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CALLUM

I wake to the sound of water.

Somewhere nearby, a river runs loud and fast—its rhythm cutting through the trees like a heartbeat I can’t slow down. The morning is cool, mist still hanging low, and I’m alone in the cabin.

Kendall’s not here.

The bed still smells like her—like smoke and wildflowers and something I can’t stop wanting. But the warmth’s faded. She’s been up for a while.

My chest’s a knot of everything I can’t say.

Last night shouldn’t have happened. Not like that. Not after what she went through.

But gods help me, when she touched me—when she let me touch her —I couldn’t stop. It wasn’t just instinct. It wasn’t just the bond. It was her.

Now she’s out there somewhere, probably wondering what the fuck she just did. With me of all people. A shifter. Someone she’s been told to fear.

I dress fast and follow her scent through the trees. She didn’t go far. Just far enough.

She’s sitting on a smooth rock near the water, knees pulled to her chest, hoodie drawn tight around her. Her hair’s down, falling across her shoulders in messy waves. There’s a tension in her shoulders, like she’s waiting to be scolded.

Or maybe she already is—by herself.

I stop just behind her, give her a breath of silence before speaking.

“You always this dramatic in the mornings?”

She snorts under her breath. “Only when I wake up in a stranger’s bed with my life on fire.”

I step closer. “Not a stranger.”

“That’s the part that makes it worse.”

I sink down beside her on the rock, careful not to crowd her. The air between us buzzes, charged and hesitant. The silence stretches out, but it’s not peaceful.

She speaks first.

“I told him.”

My head tilts. “Told who what?”

“Stefan,” she says. “I shifted in front of him. That’s what that trigger was last night.”

She doesn’t look at me, eyes locked on the river.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” she says. “It just… happened. I was angry and cornered and he kept pushing. Then I wasn’t me anymore.”

“And?”

“And he ran.”

I nod slowly, jaw tight. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugs, but it’s not casual. It’s the kind of shrug that holds everything she can’t say.

“I thought maybe it’d feel worse,” she admits. “Losing him. But it just feels… quiet. Like the part of me that was holding on to that world finally let go.”

I watch her, the slope of her jaw, the soft tremble of her hands, the shadows under her eyes.

“I don’t want you to regret last night,” I say, voice low. “But I’ll understand if you do.”

She finally looks at me. Her eyes are glassy but hard. “I don’t know what to regret. I don’t even know what last night was .”

“I do,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean you have to feel the same.”

Her breath catches.

“I want to hate you for it,” she whispers. “For making it harder. For getting under my skin when I’m already barely holding on.”

I nod. “Go ahead. Hate me.”

“I can’t.”

We sit in silence again. The river speaks for both of us, rushing and relentless.

“You’re not the reason he left,” she says after a beat. “But you’re the reason I didn’t fall apart after he did.”

That? That wrecks me a little.

“I feel like I’m two people,” she says. “One who wants to run from this. From you. And one who wants to crawl into your chest and stay there until the world burns.”

My voice is rough when I speak. “Welcome to being fated.”

She doesn't ask what I mean, just leans into me. Not all the way. Just enough that her shoulder brushes mine. And it feels like home .

“I’m not ready,” she says.

“I know.”

“But I don’t want to lose this either.”

“You won’t.”

She pulls her knees tighter to her chest. “So what now?”

I stare across the river, the mist curling low over the water like it’s hiding something we’re not ready to face.

“Now,” I say, “I find your father. See if it’s safe. If he’s cleared the trail.”

Her head snaps up. “You’re leaving?”

“Not for long.”

She looks away, jaw clenched. “You shouldn’t go alone.”

“I have to. If they flagged you, they’ll be watching for two. I move better solo.”

“You think they’re still after me?”

“I know they are.”

She chews her bottom lip. “So I just… stay here? Alone?”

“Just for a little while.”

She shakes her head, but not like she’s disagreeing—more like she’s bracing herself.

“I don’t want to be afraid anymore,” she says quietly.

“Then don’t be.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“No,” I say. “But it starts with this. You stay hidden. You stay safe. And I come back.”

She reaches for my wrist without looking, fingers curling around it.

“Promise?”

I squeeze her hand. “Always.”

I don’t say mine . I don’t say mate . I don’t say the thousands of things burning behind my teeth. But when I stand and shift again, fur replacing flesh, paws digging into dirt, I feel her watching me like she knows .

Maybe she does.