Grace
The night air cools my flushed skin as we step outside, away from the suffocating opulence of the ballroom. My heart still hammers against my ribs—partly from being caught, partly from the intensity of the man walking beside me.
Eli Greystone. That's what the other man called him.
He moves with an easy confidence, tall and broad-shouldered in a way that should intimidate me but somehow doesn't. Moonlight catches in his tousled brown hair and highlights the strong line of his jaw, softened only slightly by the hint of stubble.
When he glances down at me, his hazel eyes crinkle at the corners, warm and unexpectedly kind beneath stern brows.
There's something about him—a steadiness, a quiet strength—that makes my usual wariness falter.
He leads us to a stone bench beneath strings of fairy lights, far enough from the main entrance that we won't be overheard but close enough that I can still map our escape route if needed.
I keep Willow close, my hand firm on her shoulder even as she strains toward a cluster of fireflies dancing near the manicured hedges.
"You can let her explore a bit," Eli says, nodding toward the fireflies. "We're safe here."
I almost laugh at the word. Safe. As if safety is something that exists in the real world and not just in bedtime stories.
But Willow's eyes are pleading, and we've been cooped up in that dingy motel room for days. My fingers loosen their grip against my better judgment.
"Stay where I can see you," I tell her firmly. "Three minutes."
She nods solemnly before darting toward the lights, her small hands cupped to catch their glow. I watch her for a moment, memorizing the rare sight of her unguarded joy, before turning my attention back to Eli.
He's watching me, not Willow. The intensity in his gaze makes something flutter in my stomach—not fear, exactly, but awareness. I tamp it down immediately.
I cross my arms tightly, suddenly conscious of the ill-fitting server's uniform I stole from the hotel laundry. The fabric scratches against my skin, a constant reminder of how far I've fallen.
"I'm sorry for crashing your party," I say, though I'm not really sorry at all. "I didn't know how else to find you."
Eli leans back against the bench, his posture relaxed but attentive. The fairy lights cast shadows across the planes of his face, softening the sharp angles of his jaw. He's handsome in a rugged, unpolished way that makes it hard to look directly at him.
"How did you even hear about us?" he asks.
"Rumors." I scan the grounds, counting exits, cataloging threats.
Old habits. A distant strain of violin music drifts from the ballroom, incongruously elegant against the knot of dread in my chest. "In a diner outside of Portland.
Two men were talking about Blackwell Corporation building some kind of sanctuary for.
.. people like Willow." I swallow hard. "I've been searching for something like that for months. "
"And you just... what? Decided to crash a private gala based on overheard gossip?"
When he puts it that way, it sounds insane. Desperate. I lift my chin. "I've done crazier things to keep her safe."
Something softens in his expression. "I believe that.
" He runs a hand through his hair, messing up whatever styling product had been keeping it in place.
The gesture makes him look younger, less intimidating.
His scent reaches me on the night breeze—something woodsy and warm that makes me think of forests, of hiding places, of earth that holds secrets.
I catch myself leaning slightly toward him and immediately straighten my spine.
"Look, I need to be straight with you," he says, his voice gentler than before. "The sanctuary isn't ready yet."
The words hit like a physical blow. "What do you mean, not ready?"
"I mean it's mostly blueprints and permits right now. We have the land, we have the funding, but we don't have actual buildings. No housing, no infrastructure—just plans."
The fantasy I'd built in my head collapses like a house of cards—high fences keeping hunters out, classrooms where Willow could learn about her shifter side, a bed that was ours for more than a week. Gone. All of it gone.
My throat tightens. "So it was all just talk."
"No," he says firmly. "It's happening. It's just not... finished."
I laugh, the sound sharp and humorless. "Great. That's just fucking great." I push to my feet, needing to move, to think. "Perfect timing as always, Grace," I mutter to myself. "Chase a fairy tale across three states just to find out it doesn't exist yet."
"Where are you staying tonight?" he asks quietly.
I hesitate. We'd checked out of our motel this morning. All our belongings are stashed in the backseat of my car.
"I'll figure something out," I say, the words automatic. They've become my mantra over the past couple years—a promise to myself, to Willow, that somehow I'll make things work.
Eli watches me for a long moment, his hazel eyes unnervingly perceptive. "The motels in town are full," he says. "Tourist season."
I look away, focusing on Willow as she chases fireflies.
She looks so small against the vastness of the estate grounds, her secondhand clothes hanging loose on her thin frame.
Seven years old and already she's lived in more places than most people do in a lifetime.
She keeps glancing back at me, checking my expression, gauging whether she should be afraid or not.
I force my face to relax. She's already too good at reading my fear.
"I have a spare room," Eli says, his voice careful, measured. "You and Willow could stay there. Just until you figure out your next move."
My head snaps back to him, suspicion flaring hot and immediate. "Why would you offer that? You don't know us."
"I know enough." He shrugs, the movement fluid and easy. "You're protecting your sister. You're running from hunters. And you need somewhere to sleep tonight."
I study him, trying to read the angle, the hidden agenda. Men don't just offer help without wanting something in return. That's not how the world works. Not in my experience.
"What's the catch?" I ask bluntly.
A strange expression crosses his face—something like sadness mixed with understanding. For a moment, I swear his eyes flash with an amber glow, but it's gone so quickly I must have imagined it.
"No catch," he says. "It's just a place to sleep."
"I can't pay you."
"I didn't ask you to."
I swallow hard, hating the desperate hope blooming in my chest. A real bed. A locked door. One night without constantly checking the windows.
"I don't need charity," I say, the words stiff with pride.
Eli doesn't blink. "It's not charity," he says. "It's just a place to sleep."
I look back at Willow, her face lit with wonder as she cups a firefly in her palms. The tiny light illuminates her features, casting shadows that make her look older than her years.
She deserves better than another night in a bus station or a park bench.
She deserves walls and a roof and a few hours without fear.
"You won't owe me anything," Eli adds quietly, as if reading my thoughts. "You don't even have to talk to me. But the kid deserves a roof over her head."
Something in his tone makes me look at him—really look at him.
There's no pity in his eyes, no condescension.
Just a steady calm that makes my racing thoughts slow.
He shifts slightly, and for a brief moment, I catch a glimpse of tension in his jaw, a tightness in his shoulders that suggests he's holding himself carefully in check.
I don't understand why I feel like I can trust him. I've known him for all of twenty minutes. But something about him feels... safe.
It's not that I'm afraid of shifters—they weren't the ones who destroyed our lives.
It was humans, hunters with their cold eyes and calculated cruelty who killed Willow's parents.
Who've been hunting us ever since. But trusting anyone, shifter or human, after what happened two years ago. .. that's what scares me.
"One night," I say finally, the words feeling like surrender. "Just until I figure something else out."
Relief flashes across his face, so brief I almost miss it. "One night," he agrees, and I notice how he exhales slowly, as if he'd been holding his breath waiting for my answer.
Willow bounds back to us, her cupped hands glowing with captured fireflies. "Look, Grace! They're like tiny stars!"
I force a smile, pushing down my unease. "They're beautiful, Wills. But you should let them go now. Living things shouldn't be trapped."
She nods solemnly and opens her hands. The fireflies rise into the air, blinking their silent code as they disperse into the night. One lands briefly on Eli's shoulder before taking flight again, and Willow giggles.
"We're going to stay with Mr. Greystone tonight," I tell her, watching her reaction carefully.
Her eyes widen, then she turns to Eli with that unnerving directness she sometimes has. "Are you taking us to the safe place?"
Eli crouches down to her level, his movements slow and deliberate. "Not yet," he says honestly. "But I can give you a safe place for tonight. Is that okay?"
Willow studies him with an intensity that makes me wonder, not for the first time, how much of her father's wolf instincts she's inherited. Then she nods once, decisive. "Yes. That's okay." She tilts her head. "You smell like the forest."
I tense, embarrassed by her bluntness, but Eli just laughs—a warm, genuine sound that makes something in my chest loosen despite myself.
"That's the wolf in me," he tells her, completely unfazed. "Good nose you've got there."
Willow beams at the praise, and I realize with a pang how starved she is for connection with others like her. For all my efforts to keep her safe, there are parts of her I can't nurture, can't understand.
Eli stands, offering her a small smile before turning back to me. "My car's this way."
I shake my head immediately. "We'll follow in my car."
Something like understanding flashes in Eli's eyes. "Smart," he says simply, no judgment in his tone. "I'm in the east lot. Blue truck."
"We'll be right behind you," I reply, grateful he doesn't push.
As we walk toward the parking lot, Willow slips her small hand into mine and squeezes. I squeeze back, trying to convey a confidence I don't feel.
Just one night , I remind myself. We've survived worse .
But as I watch Eli's broad shoulders ahead of us, I can't shake the feeling that I've just made a decision I can't take back. That somehow, in agreeing to this one night, I've set us on a path that will change everything.
The floorboards creak beneath my feet as I follow Eli down a narrow hallway, Willow's hand clutched tightly in mine.
His cabin smells of cedar and something else—something wild that reminds me of rain-soaked forests.
It's not large, but it's solid. Secure. The windows have proper locks, and I've already counted two possible exit routes besides the front door.
"It's not much," Eli says, pushing open a door at the end of the hall, "but it's clean."
The spare room is simple—a full-sized bed with a patchwork quilt, a nightstand with a reading lamp, and a small dresser beneath a window that looks out into dense woods. No decorations, no personal touches. Just the essentials.
"Bathroom's across the hall," he continues, gesturing vaguely. "Towels in the cabinet. Help yourself to whatever you need."
Willow immediately bounces onto the bed, testing its softness with delighted little hops. "It's so squishy!" she exclaims, her earlier wariness momentarily forgotten.
I remain in the doorway, still clutching our backpack. The room feels like a trap and a sanctuary all at once. "Thank you," I manage, the words stiff and unpracticed on my tongue.
Eli nods, keeping a careful distance between us. "I'll be in the living room if you need anything." He hesitates, then adds, "Lock the door if it makes you feel better."
The fact that he understands this need without judgment makes something twist in my chest. I nod once, sharply, unable to meet his eyes.
"Night, Willow," he says, his voice gentling as he addresses my sister.
She stops bouncing long enough to wave. "Night, Mr. Eli!"
"Just Eli is fine," he says with a small smile before turning away.
I wait until his footsteps retreat down the hall before closing the door and engaging the lock with trembling fingers. The soft click brings a momentary relief.
"I like him," Willow declares, resuming her bouncing. "He smells right."
I set our backpack on the dresser and begin unpacking the essentials—toothbrushes, Willow's stuffed wolf, the switchblade I keep wrapped in a washcloth. "What does that mean, he 'smells right'?"
She shrugs, the gesture so adult it makes my heart ache. "Like pack. Like belonging." She stops bouncing, suddenly serious. "The bad men didn't smell right. They smelled like metal and anger."
I swallow hard. Willow rarely speaks about the hunters who killed her parents. Sometimes I wonder how much she actually remembers and how much her mind has mercifully blurred.
"Come on, time to get ready for bed," I say, deflecting. "Teeth brushed, pajamas on."
She complies without argument, which tells me how exhausted she really is.
While she's in the bathroom, I check the window—second floor, but there's a sloped roof beneath it that would make for a possible escape route if necessary.
I test the glass, making sure it opens smoothly, before drawing the curtains closed.
When Willow returns, her face scrubbed and her hair a wild tangle, I tuck her into bed and slide in beside her. She curls against me immediately, her small body radiating heat like a tiny furnace.
"Will we stay here tomorrow too?" she asks, her voice already heavy with sleep.
I stroke her hair, untangling it with gentle fingers. "I don't know yet, Wills. We'll figure it out in the morning."
"I hope we stay," she murmurs. "I'm tired of running."
The simple truth of it pierces me. She's seven years old. She should be worried about school projects and making friends, not whether we'll have to flee in the middle of the night again.
"Me too," I whisper.