Page 17

The morning air bites at my cheeks as I adjust the radio clipped to my jacket, its weight unfamiliar but necessary.

Three days since the pack meeting, volunteer patrols have become the new normal.

Every able-bodied adult taking shifts, covering ground that used to require half the manpower.

This is the first one I’ve volunteered for.

Maisie is safe with the Blackwoods, I keep reminding myself.

She’ll be safer there than anywhere else.

"Ready?" Thomas asks, shouldering his pack with practiced ease.

It doesn’t help my anxiety that he’s the one on patrol with me.

I nod, not trusting my voice to stay steady. We haven't been alone together since the lake, since his quiet promise to stand between me and anything that wants to hurt me. The memory of his words makes my chest tight with emotions I can't afford to examine.

"Northern quadrant," he says, consulting the map James handed us twenty minutes ago. "We'll sweep east along the ridge, then circle back through the valley."

"Fine." I fall into step beside him as we head toward the tree line, hyperaware of the space between us. Two feet. Close enough to catch his scent—pine and something warmer, more distinctly him. Far enough to maintain the illusion that I'm unaffected by his presence.

The forest is quieter than usual, even the birds seeming subdued by the tension that's settled over Silvercreek like a blanket. Our boots crunch through fallen leaves as we climb steadily upward, following game trails that wind between towering pines.

"How's Maisie handling everything?" Thomas asks after we've been walking for twenty minutes.

The question catches me off guard. I glance at him sideways, noting the genuine concern in his expression. "She's fine. She’s tough."

"Must be hard, though. All the changes, the security measures."

"She's four." The lie comes automatically now, practiced. "She adapts."

"Still. Kids pick up on stress, even when we try to hide it."

I want to tell him that Maisie's been having nightmares again, that yesterday she asked if we might have to run away again. Instead, I focus on the path ahead, stepping carefully over a fallen log.

"She'll be fine," I repeat. "We both will."

The silence stretches until Thomas stops abruptly, his hand shooting out to catch my arm. I freeze, following his gaze to the disturbed earth near a cluster of birch trees.

"Fresh tracks," he murmurs, crouching to examine the prints. "Human. Size eleven boot, maybe twelve."

I kneel beside him, studying the impressions in the soft soil. "When?"

"Recent. This morning, maybe earlier." He stands, scanning the surrounding trees. "Trail heads deeper into our territory."

The wrongness of it hits me like a physical blow.

Humans shouldn't be this far into pack lands, especially without permission, and certainly not armed and skulking through the forest like predators.

The scent hanging in the air is alien here—gun oil and cigarettes and something else that makes my wolf pace restlessly beneath my skin.

"We should radio the others," I say, reaching for my comm unit.

"Wait." Thomas catches my wrist gently. "Let's see where this leads first. Could be someone just got turned around."

But we both know that's not true. The tracks are too purposeful, too deep into territory that's clearly marked with warning signs and scent markers. This is deliberate trespass.

We follow the trail in tense silence, Thomas taking point while I watch our flanks. The tracks weave between trees with the confidence of someone who knows these woods, avoiding the main paths but staying on solid ground that won't slow them down.

"Whoever this is," I whisper, "they've been here before."

Thomas nods grimly. "Or they've got really good intel on our patrol routes."

The trail leads us steadily northeast, toward the disputed border area where pack lands meet the national forest. It's rough country, full of ravines and rocky outcroppings that provide excellent cover for someone who doesn't want to be seen.

That's when we hear it—the snap of a branch somewhere ahead, too loud and deliberate to be an animal.

Thomas signals for me to stay low as we creep forward, using the massive trunk of an old oak for cover. Through the trees, I catch a glimpse of movement—a figure in camouflage gear moving parallel to our position.

The hunter is alone, carrying what appears to be a military-style rifle and some type of electronic equipment. He's maybe forty yards away, close enough that I can see the focused intensity in his movements as he stops to adjust something on a nearby tree.

Another camera. They're expanding their surveillance network, pushing deeper into our territory.

Thomas motions for me to circle left while he goes right, classic pincer movement. But as I start to move, my foot catches on a hidden root, sending a small shower of pebbles clattering down the slope.

The hunter's head snaps up immediately, his rifle swinging toward the sound. For a frozen moment, we stare at each other across thirty yards of forest—his eyes wide with surprise and something that might be fear.

Then he bolts.

"Stop!" Thomas shouts, breaking cover. "You're on our territory! Stop! "

But the hunter is already crashing through the underbrush, heading for higher ground where the trees thin out. Thomas gives chase immediately, his longer stride eating up the distance, and I follow, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The pursuit becomes a nightmare of sliding scree and grasping branches, the hunter using his head-start to gain elevation while we scramble to keep up. He's in better shape than the group Thomas encountered before, moving with the fluid confidence of someone who spends serious time in the woods.

We're closing the gap when he reaches a rocky outcropping that gives him both cover and a clear line of sight. The first shot cracks through the air like thunder, splintering bark from a tree inches to my left.

"Down!" Thomas roars, tackling me behind a boulder as two more shots follow in quick succession.

"Warning shots," I gasp, tasting dirt and adrenaline. "He's not trying to hit us."

"Yet." Thomas's eyes flash amber, his wolf rising to the surface. "Stay here."

"Thomas, no—"

But he's already moving, stripping off his jacket as he shifts in one fluid motion. One second, he's the man I've been trying not to love for six years; the next, he's two hundred pounds of furious brown wolf charging up the slope toward an armed human.

The hunter's next shot goes wide, panic making him sloppy as Thomas closes the distance with terrifying speed. I hear a shout, then a scream, then the metallic clatter of a rifle hitting stone.

The sounds of the fight are brief but vicious—snarling, cursing, the meaty impact of bodies hitting ground. Then silence.

"Thomas?" I call, fear making my voice crack.

A low whine answers me, pained and distinctly canine. I scramble up the slope, my heart in my throat, and find Thomas shifting back into human form, bleeding, crouched over an unconscious hunter.

"He's alive," Thomas says before I can ask. "Just knocked out."

But blood is streaming down his left shoulder from a deep furrow where a bullet grazed him, and his face is pale with pain or shock.

"You're hurt," I say, dropping to my knees beside him.

"It's nothing. Just a scratch."

"It's not nothing." I strip off my jacket, pressing it against the wound to stem the bleeding. "We need to get you medical attention."

Thomas catches my wrist, his grip surprisingly strong. "Not back to Silvercreek. Not yet. This guy was carrying something—likely surveillance equipment or maps. His friends won’t be far away. We need to lay low.”

I want to argue, to insist that his injury takes priority over intelligence gathering. But the rational part of my brain knows he's right. If this hunter doesn't check in soon, others will come searching for them. And we're a long way from the main patrol group.

"There's an old ranger station about a mile northeast," I say, remembering childhood explorations with my mother, and later with Thomas himself. "Abandoned, but it might have supplies."

Thomas nods, wincing as he tries to pull on his jacket. I help him dress, hyperaware of the warmth of his skin and the way his muscles flex under my hands. Even injured and bleeding, he affects me in ways I don't want to acknowledge.

"Can you walk?" I ask.

"I can walk." He proves it by standing, though I see the way he favors his left side. "Let's go."

We leave the unconscious hunter cable-tied to a tree with a note explaining he was found trespassing and will be turned over to authorities. It's a mercy he probably doesn't deserve, but killing humans brings complications none of us need.

The trek to the ranger station takes longer than expected, with frequent stops for me to check Thomas's wound and for him to catch his breath. The bleeding has slowed but not stopped, and his face grows progressively paler as we walk.

"Almost there," I promise as we crest a small rise, and the weathered building comes into view.

The ranger station is exactly as I remember it—a single-room cabin with a stone fireplace and windows that still have most of their glass. The door hangs open on rusted hinges, and the interior smells of dust and old wood, but it's shelter.

"Sit," I order, guiding Thomas to a bench near the window. "Let me look at that."

He doesn't argue, which tells me more about his condition than words would. I've never seen Thomas Ennes submit to being fussed over, but right now, he's letting me peel away his blood-soaked shirt without protest.

The wound is a clean furrow across the top of his shoulder, maybe four inches long and deep enough to need stitches. It's bleeding steadily but not arterially—painful and messy but not life-threatening.

"You're lucky," I tell him, rummaging through the station's ancient first aid kit. "A few inches lower, and this would have been a lot worse."