Page 21

The coffee in my hands has gone cold, but I keep gripping the mug like an anchor.

Through Luna and Nic's kitchen window, I watch pack members hurrying between buildings with the purposeful urgency that's become our new normal.

Check-ins every four hours. Mandatory buddy system for anyone leaving the main compound.

Children confined to designated safe areas.

We're living under siege, and it's only getting worse.

"You look like you haven't slept in days," Luna observes, settling across from me with her own steaming mug.

"Hard to sleep when your four-year-old is having nightmares about the ‘bad people’ coming,” I reply, which is true enough, though hardly the whole story.

The real reason I can't sleep is Maisie's temperature spiking every night, her eyes flashing amber in the darkness, the way she tosses and turns while dreaming of running on four legs. Her pre-shift symptoms are accelerating, and there's nothing I can do to stop them.

"She's resilient," Luna says gently. "Kids are more adaptable than we give them credit for."

"Are they?" I set down my mug, meeting her concerned gaze. "Because some things shouldn't have to be adapted to. Some things are just... wrong."

"You mean the hunters?"

"I mean all of it." The words come out more bitter than I intended. "The constant fear, the feeling like you're always looking over your shoulder, never being able to trust that the people who are supposed to protect you actually will."

Luna's expression shifts, becoming more focused. "That sounds personal."

I almost laugh at the understatement. Everything about this situation is personal, in ways Luna can't begin to imagine.

"My father," I say carefully, testing the waters. "He wasn't... kind. To my mother. To me."

"Nic mentioned your family had complications."

"That's one word for it." I wrap my hands around the mug again, needing something to hold onto. "He never hit us, if that's what you're thinking. He was too smart for that. But he had other ways of making sure we knew our place."

"What kind of ways?"

The memories surface uninvited—my father's voice dripping with disdain as he told my mother she was 'unnatural,' his constant reminders that we were freaks tolerated only because of his generosity.

The way he'd isolate her from the pack, making excuses for why she couldn't attend gatherings, slowly cutting her off from everyone who might support her.

The way I was never allowed to socialize with the other pack kids, never allowed to visit their houses or invite them to ours, living miles beyond the territory boundary on his estate, an isolation that eventually led to me becoming the outcast I grew up into as a teenager.

"He made her small," I say quietly. "Made her believe she was lucky he put up with what she was. And after she died..." I trail off, not ready to share how that same cruelty had turned on me.

"I'm sorry," Luna says, and there's genuine compassion in her voice. "That must have been devastating. Losing her and then… dealing with his grief on top of your own."

"Grief." I almost choke on the word, a sardonic laugh bubbling up inside me. "That's not what I'd call it."

My father hadn't grieved my mother's death—he'd been relieved. Relieved to finally be free of the woman who'd embarrassed him, relieved to be free to try to mold me into something more acceptable.

Until I'd proven just as unnatural as she was.

"Is that why you left?" Luna asks. "Because of him?”

"Partly." I can't tell her about Thomas, about the pregnancy, about the desperate flight that followed. "Things became... unbearable. I had to go."

"And now you're worried he might come looking for you?"

The question hits closer to home than Luna realizes. I've been waiting six years for Edward to track us down, for his obsessive need for control to drive him to reclaim his ‘wayward daughter.’ The hunter activity, the escalating violence—it all has his fingerprints on it.

"Something like that," I murmur.

Luna reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. "You're safe here, Fiona. Whatever happened before, you and Maisie are pack. We protect our own. I learned that myself not long ago."

I want to believe her. God, how I want to believe that Silvercreek can be the sanctuary we've been searching for. But I've learned not to trust in protection that can be withdrawn the moment I become inconvenient.

"Thank you," I say, because Luna means well, even if she doesn't understand the scope of what we're facing.

The cottage feels too quiet when I return, Maisie's soft breathing from her bedroom the only sound. I check on her—still feverish, her small face flushed with the heat of ever-approaching manifestation—before retreating to my own room.

The floorboard under my dresser creaks as I pry it up, revealing the waterproof container I've hidden there since we arrived. My hands shake slightly as I lift the lid, cataloging the contents I know by heart.

Maisie's original birth certificate, listing Thomas Ennes as father and her real birth date.

Medical records from my pregnancy. Her pediatric files showing the early markers of shifter genetics.

Everything that proves she's not the four-year-old I've claimed her to be, and not the product of some random relationship I've led everyone to believe.

The papers are all there, but something's wrong.

The birth certificate is folded differently than I left it. The medical records are stacked in the wrong order. Someone has been through these documents, examining them carefully before replacing them.

My blood turns to ice.

Someone knows.

I'm still staring at the evidence of intrusion when a knock at the front door makes me jump. I shove the papers back into their container, my heart hammering as I replace the floorboard and hurry to answer the door.

Thomas stands on my porch, his expression grim as he holds up a radio.

"Security update," he says without preamble. "Mind if I come in?"

I step aside, hyperaware of the hidden documents just twenty feet away, of the way my scent probably reeks of panic and fear.

"What's the situation?" I ask, trying to sound normal.

"Hunter movement on the eastern border. Three vehicles, armed occupants." Thomas clips the radio to his belt, his eyes scanning my face with concern. "Nic wants all families on high alert until further notice."

"Understood." The word comes out clipped, professional, but I can't seem to relax my shoulders or unclench my fists.

"Fiona." Thomas steps closer, his voice gentle. "Are you alright? You seem—"

"I'm fine," I interrupt, then immediately realize how unconvincing that sounds. "Just tired. Worried about Maisie."

"Her symptoms getting worse?"

"Everything's getting worse." The admission slips out before I can stop it, and suddenly, I'm fighting back the tears I didn't know were building. "I just... I can't..."

"Hey." Thomas's hands settle on my shoulders, warm and steady. "Talk to me. What's wrong?"

I look up into his concerned face, and for a moment, I almost tell him everything. About the documents, about the evidence that someone's been in my house, about the growing certainty that we're out of time.

Instead, I kiss him.

The contact is desperate, born of fear and need, and the overwhelming desire to feel something other than panic. Thomas responds immediately, his arms coming around me, pulling me against the solid warmth of his chest.

This isn't like our encounter at the ranger station, and yet, it’s somehow exactly the same. I feel overcome with raw need, the kind that comes from staring into an abyss and choosing connection over isolation.

His hands tangle in my hair as I press closer, backing him toward the couch, needing him closer, needing the weight of his body to anchor me to something real. When we tumble onto the cushions, I straddle his lap, my mouth finding the sensitive spot below his ear that always made him groan.

"Fiona," he gasps, his hands roaming over my back, claiming curves he once knew by heart.

"Don't think," I whisper against his throat, echoing my words from the ranger station. "Please, let’s just not think.”

He captures my mouth again, and for a few precious minutes, there's nothing but sensation—the taste of him, the feel of his hands on my skin, the way he makes me feel alive instead of just surviving.

When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, Thomas cups my face in his palms.

"Trust me," he says quietly. "Whatever's got you so scared, whatever you're hiding—let me help."

The words are like cold water, snapping me back to reality. I pull away, immediately missing his warmth but knowing I can't afford the luxury of his comfort.

"I can't," I say, climbing off his lap and putting distance between us.

"Can't or won't?"

"Does it matter?"

Thomas sits up, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "It matters to me. Fiona, I can see you're terrified. Let me protect you."

"Thomas, you’re naive." The words come out sharper than I intended, and I see him flinch.

He looks hurt, then angry, then simply hurt again. “So much has changed since then—”

"Has it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like the same pattern. You decide what's best for me without consulting me, then act accordingly."

"That's not what I'm doing."

"Isn't it?" I cross my arms, building walls between us even as my body still hums from his touch. "You want me to trust you with my secrets while you keep yours locked away."

"My secrets are meant to protect you."

"And my secrets are meant to protect my daughter." The truth slips out before I can catch it, and Thomas's eyes sharpen.

"Protect her from what?"

I realize I've said too much, revealed more than I intended. "From people who might use her to hurt me."

"People like who?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It does if—"

"No." I hold up a hand to stop him. "I can't do this, Thomas. I can't open myself up to you again just to watch you walk away when things get complicated."

His face contorts with something that looks like pain. "I won't walk away."

"You say that now."

"I mean it."

"So did you six years ago." The old hurt rises in my throat, bitter and familiar. "And yet here we are."

Thomas stands, moving toward me despite my defensive posture. "Six years ago, I was young and stupid and terrified of making the wrong choice. I'm not that man anymore."

"Then you’re not the man I fell in love with,” I snarl. “Then we have nothing to talk about."

He stares at me for a long moment, conflict warring in his expression—a flash of heartbreak, a terrible grief, a resignation that makes me burn. Finally, he nods curtly.

"The security protocols are in effect until further notice," he says, his voice deliberately professional. "Keep your radio on. Report any unusual activity."

"Understood."

He moves toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the knob. "Fiona?"

"What?"

"Whatever you're planning—running, hiding, disappearing in the middle of the night—it won't work this time. The danger is too close, too organized. You'll need help."

I hate how transparent I am to him, that he knows I’ve been thinking about it. "I've been taking care of myself and my daughter just fine without help."

He turns to face me, his expression grave. "I hope that’s true, Fiona.”

The words hit me hard. I have been running, from my father, from my past, from the feelings I can't afford to have for the man standing in my doorway. I know that well. I hate the idea that he might know it, too.

"Me too," I admit quietly. "But at least we're still alive."

"That's not the same as living."

After he leaves, I check on Maisie again—still sleeping, though her temperature has spiked higher. I give her a dose of the suppressants Dr. Knowles prescribed, knowing they're barely holding back the inevitable anymore.

Then, I begin to pack.

It's a practiced routine, refined through years of necessity. Essential documents first, then clothes for both of us, medical supplies, cash hidden in various locations throughout the house. Everything fits into two backpacks and a duffel bag—our entire life reduced to what we can carry.

I'm folding Maisie's favorite sweater when I find the note.

It's tucked between the folded clothes in her dresser, written on expensive stationary in my father's distinctive handwriting. Four words that make my blood turn to ice:

I know you're here.