away, or…
She pressed her fingers to her temples as images flashed through her mind: Eyes reflecting green in her headlights that first night. The howls that had made her body vibrate with some primal recognition. The way everyone in town seemed to move with that same animalistic grace.
The way she’d started moving like that too, she realized with a jolt.
Her hand was writing again, seemingly of its own volition: Community exhibits characteristics consistent with —
A sharp pain lanced through her head, and the pen clattered from her suddenly numb fingers. The rest of that thought slipped away like smoke.
When her vision cleared, she found herself staring at her notebook.
The margins were filled with sketches she didn’t remember drawing—detailed maps of local patrol routes ( when did I start thinking of them as patrol routes?
), diagrams of social interactions, endless notes about scent markers and territory boundaries.
This is insane, she whispered.
But she couldn’t stop turning pages, couldn’t stop noting how many times she’d written pack when she meant to write community, how many references she’d made to scent and sound and movement patterns that humans shouldn’t be able to detect.
Her gaze caught on one particular passage: A. Hamilton demonstrates all classic indicators of alpha potential. Natural authority. Enhanced strength. Protective instincts. Mate-bond compatibility —
Etta slammed the notebook shut, her heart pounding. She hadn’t written that. She couldn’t have written that.
What the actual fuck did that even mean?
But deep inside, in that wild place that seemed to be growing stronger every day, something resonated with those words. Something that recognized the truth in them, that wanted to bare her throat to Anders and…
No . She shoved away from her desk, pacing the small office.
She was a journalist, for heaven’s sake. She dealt in facts, in verifiable information. Not in…whatever the hell this was.
Her reflection caught her gaze in the window, and she froze. For just a moment, her eyes seemed to flash gold in the afternoon light.
She blinked, and they were normal again.
Just a trick of the sun. Had to be.
But when she returned to her desk, her gaze was drawn inexorably back to her notes. So many questions. So many things that didn’t quite add up.
The way conversations stopped when she entered a room, only to resume with carefully chosen words. The visible relief when she didn’t comment on odd phrasings or impossible feats of awareness. The constant references to territory and hierarchy and bonds—
Another spike of pain shot through her head, and that last thought dissolved into static.
She found herself reaching for her pen again, needing to document…something. Something important that kept slipping away from her.
Shaking her head, she moved to the door that led to the building’s basement—a space that apparently only the newspaper office had access to, as it functioned as the paper’s archive room.
She made her way down the stairs. The archive room smelled of dust and old paper, with an underlying mustiness that made Etta’s sensitive nose twitch.
She’d been spending more and more time down here lately, drawn by the nagging sense that she was missing something important about Sunburst and its oddly intense residents.
There has to be something, she muttered, pulling another bound volume of old newspapers from the shelf. Some explanation for why everyone here acts so…synchronized.
The word felt wrong somehow. Not quite what she meant. But lately, every time she got close to the right word, her head would start to ache.
Like now.
Etta rubbed her temples and focused on the yellowed pages before her. This volume was from 1981, and the headlines immediately caught her attention:
MYSTERIOUS CATTLE DEATHS PLAGUE LOCAL RANCHES
Three More Animals Found Mutilated Under Full Moon
Etta’s hands trembled slightly as she read the article. The details were strange—bodies completely drained of blood but no signs of struggle. Massive claw marks that didn’t match any known predator. And always, always during the full moon.
She grabbed her notebook, already filled with similar oddities she’d discovered in her research:
1992: Three hikers disappear near Sunburst Mesa. Bodies never found. Witnesses report hearing howls .
1995: Local man claims to have seen massive wolf in broad daylight. Recants story next day .
1998: Series of unexplained fires at the edge of town. Several residents report seeing glowing eyes in the darkness .
It’s like some kind of cult, she whispered, then winced as that familiar sharp pain lanced through her head. Or maybe…
Her gaze fell on another headline, this one from 1989:
LOCAL WOMAN CLAIMS ALIEN ABDUCTION
Sarah Mitchell Describes Lost Time, Strange Marks
Etta’s heart began to race as she read the account. Mitchell had described waking with a small mark on the back of her neck, exactly like—
She reached up to touch her own neck, fingers finding that small raised scar she’d never been able to explain. The one the doctors had dismissed, the one her parents had—
Pain exploded behind her eyes, white-hot and blinding. The memory scattered like ashes in the wind.
Etta forced herself to keep reading, though the words seemed to swim on the page. More stories emerged: mysterious lights in the desert, unexplained animal behavior, people who disappeared only to return days later with no memory of where they’d been.
But it was the patterns that really caught her attention. The way certain names kept appearing—Crawford, Ortega, Hamilton. The same families, generation after generation, always somehow involved in the stranger incidents.
Like they’re protecting something, she murmured. Or hiding something.
Another spike of pain made her gasp. She pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to will away the building pressure in her skull.
But she couldn’t stop now. Not when she was finally starting to see the connections.
The way the current ranching association seemed to function more like a secret society.
How people deferred to Malcolm and Larissa like they were some kind of tribal leaders.
The practiced way they all spoke, choosing their words so carefully, as if there was something they couldn’t say.
The way they moved, the way they always seemed to know when someone was approaching, the way their eyes sometimes seemed to glow in certain lights…
Like an animal’s , she thought and immediately regretted it as agony lanced through her head.