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I signal my team to spread out, then step into the clearing.

"Afternoon, gentlemen."

They spin toward me, hands moving instinctively toward their weapons. The leader—a heavyset man with a graying beard, not anyone I know by sight—takes a half-step forward, his rifle held at a casual angle that doesn't quite qualify as threatening.

"Private property," he says, his voice carrying the particular brand of aggressive defensiveness that comes from being caught doing something questionable.

"Actually, you're on pack land," I reply calmly. "About a quarter mile past the boundary markers."

"Don't know nothing about pack land," another man mutters, though his nervous glances suggest otherwise.

I study their setup—sensors positioned to monitor animal trails, cameras angled toward our territory. "Mind if I ask what you're hunting?"

"Predators," the leader says. "Been reports of aggressive animals in the area. We're just trying to protect our families."

It's a reasonable cover story, but the equipment tells a different tale. Motion sensors calibrated for human-sized movement, cameras with facial recognition software visible on the displays. This isn't about hunting animals.

"What organization are you with?" I ask.

The men exchange glances. "Just concerned citizens," the leader says finally. "We don't answer to you people."

You people. The phrase hangs in the air like a challenge.

"Names?" I ask, keeping my tone conversational.

"That's not your business," the youngest of the group snaps. He's maybe twenty-five, with the kind of angry energy that comes from having his worldview threatened by things he doesn't understand.

But I notice the way he holds his phone, screen angled slightly toward us like he's recording. When I take a step closer, he hastily shifts position, but not before I catch the glint of the camera lens.

"Actually, it is my business when you're conducting surveillance on private property," I say. "So let's try this again. Who sent you?"

The leader's jaw works like he's chewing over his options. Finally, he jerks his head toward the others. "Pack it up. We're done here."

They move with practiced efficiency, gathering their equipment and melting back into the forest faster than their amateur appearance would suggest. But not before I catch the leader speaking quietly into a radio, his words too low to make out clearly.

When they're gone, I examine the spots where their sensors were placed. The positioning is strategic—designed to monitor the main approaches to our territory. And the fact that they asked for our names and tried to record our faces...

"They're building a database," I tell my team. "Faces, names, movement patterns. This isn't random harassment."

Marcus, one of the younger wolves, kicks at the disturbed earth where a sensor had been mounted. "Think they'll be back?"

"Count on it," I say grimly. "And next time, they'll be better prepared.”

The sun is setting by the time we return to Silvercreek, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that would be beautiful under other circumstances. Now, the approaching darkness feels ominous, full of potential threats and unseen watchers.

I file my report with Nic, emphasizing the organized nature of the surveillance and the hunters' interest in identifying pack members. The implications are troubling—if they're building profiles on individual wolves, it suggests planning for something more targeted than general harassment.

"Double the night patrols," Nic decides. "And I want motion detectors on all the main approaches. If they want to play surveillance games, we'll play better."

It's past nine when I finally leave headquarters, my mind churning with tactical considerations and worst-case scenarios.

The pack feels different in the darkness—less like home and more like a fortress under siege.

Even the familiar sounds of the evening seem muted, as if the very air is holding its breath.

I should go home, get some sleep, prepare for whatever tomorrow brings. Instead, I find myself walking toward the lake, drawn by restlessness I can't quite name.

The path winds through silver birches that seem to glow in the moonlight, their pale bark almost luminescent against the dark water beyond. It's one of my favorite spots in the territory—peaceful, isolated, perfect for thinking through complicated problems.

I'm not surprised to find I'm not alone.

Fiona stands at the water's edge, her silhouette graceful against the rippling surface. She's changed from her earlier clothes into jeans and a thick sweater, her hair loose around her shoulders in waves that catch the moonlight.

She doesn't turn when I approach, but the slight stiffening of her posture tells me she's aware of my presence.

"Evening," I say, stopping a careful distance away.

"Thomas." Her voice is neutral, revealing nothing.

"Couldn't sleep either?"

"Something like that." She glances over her shoulder briefly, then returns her attention to the water. "Maisie's finally down. Took three stories and a promise that the 'bad people' won't come here."

The casual mention of her daughter sends an unexpected pang through my chest. "She was asking questions?"

"She's f—four. She asks questions about everything." Fiona's tone is carefully light, but I catch the underlying worry. "Today's meeting got her attention."

"Kids are resilient," I offer, though the words feel inadequate.

"Are they?" Fiona turns to face me properly for the first time, moonlight highlighting the exhaustion in her features. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like the world's getting more dangerous every day."

There's something in her voice—fear wrapped in anger, vulnerability disguised as strength. I want to tell her she's right to be scared, that the danger is more personal than she knows, that her father is out there right now planning God knows what. Instead, I settle for safer ground.

"The security measures are solid," I say. "Nic knows what he's doing."

"Right. Security measures." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. “For some of us, this pack has never felt very secure, Thomas.”

"This is different," I say, though I'm not sure I believe it myself.

"Is it?" She takes a step closer, close enough that I can smell her scent—lavender and something warmer, more complex. "Because it feels like history repeating itself. I can’t help feeling like I’m going to be left behind here either way.”

"Fiona—"

"I'm not naive, Thomas. I know you don’t want this partnership." Her voice drops to barely above a whisper. "I know there are people out there who think the only good shifter is a dead shifter, too. I’m not safe out there. I’m not safe here, either. It’s starting to feel like nowhere is.”

My chest tightens at the pain in her voice.

"I won't let anything happen to you," I say before I can stop myself.

"You?" The word comes out sharp, cutting. "You don't get to make promises about my safety. Not anymore."

The rebuke stings because it's justified. I gave up the right to protect her when I walked away six years ago. But that doesn't change the fierce need I feel to keep her safe, to stand between her and every threat the world might throw at her.

"I know I don't have the right," I admit. "But that doesn't change how I feel."

She stares at me for a long moment, something shifting in her expression. For a heartbeat, I think she might soften, might let me past the walls she's built around herself.

Then she steps back, breaking the spell.

"Feelings don't stop bullets," she says flatly. "And they sure as hell don't stop fanatics with a cause."

"No," I agree. "But they might stop someone from making the same mistakes twice."

The words hang between us, heavy with implication. Fiona's eyes widen slightly, as if she's hearing something she didn't expect.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

I want to tell her everything—about Edward's threats, about the impossible choice I made, about the years I've spent regretting every word I said to push her away. But the truth is a luxury I can't afford, not when her father is actively working to destroy everything she's built here.

"It means I'm not going anywhere," I say instead. "Whatever's coming, whatever those people are planning, I'll be here."

"For the pack," she says, but it sounds like a question.

"For you." The admission slips out before I can catch it. "For both of you."

Fiona's breath catches, and for a moment, the careful distance between us feels charged with possibility. The moonlight turns her hair silver, highlights the curve of her lips, makes her look like something from a dream I've been having for six years.

"Thomas..." she starts, then stops, shaking her head.

"I'm not asking you to do anything," I say quietly. "I'm just telling you where I stand."

"And where's that exactly?"

"Between you and anything that wants to hurt you."

The silence stretches, filled with the gentle lapping of water against the shore and the distant call of night birds. Fiona's expression is unreadable in the moonlight, a mix of longing and fear that makes my chest ache.

"It's late," she says finally. "I should get back."

"I'll walk you home."

"That's not necessary."

"Maybe not," I agree. "But I'm going to do it anyway."

She doesn't argue, which I take as progress. We walk back through the pack lands in comfortable silence, the tension between us still present but somehow easier to bear in the darkness.