Page 11

11

KENDALL

I ’ve never been this sore in my life. Not after cross-country, not after dance recitals, not even after Mom made us do that half-marathon fundraiser when we were twelve and didn’t train for shit.

This is different .

It’s not just muscle pain—it’s bone-deep , like my body’s still rearranging itself under my skin. Like nothing’s settled yet, and maybe it never will.

For three days straight, Dad’s been pushing me harder than I thought possible. Hand-to-hand drills. Breath control. Smell tracking. Pain tolerance. I puked twice and blacked out once, and he just stood there like it was part of the process.

“You’re stronger than you think,” he keeps saying.

I’m starting to believe him.

Still, I’m raw. Running on fumes. And this morning, he says we’re meeting someone.

Someone he trusts.

Which is rich, coming from the man who ghosted me for most of my life and then turned me into a supernatural science experiment in a back alley.

We’re walking through the tunnels again. Same damp concrete. Same shadows that press too close. But this time, he’s not barking orders or telling me to listen for vibrations.

This time, he’s nervous.

He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t have to. I can smell it on him.

“You good?” I ask, glancing sideways.

He grunts. “Always.”

“Liar.”

He gives me a look, but I see the twitch at the corner of his mouth. A rare almost-smile.

“He’s not like the others,” Dad says after a beat. “His name is Callum Wulfson. He sees the bigger picture. Wants peace.”

“You trust him?”

“I trust my sources. And I trust myself.”

“Vague.”

He huffs out a breath. “I trust him enough to see if he can help you stay alive.”

Well. That’s... comforting.

Dad’s quiet. Not barking orders or telling me to listen for vibrations. I can smell how nervous he is—muddied adrenaline and the bitter sting of fear, buried beneath that same cool indifference he always wears like a damn coat.

“You good?” I ask, casting a look his way.

He grunts, brushing a hand through his hair.

It’s more silver than it used to be. Or maybe I just never looked hard enough. The streak matches mine—same side, just above the temple. Light brown hair otherwise, and those pale blue eyes that rarely give anything away unless you know what to look for. And now I do.

There’s tension in his shoulders that he doesn’t bother to hide anymore. His hands clench and unclench like they’re used to holding something sharper than secrets. He’s thinner than I remember from childhood, like life’s been burning through him faster than he can replace it.

He walks like he’s made of wire and regret. Taut. Coiled. Tired. But still somehow solid, dependable.

This is the version of Dad I never saw growing up.

Not the ghost in the recliner or the man who reeked of bourbon and guilt.

This is the wolf.

We reach the junction just as footsteps echo ahead—steady, confident. I duck behind the column Dad points to and crouch low. Hoodie up. Heart pounding.

Then I feel it before I see him.

A shift in the air. Like static in my lungs. Wild. Hot. Alive .

Then he rounds the corner.

Callum.

He’s taller than I expected. Not just in the way he stands, but in how he moves —like the world has to adjust around him. He doesn’t walk, he stalks. Long strides, smooth and assured. Every step grounded like he knows the weight of the earth beneath it.

Shaggy, golden-brown hair falls just over his brow, catching in the tunnel’s dim light. His jaw’s cut sharp, like someone sculpted it out of control and good intentions. And those eyes?—

Hazel.

But not flat. They shift—just like him. Flecks of green catch when he turns his head slightly, like there's something wild just under the surface.

He’s built like someone who doesn't train to look good—he trains to survive. Broad shoulders under a fitted thermal, sleeves shoved to his elbows. Veins trace his forearms like lightning under skin, and I catch a scar across one knuckle that makes me wonder what his fists have hit—and what they haven’t.

There’s a quiet intensity in him, like a storm holding its breath. Like if he looked too long in one direction, something would catch fire.

And for one terrifying second… he looks at me.

Our eyes lock.

And everything tilts.

My breath catches. The tunnel disappears. I’m suddenly aware of every inch of my skin, every beat of my heart—and the space between us that’s shrinking even though neither of us moves.

Dad clears his throat sharply, pulling me back.

“This is Callum,” he says. “The one I told you about. This is my daughter Kendall.”

Callum nods once, gaze shifting to him briefly.

“He’s not his father,” Dad adds under his breath, and there’s a bitter weight to the way he says it.

Callum’s jaw ticks. Just a flicker, but I catch it.

There’s history there. Unspoken and ugly.

Something about him and Dad mirrors in weird, sideways ways. Both of them have this quiet gravity to them—men built from buried pain and sharpened instincts, one in his winter years and one still on fire.

Dad is the storm that’s passed.

Callum is the one rolling in.

And I have no idea if I’m meant to run from it… or right into it.

Callum nods once. His voice, when it finally comes, is low. Rough. “Hi.”

I blink.

“Hi?”

His friend snorts.

Callum clears his throat, eyes flicking toward my father. “Didn’t expect her to be... this young.”

“And alive?” I shoot back.

His eyes snap to mine again. There’s something there, not quite a smirk but still makes me want to rub it off his face.

“Both,” he admits.

I glance at my dad. “So? Is he safe?”

Dad looks at me, then at Callum. Then nods. “He’s not with PEACE. And like I said, he’s not his father.”

Something tightens in Callum’s jaw.

“That supposed to be a compliment?” I mutter.

“It’s supposed to mean I trust him,” Dad replies evenly.

Callum nods once. “Then let’s get to work.”