Page 10

Dawn breaks gray and cold over the northern trailhead, mist clinging to the pine branches like ghosts. I arrive at the trial ten minutes early, adjusting my pack straps with nervous energy. The forest stretches before us, dense and unwelcoming.

I have barely a moment of peace in the silence before Thomas appears through the trees like he belongs here, moving with that easy confidence that always made my chest tight.

We exchange professional nods—two people here to complete a task.

I can almost convince myself it’s nothing more. We say nothing to one another.

Elder Victoria soon emerges with the other officials, James Morgan stretching behind her against a massive oak, looking far too cheerful for this hour.

"The rules of the Trial of Synchronicity are simple," Victoria announces. "James has a thirty-minute head start. Track and capture him before sunset. You must work together—individual success means nothing."

James grins. "Try to make it interesting. I haven't had a good chase in months."

"Don't get cocky," Thomas warns, but there's a fondness in his voice that twists something uncomfortable in my stomach. Their easy camaraderie feels like a door slammed in my face.

Victoria checks her pocket watch. "James, you may begin."

He disappears between the trees within seconds. The officials retreat, leaving Thomas and me alone.

"He'll head northeast initially," Thomas says, shouldering his pack. "But he'll try to throw us off with false trails."

I nod, trying to look confident. Pack hunts were never my strength, and six years of city living haven't helped. I haven’t been on a pack hunt in years, since I was twenty and living in Silvercreek.

Being packless and constantly on the move meant I’d never formed the sorts of ties you need to have with a shifter community to go on their hunts, to run and track with them.

We set off, following James's obvious path—broken twigs, disturbed earth, lingering scent. Too easy.

"He's making this simple on purpose," Thomas mutters, crouching beside a boot print. "He wants us to follow."

"Into a trap?"

"Not sure. I don’t think he’s taking it seriously.” He stands, scanning ahead. "Not that he does anything, really. This way."

We veer left, away from the obvious trail. The forest becomes challenging immediately—thick undergrowth catching at my jacket, steep slopes that burn my thighs. I grit my teeth and match Thomas's pace.

"There." He points to a broken branch. "Twenty minutes ago."

I study the fresh break, trying to see what he sees. "How can you tell?"

"Scent degradation." He glances at me. "You'll pick it up."

The casual assumption that we have a future rankles, but I keep quiet.

We track steadily for an hour, following increasingly subtle signs. Thomas moves like he was born here, reading traces I can barely detect. Despite everything between us, I can't deny his skill—or the way my body falls into rhythm with his without conscious thought.

"We need to shift," he says at a rocky creek bed where the trail vanishes. "His scent's too faded."

My stomach clenches, but there's no choice. The shift comes easier than it has in months, my wolf rising eagerly. The world explodes into scent and sound—James's trail suddenly bright, the forest symphony playing in forgotten frequencies.

Thomas's wolf appears beside me, golden-brown coat gleaming.

He's larger than I remembered, more imposing. I can see the way he’s taking me in, the dark wolf he once ran the woods with under the cover of night.

For a heartbeat, we just look at each other, and I swear I see recognition in his amber eyes—not just of me, but of us.

Then he turns upstream, and I follow.

In wolf form, our coordination becomes magical. We move like choreography, splitting to cover ground, circling back to compare findings, communicating with glances that need no words. My wolf remembers his, remembers how they fit together.

We shift back on a ridge overlooking a narrow valley. Thomas studies the terrain while I catch my breath, hyperaware of his proximity.

"He's down there, or was not long ago." He points to a cluster of boulders near the valley floor, then up above our heads. "See the ravens? Something disturbed them."

I make out the dark shapes wheeling overhead. "Could be anything."

"James always liked that spot. Good sight lines, multiple escape routes." Thomas starts down the slope. "We'll flank him."

"I'll take the west—"

"No." The word comes sharp. "I should take the longer route. I know his patterns better."

The implication stings—that I'm the weak link. But he's not wrong.

We split up, circling from opposite directions. My heart pounds as I pick through the underbrush, every snapped twig thunderous. Thomas catches my eye across the clearing and gestures—three fingers, then points toward the largest boulder.

I count down. Three. Two. One.

We converge from opposite sides. James bursts from cover like a startled deer, but we're ready. Thomas cuts off his northern escape while I block the creek path.

"Well," James says, hands raised in mock surrender. "That was faster than expected."

"Getting old," Thomas grins. "Losing your edge."

"Speak for yourself." James looks between us with interest. "You two work well together.”

Heat rises in my cheeks. "We got lucky."

"Luck had nothing to do with it," James says kindly. "Trust me, I've seen plenty of mated pairs who couldn't coordinate a grocery run. If Nic and my sister had gotten this trial, they’d have killed each other.”

The officials appear, confirming our success. Two hours, fifteen minutes. Excellent, according to Victoria's pleased expression. It only makes me feel worse. Every ‘pass,’ every small victory, only leads me closer to a future I don’t want to think about.

The walk back feels easier, pressure lifting. Thomas and I don't talk much, but the silence is less hostile. Almost companionable.

We're nearly back when we encounter the swollen creek. The recent storm has transformed a gentle stream into a raging torrent, with brown water tumbling dangerously over rocks. There's a fallen log, but it looks slippery and unstable.

"I can manage," I say, eyeing the crossing.

Thomas tests the log's stability. "It's not steady. Let me help."

My hackles raise. "I said I can manage."

But the log shifts under minimal weight, and the current below looks vicious.

"Fiona." His voice is gentle. "Please."

Something in his tone makes me reconsider. "Fine. But just across."

He steps onto the log first, testing each foothold, perfectly balanced, more cat-like than wolf-like. Halfway across, he turns and extends his hand.

"Trust me?"

I don’t. Of course, I don’t. We stare at one another, his unintentionally ironic words hanging in the air between us. I couldn’t trust you if I wanted to, I wish I could say to him. I couldn’t trust you if we were the last people on Earth.

I take his hand anyway.

His grip is warm and steady, guiding me onto the log step by step, his other hand hovering near my waist. The log shifts slightly.

"Easy," he murmurs. "I've got you."

He does. His touch is sure and protective, nothing like the cold stranger who broke my heart. This feels like the Thomas I used to know. It makes me want to be sick.

The log lurches suddenly, water surging higher. Thomas's hand moves to my waist, steadying me, and we're pressed close together. His eyes are intent on mine, pupils dilated, and I can feel his body heat through our clothes.

Neither of us moves. His thumb traces a small circle against my hip, and my breath catches. Six years of hurt and anger fall away, and all I can think about is how right this feels.

"Fiona," he says, my name rough on his tongue.

"Hey!" A voice calls from the far bank. "Everything okay?"

The spell breaks. I jerk away so suddenly I nearly lose balance, but we're close enough to shore that I can jump to solid ground. James is approaching through the trees.

"We're fine," I call back, voice artificially bright.

Thomas follows more slowly, his movements careful. When he reaches the bank, I catch him looking at me with an expression I can't interpret—longing? regret? I turn away before I can analyze it.

The rest of the walk passes in uncomfortable silence.

***

A moderate post-trial celebration is underway when we return—tables laden with food, other pairs sharing experiences with animated gestures.

The atmosphere is festive, communal in a way that makes me feel like an outsider.

Silvercreek is clearly trying to make me feel more welcome in my role than they did Luna. But still, I don’t want to be here.

I want to leave immediately, but social expectations anchor me in place.

Luna Morgan appears with a plate of food. "How did it go?"

"Fine. We completed the trial."

"I heard you worked beautifully together. Natural partnership, Victoria said."

I nearly choke. "Victoria said that?"

"Among other things. She seemed quite satisfied." Luna's smile is knowing. "Maisie's still at our house with Nic. She's been having the time of her life, asking all sorts of questions about pack life, shifter abilities."

My smile falters. "What kind of questions?"

"The usual. How old when kids first shift, what it feels like, whether shifted wolves dream in color." Luna laughs. "I spent more time answering questions than she did playing."

Unease prickles at my skull. "I should get her."

"Of course. She'll be disappointed, though—Nic was going to show her his maps."

I'm forming an excuse when a conversation at the next table catches my attention. Three pack members huddle together, voices low but not quite low enough. Luna turns her head, too, noticing my interest, and we both listen in.

"—getting worse every week. My cousin in Millbrook says protesters outside the community center last weekend."

"League for Humanity,” someone spits in response. “It’s a ridiculous name for a hate group."

The blood drains from my face.

The League for Humanity. My father's organization, the one he founded after I left Silvercreek, after I ran and never looked back from his controlling influence over my life and the wake of Thomas breaking my heart.

The group that's been growing in influence and aggression over the past six years—partially, I know, because Edward Wright is enraged that he has never found me, has never had me under his thumb again.

"They're organized," the first speaker continues, a woman I don’t know but who appears worried. "Or as organized as a hate group gets anyway, I guess. People are saying they’ve been holding rallies not far from here."

"I heard they've been distributing flyers with our territory boundaries marked," the third adds. "Like we’re dangerous.”

Dark laughter scatters through the group. Shifters aren’t dangerous, we all know—not unless we have to be.

I force myself to keep eating, to appear disinterested, while every cell in my body screams with panic. The League for Humanity here, in territories neighboring Silvercreek. Rallies not far from the territory. My father's reach extending toward the place where I've brought my daughter for safety.

Does he know I’m here? Is that why? Or is it some awful coincidence?

"Fiona?" Luna's voice seems to come from very far away. "Are you alright? You look pale."

"Just tired," I manage. "The trial was more exhausting than I expected."

She frowns. "Why don't you collect Maisie? I can make your excuses."

I nod gratefully. As I turn to leave, I nearly collide with Thomas approaching with cider.

"Leaving already?"

"Maisie," I say simply.

His eyes search mine. "Are you—"

"I'm fine. Thank you for today."

The formal words rebuild walls that nearly crumbled at the creek. Thomas's jaw tightens, but he says nothing, just appraises me with his narrow, knowing eyes. I feel undone by that gaze. I always have.

His hand twitches at his side, but I'm already walking away, mind spinning with implications.

The League for Humanity.

Here. Now.

I fight back tears until I’m beyond the crowds, beyond these people who don’t know the danger that might be coming, don’t know what I’ve faced and feared and run from all these years.

No matter what I do, it seems I’ll never escape the two men I ran from all those years ago, not really: the wolf who broke my heart, and the human father who couldn’t accept me, just like he couldn’t accept my mother.