Page 20

Two days.

Forty-eight hours since Fiona came apart in my arms at the ranger station, since we crossed every line we'd drawn between us, and she hasn't said a word about it.

Not one word.

She's avoiding me with the skill of someone who has had practice at disappearing.

Different patrol schedules, meals taken at odd hours, conversations that end abruptly when I enter a room.

This morning, I watched her duck into the supply closet when she saw me coming down the hallway, emerging only after my footsteps had faded.

The irony isn't lost on me. Six years ago, I was the one running. Now, she's perfected the art.

I push the thought away and focus on the map spread across my desk, marking potential safe house locations with red pins.

Three families from the Riverside Pack have already requested temporary shelter after hunters burned down their community center.

It's only a matter of time before we need these contingency plans.

"The Morrison place has good access roads," James says, leaning over my shoulder to study the map. "And it's isolated enough that we wouldn't have to worry about humans nearby asking questions."

"Water situation?" I ask, making a note beside the red pin.

"Well and septic, both functional. Ruby checked it out yesterday." He straightens, rolling his shoulders. "How many families are we planning for?"

"Worst case? Fifty, maybe sixty displaced shifters." I mark another location near the eastern border. "The Redpine Pack is holding for now, but their territory borders three different hunting groups, and those groups are getting bolder by the day."

"Shit." James runs a hand through his hair. "Remember when our biggest worry was rogues and territorial disputes? First the Cheslems, and now this…”

"Simpler times," I agree, though simple is the last word I'd use to describe my life right now.

A commotion outside the office interrupts my brooding. Through the window, I see Luna jogging toward the pack house, her face tight with urgency. She disappears inside, and moments later, my radio crackles to life.

"All council members to the main conference room. Emergency session with the elders."

James and I exchange looks.

"Third trial complications?" he guesses.

"Has to be." I start gathering my papers. "Victoria's been pushing to reinstate the full ceremony despite the security concerns."

Of course, I’d rather we do anything but. If I ignore the little voice in my head begging me to make Fiona my mate, pleading,

We're halfway to the door when Luna reappears, slightly breathless and holding Maisie's hand. The little girl looks around with wide eyes, taking in the unusual bustle of activity.

"Thomas," Luna calls, relief evident in her voice. "Thank god you're here. I need a huge favor."

"What's wrong?"

"The elders want us, and Fiona’s patrolling." Luna glances down at Maisie apologetically. "I know this isn't your thing, but could you watch her? Just for a few hours? You can afford to skip the meeting—we can’t.”

"Sure," I say, surprised by how the idea doesn't terrify me as much as it should.

Maisie tugs on Luna's hand. "Where's Mama?"

"Your mama's on patrol, sweetie. She'll be back this afternoon." Luna crouches to Maisie's level. "Thomas is going to keep you company. Is that okay?"

Maisie studies me with those unnervingly bright eyes, her head tilted slightly to one side in a gesture that tickles my memory. After a moment, she nods.

"Can I help with your work?" she asks. "I like to help."

Luna laughs, patting the top of Maisie's head. "She really does. Last week, she reorganized my entire spice cabinet."

"Want to help me organize some supply lists?" I ask.

Her face lights up. "Yes!"

Luna shoots me a grateful look before hurrying off toward the conference room. James follows, leaving me alone with a four-year-old who apparently has strong opinions about organization.

The next hour passes more easily than I expected.

Maisie perches on a chair beside my desk, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration as she helps me create inventory lists for the safe houses.

She has thoughts about everything—where flashlights should go, how many bandages we need, which snacks are best for scared people.

Granted, most of those thoughts aren’t the most helpful, but I still nod and hum at each one appreciatively.

"You need more blankets," she declares, studying my list seriously. "When people are scared, they get cold. Even when it's not really cold."

The observation is perceptive for someone her age. "You sound like you know about that."

"Mama and me moved around lots when I was little," she says, coloring in the margins of my notepad. "Sometimes we had to leave fast, and Mama would forget warm stuff. She was always cold the first night."

Something twists in my chest at the image of Fiona and this tiny girl fleeing from place to place, never quite safe. "That must have been scary."

Maisie shrugs with the casual acceptance of a child. "Mama made it okay. She told me stories about wolves so I wouldn't be scared."

"What kind of stories?"

"About running through forests and being free." Her eyes get dreamy. "I have dreams like that sometimes. Where I'm running on four legs, and everything smells really strong."

The words send a chill down my spine. Pre-shift dreams. I've heard dozens of pack children describe them over the years—the vivid dreams of running wild that signal approaching manifestation.

But Maisie is four. Four-year-olds don't have pre-shift dreams.

"Do you dream about changing into a wolf?" I ask carefully.

"What does that mean?"

"Shifting. Like your mama can do."

"Oh." She thinks about this, her little brow furrowing. "Maybe? In my dreams I'm bigger, and I can smell everything better. Is that shifting?"

"It could be." I keep my voice casual. "How long have you been having these dreams?"

"Since we came back here, I think. A few weeks, maybe?" She looks up at me. "Mama says I might be able to shift someday, but not for a really long time."

A long time. Most children don't shift until they're at least ten, often later. For a four-year-old to be experiencing pre-manifestation symptoms is almost unheard of. She'd have to come from incredibly strong bloodlines.

"Can I ask you something?" Maisie says.

"Sure."

"What does it feel like? When you turn into a wolf?"

I pause, considering how to explain something so fundamental to someone so young. "It feels like... coming home. Like becoming who you really are."

"Does it hurt?"

"The first few times, maybe. But then it's easy."

She nods thoughtfully, returning to her coloring. "I think I'd like that. Running wherever I want."

"Your mama will teach you when you're ready."

"Will you help?" The question is asked with innocent curiosity, but it hits me hard.

"That's up to your mama," I manage.

"She likes you," Maisie says with the confidence of a child who thinks she understands everything.

If only you knew, I think.

Before I can figure out how to respond to that, the office door opens, and Fiona walks in. She stops short when she sees us, her eyes taking in the scene—Maisie chattering happily while I lean over her shoulder to examine her color-coordinated supply list.

"Mama!" Maisie bounces up. "Thomas, let me help organize everything!"

Fiona's scent hits me immediately—anxiety sharp enough to make my teeth ache. Her smile for Maisie is genuine, but I catch the way her gaze darts between us.

"That's wonderful, Sweet Pea." She moves to collect Maisie's things. "Thank you for watching her, Thomas."

"It was no trouble. She's remarkably organized for her age."

"She gets that from me," Fiona says quickly, still not meeting my eyes. "We should go."

"Actually, Luna's still in meetings," I say. "Emergency elder session about the trials."

Fiona's face pales slightly. "How long?"

"Three hours now." I hesitate. "Maisie's welcome to stay until they're done."

"That's not necessary—"

"Can I, Mama?" Maisie looks between us, hopefully. "Thomas was gonna show me more stuff."

Fiona stares at me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in her expression. "She's four."

"She's smart," I counter.

"Please, Mama?" Maisie tugs on Fiona's hand.

Fiona's internal struggle is visible. Finally, she sighs. "One hour. Then I'm picking you up."

"Thank you!" Maisie practically bounces.

Fiona nods curtly and heads for the door, pausing only to add, "Behave yourself, Sweet Pea."

When she's gone, Maisie settles back into her chair with a satisfied smile. "She worries too much."

"Mothers do that," I say, though Fiona's reaction seemed like more than normal concern. The spike of anxiety in her scent when she found us together—there's something deeper going on.

***

"How coordinated is this?" I ask hours later, studying the aerial photographs Nic has spread across his office table.

It's just the three of us—Nic, James, and me—the door firmly closed against interruption. My Alpha is stressed. James and I can both sense it. We came here without having to be called.

"Very," James answers grimly. "Synchronized attacks, professional equipment, inside knowledge of pack operations."

"Inside knowledge, how?" I frown at the surveillance photos.

"That's what we're trying to figure out," Nic says. "Movement patterns, security protocols, even personal details about leadership. Someone's feeding them information."

I study the photographs—checkpoint setups, organizational charts recovered from captured hunters. It's all disturbingly familiar, the methodical approach of someone who understands psychological warfare.

"Any progress on identifying their leadership?" I ask.

Nic and James exchange glances.

"Limited intelligence," James says carefully. "The organization appears decentralized, but there's clearly someone coordinating strategy."

"Someone with experience," Nic adds. "This isn't random violence. Sure, the people doing the dirty work are all angry, bigoted hunters and farmers without half a clue what they’re doing, but there’s sophisticated leadership. They know what they want. If only we knew what they want.”

They're being diplomatic, but I can see the frustration in their faces. They know there's a central figure behind all this, but the intelligence hasn't given them a name.

Which means it's time for me to stop protecting secrets that could get people killed.

"His name is Edward Wright," I say quietly.

The room goes silent. Both men turn toward me, and I see the moment recognition flickers in their eyes.

"Wright," James repeats slowly. "As in—"

"Fiona's father." I meet Nic's gaze steadily. "The man in those surveillance photos you've been trying to identify."

Nic leans back in his chair. "You've known this?"

"I suspected." It's a partial truth, but close enough.

"Christ, Thomas." James runs both hands through his hair.

"Edward Wright was married to a pack member," I say, deciding some version of the truth is better than continued lies.

"Clara Wright, Fiona's mother. She died when Fiona was sixteen.

You might remember her from when we were kids.

They lived just outside of pack territory, but Fiona went to the pack school, and Clara came to pack hunts. "

"I remember her," Nic says suddenly. "Clara Raven, before she married. I remember seeing her at a Parent-Teacher meeting or something.”

"Edward tolerated the connection because he loved Clara," I continue. "But he never understood what she was, never accepted it. Barely came into the pack territory, even though his wife and daughter were both members. After she died, he became hostile toward anything shifter-related."

"Hostile enough to threaten his own daughter?" Nic asks, and there's something in his tone that suggests he's guessing at more than I've said.

I meet his eyes. "Yes."

The silence stretches. Finally, James clears his throat. "Does Fiona know? About her father's involvement?"

"No. And she can't know. Not yet."

"Thomas—" Nic starts.

"He threatened to kill her," I interrupt, the words exploding out with six years of suppressed fear. "Six years ago, Edward Wright told me he would murder his own daughter if I didn't end my relationship with her. And based on what he did to Clara, I believed him."

"What he did to Clara?" James asks quietly.

"He poisoned her with wolfsbane," I say, my voice steady despite the churning in my gut. "Slow doses over months, until her wolf couldn't surface and she couldn't heal. He killed his own wife because he couldn't stand what she was."

"Jesus," James breathes.

"So yes, I knew who Edward Wright was. I knew he was dangerous. And I've spent six years trying to keep Fiona safe by staying away from her." I look between them. "Now he's here, and staying away isn't going to protect her anymore."

Nic leans forward. "This changes everything."

"How so?"

"Because this isn't just about eliminating shifters," James says. "This is personal. Wright wants his daughter back."

"Which makes Fiona and Maisie primary targets," Nic concludes. "We need to increase their security immediately."

"Without alerting them," I add quickly. "If Fiona learns her father is behind this—"

"She'll run," James finishes.

"And Wright will follow," Nic says. "Putting them in more danger."

We spend another hour covering security protocols and strategic responses, but my mind keeps circling back to Maisie's bright eyes and Fiona's spiked anxiety. Two people I'd die to protect, both walking around with targets they don't even know exist.

"Thomas," Nic says as we wrap up. "Thank you for telling us."

"Should have done it sooner."

"Maybe," James agrees. "But you're telling us now. That's what matters."

As they gather the intelligence photos, I remain seated, staring at the scattered papers. Somewhere out there, Edward Wright is planning his next move, and every day brings him closer to the two people I can't bear to lose.

Six years ago, I pushed Fiona away to protect her from her father. Now, that same threat has followed her home, and the only way to keep her safe might be to tell her the truth I've been hiding.

Even if it destroys whatever fragile trust we've rebuilt.

Even if she never forgives me for the choices I made.