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The pack headquarters buzzes with tension when I arrive for the first of what I imagine will be multiple emergency meetings over the coming weeks.

Wolves cluster in small groups, voices low and urgent, their unease palpable in the confined space—elders and council members, younger trainees, those who work under James and I to maintain security.

Nic stands at the head of the conference table, his expression grim as he spreads maps and reports across the polished surface.

"Thank you all for coming on short notice," he begins as the last council members file in. "We've received disturbing intelligence from our allied packs about escalating anti-shifter activity in the region."

I take my usual seat at his right hand, trying to focus on the documents he's distributing.

Border patrol reports, intelligence summaries, photographs of damaged property and threatening graffiti, as well as the trail cameras found near our territory.

The evidence paints a picture of organized hatred that makes my wolf pace restlessly beneath my skin.

"The group calls itself the League for Humanity," Nic continues, pointing to a photograph of protesters outside a community center. "They've been active in at least six towns within a hundred-mile radius of our territory."

James leans forward, studying the images. "How organized are we talking? Professional funding or just angry locals with too much time?"

"Both, apparently. They're decentralized—no single headquarters can be identified—but their messaging is consistent.

Coordinated. So they have some kind of leader.

" Nic's jaw tightens. "And they're getting bolder.

Property damage, harassment campaigns, some members openly carrying weapons at demonstrations. "

Victoria peers over her reading glasses at one of the reports. "Any indication they know about our specific territory?"

"That's what concerns me most," Nic admits. "Three of the targeted communities border our lands. It's possible they're probing, testing responses before making a move."

My mouth goes dry as he continues briefing the council. The tactics described—patient surveillance, strategic pressure, the gradual escalation of threats—sound disturbingly familiar. Like someone with experience in psychological warfare is orchestrating the campaign.

"Do we have any intelligence on leadership?" Elder Marcus asks. "Someone must be coordinating this."

Nic nods grimly. "Our contacts in law enforcement have identified several key figures. The most prominent appears to be—” He fishes around for a photo among our intelligence, then presents it—an image at a distance of a tall, human man with dark hair, too blurry to make out many details.

“This man. He's been the public face at several demonstrations, and his rhetoric is particularly.

.." he pauses, searching for the right word, "incendiary. "

The world tilts beneath me.

Because the others at this meeting might not remember him, given how many years have passed since he last set foot in our territory, but my memories of Edward Wright are far fresher and more visceral.

Here. Active. Leading the very kind of campaign I've dreaded for six years.

Near Fiona.

The timing can’t be a coincidence.

My hands clench into fists under the table, and I force them to relax before anyone can notice.

Around me, the council continues discussing security measures and response protocols, but their voices sound distant and hollow.

All I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears and the phantom echo of Edward's voice: End this relationship immediately, or I will ensure she meets the same fate as her mother.

"Thomas?" Nic's voice cuts through the fog. "Your thoughts on increasing border patrols?"

I blink, realizing the entire council is looking at me expectantly. "Yes. Good idea. Whatever you think is best."

James shoots me a concerned look, but I avoid his gaze. I can't afford to fall apart here, I can't let anyone see how this news has shattered my carefully maintained composure.

I can’t afford for them to know what this means for her, what I’ve been hiding for years. Surely, that would only put her in greater danger.

"We'll implement a rotating schedule," Nic decides. "Teams of four, twelve-hour shifts. James, can you coordinate with the patrol leaders?"

"Of course." James is still watching me with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. "Thomas, you want to take point on the northern routes? You know that terrain better than anyone."

"Sure," I manage, though the idea of being responsible for the very borders Edward might use to enter our territory makes my stomach churn.

The meeting continues for another hour, covering protocols for protecting vulnerable pack members, evacuation procedures, and communication with allied territories. Through it all, I contribute minimally, my mind spinning with implications and fears.

When Nic finally dismisses the council, I'm among the first to stand, desperate to escape before anyone can corner me with questions about my distraction.

"Thomas—hey, Tom, wait up!" James catches my arm as I reach the door. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Just tired," I lie, shrugging off his grip. "Long patrols lately. I’ve got a lot on my mind."

It kills me to lie to him, to my closest friends. But I’ve held the secret of Edward’s threat close for years.

His expression suggests he doesn't believe me, but he doesn't push. "If you need to talk..."

"I'm fine," I insist, forcing a smile that feels like broken glass. "See you tomorrow for the training session."

I escape into the cool evening air, my skin feeling too tight for my body.

Edward Wright. Leading an anti-shifter campaign.

Operating in territories that border our own.

The timing can't be coincidental—not when Fiona returned to Silvercreek just months ago, not when the lottery has bound us together in the most public way possible.

He knows she's here. I'm certain of it. And that means everything I've feared for six years is about to come to pass.

Now, only one question remains: does she know?

And does she still not know that he was the one who killed her mother?

***

The training grounds behind the Pack Building are nearly empty when I arrive the next morning, most pack members still finishing breakfast or attending to daily tasks.

Fiona is already here, stretching against the wooden fence that borders the sparring area.

She's dressed in fitted athletic wear that emphasizes the full curves I remember all too well, her dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail that exposes the elegant line of her neck.

She looks up as I approach, her expression carefully neutral. "Morning."

"Morning." I set down my gear bag, hyperaware of every movement she makes. "Ready for this?"

"As ready as I'll ever be." She straightens, rolling her shoulders to loosen them. "What exactly does this trial entail?"

I pull out the instruction sheet Victoria gave me yesterday, grateful for something concrete to focus on.

"It’s not combat-based, but it involves survival, so physical strength will be important.

It’s focused on testing our ability to coordinate under pressure, protect each other, and work as a team when things might get physical. "

Her expression tightens almost imperceptibly. "Physical."

"Sparring, defensive maneuvers, that sort of thing." I fold the paper, tucking it into my pocket. "Nothing too intense. Just enough to see how we move together."

"Okay," Fiona takes a step back, creating distance between us. "Should we get started then?"

Before I can answer, Amelia—the youngest (and, by my measure, friendliest) elder of the council, a shifter in her forties assigned by Victoria to assist with our preparations—appears from the direction of the pack house, clipboard in hand and a knowing glint in her eyes.

"Good morning, you two. Ready to begin?"

"Yes, ma'am," Fiona says, her posture straightening into something almost military in its precision.

Amelia consults her notes. "The second trial tests partnership under stress.

You'll work through a series of combat scenarios designed to evaluate trust, coordination, and mutual protection.

" She looks up, her gaze moving between us.

"The key is learning to anticipate your partner's movements, to function as a unit rather than two separate individuals. "

Easier said than done, given our history. But I nod along with Fiona, both of us projecting confidence we don't feel.

"We'll start with basic defensive drills," Amelia continues. "Thomas, you'll play the aggressor initially. Fiona, your job is to evade and counter while protecting this." She hands Fiona a red flag that's meant to represent a vulnerable pack member. "Switch roles every ten minutes."

The first few rounds are awkward, as both of us overthink every movement and maintain careful distance. Fiona moves well—better than I expected after years away from regular training—but she's holding back, not trusting me enough to commit fully to the exercises.

"Closer," Amelia calls from the sidelines. "You're partners, not strangers. Trust each other."

Fiona shoots me a look that suggests trust is the last thing on her mind, but she steps closer, allowing me to guide her through a defensive sequence that requires our bodies to move in sync.

And that's when everything changes.

Muscle memory kicks in, overriding conscious thought.

Our movements become fluid, natural, like we've been training together for years instead of apart for six.

When I feint left, she's already shifting right to counter.

When she ducks under my guard, I'm there to catch her, to spin her out of harm's way.

"Better," Amelia calls, but her voice sounds distant.