Page 31

Maisie's tiny wolf form trembles against my chest as our convoy winds through the forest toward Silvercreek.

Her eyes—amber like her father's—drift closed, then snap open again, fighting exhaustion.

I stroke her soft brown fur, marveling at the distinctive white markings on her muzzle that mirror Thomas's so perfectly.

"You’re okay," I whisper, more to reassure myself than anyone else. "You’re going to be okay."

Beside me, Thomas drives with tense focus, his hands gripping the steering wheel too tightly.

Every few minutes, his gaze flickers to Maisie, a complex mixture of wonder, grief, and fierce protectiveness crossing his features.

He reaches over periodically to touch her small head, as if confirming she's real, that he hasn't imagined finding his daughter after six years of not knowing she existed.

"Dr. Knowles will be waiting at the compound," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "Best healer in three territories. She's helped dozens of kids through their first shifts."

I nod, unable to form words around the knot in my throat.

The terror of the past hours—Edward's gun, the silver restraints, Maisie caged and frightened—crashes against the fragile relief of this moment.

We're alive. We're together. After six years of running, lying, and looking over my shoulder, my daughter is safe in my arms, with her father beside us.

It doesn't feel real yet.

Pack vehicles surround us, an honor guard ensuring our safe return. Through the window, I catch glimpses of Silvercreek emerging from emergency protocols—families returning from evacuation points, guards standing down from high alert, a community breathing again.

Near the main compound entrance, I spot Ruby directing a group of returning families, clipboard in hand.

James stands at her side, his head bent close to hers as they consult about something.

The ease with which they move together catches my attention briefly before we pull up to the healing center.

Dr. Helena Knowles meets us at the door, her gray-streaked hair pulled back in a practical braid, her expression shifting from professional concern to soft compassion as she takes in Maisie's wolf form.

"Bring her inside," she says, leading us through the herb-scented warmth of the healing center to a private room with a large examination table. "How long has she been shifted?"

"About an hour," Thomas answers, hovering close as I place Maisie on the padded surface. She whimpers, claws scrabbling against the material as she tries to return to my arms.

"It's okay," I murmur, keeping one hand on her back. "Dr. Knowles is going to help you, baby."

"Early shift," Dr. Knowles notes, her hands gentle as she examines Maisie's small wolf body. "Very early. She's what, four?"

"Five," Thomas and I say simultaneously. Our eyes meet over Maisie's head, a silent acknowledgment of the truth we now share.

"That’s new," Dr. Knowles comments, checking Maisie's heart rate, her eyes, her reflexes. She meets my eyes briefly, a stern look, before going back to her examination when I look sufficiently cowed.

“Yes,” I mumble. “It is.

Thomas watches every movement with anxious attention. "Is she okay? The shift happened under extreme stress."

"Physically, she's fine." Dr. Knowles strokes Maisie's fur with practiced confidence.

"Young ones are surprisingly resilient. Their bodies adapt more easily than adults.

But she's exhausted and probably confused.

She'll need stability, rest, and constant contact with both parents for the next few days. "

"Will she be able to shift back?" I ask, the question that's been haunting me since she transformed. "I've heard stories about traumatic first shifts—"

"She'll shift back when she's ready," Dr. Knowles assures me. "Probably soon. Her body won't want to maintain the wolf form for long on a first shift. Just keep her calm and stay close. Consistency and contact with pack, especially parents, helps stabilize newly shifted wolves."

Thomas moves closer, his hand joining mine on Maisie's back. "What about after? Will she be able to control future shifts?"

"With proper guidance, yes." Dr. Knowles smiles at his obvious concern. "You'll need to teach her, just as you would when she's older. The timeline's accelerated, but the process is the same."

I watch Thomas absorb this information, already stepping into his role as a father. He's missed so much—first steps, first words, countless moments that can never be reclaimed. But now he has this—teaching Maisie about her wolf, about the heritage that flows through her veins.

"Her wolf is strong," Dr. Knowles adds, something like admiration in her voice. "To manifest this young, under stress... she's quite remarkable."

Pride swells in my chest as I look down at my daughter—our daughter—who has endured so much yet remains unbroken. I've always known she was special, but seeing her through Thomas's eyes, through Dr. Knowles's professional assessment, I realize just how extraordinary she truly is.

Maisie stirs beneath our hands, a tremor running through her small body. Her fur begins to recede in patches, muscles tensing.

"She's shifting back," Dr. Knowles says, stepping slightly away. "This is good. Very good. Keep doing exactly what you're doing."

I cradle Maisie closer as the transformation begins, murmuring reassurances. "It's okay, baby girl. Mama's here. Daddy's here. We've got you."

Thomas kneels beside us, his presence solid and steady. "You're doing great, Maisie," he says, his deep voice gentle in a way I've never heard before. "Just like we talked about. Let your body do what it needs to do."

The shift back to human form is faster than the initial transformation, her flexible child's body adapting quickly. Within minutes, my daughter lies curled in my arms, human once more, her eyes fluttering open with exhausted confusion.

"Mama?" Her voice is hoarse, small fingers clutching my shirt.

"I'm here, sweetheart." I brush damp hair from her forehead. "You're safe now."

Her gaze shifts, focusing on Thomas with wonder. "You were the big brown wolf. The one who found me."

Thomas's eyes shine with unshed tears. "That's right, pup."

"Are you really my daddy?" The direct question, delivered with a child's unfiltered curiosity, catches him off guard. His throat works for a moment before he can answer.

"I am," he manages finally. "I'm your father, Maisie."

She considers this with the serious contemplation only a five-year-old can muster. "Where were you before?"

The simple question lands like a physical blow. Thomas looks stricken, but before he can formulate a response, Maisie continues, her thoughts racing ahead in the way of children.

"Are you going to live with us now? Will you be my daddy forever?"

Thomas reaches out, gently taking her small hand in his. "Yes," he says, voice thick with emotion. "If that's okay with you and your mama, I'd like that very much."

Maisie nods as if this settles everything. "Good. I always wanted a dad."

The uncomplicated acceptance in her voice brings fresh tears to my eyes.

Children are so resilient, so willing to embrace love when it's offered.

While Thomas and I have six years of pain and misunderstanding to navigate, Maisie simply sees what's in front of her: a father who wants to be part of her life.

"She should rest now," Dr. Knowles says quietly. "Take her home. Keep her warm, feed her when she wakes—she'll be hungry after the shift. Call me if anything changes, but I expect she'll be just fine."

Thomas lifts Maisie into his arms with careful tenderness, her small head nestling naturally against his shoulder as if she's been doing it all her life. The sight of them together—so clearly father and daughter—creates an ache in my chest that's both painful and sweet.

This is what we could have had all along, if not for Edward's hatred.

***

The walk home through Silvercreek feels surreal.

Pack members nod respectfully as we pass, offering quiet congratulations and support.

News travels fast in a wolf pack; everyone knows by now that Thomas has found his daughter, that we've survived Edward's attack, and that our family has been reunited against impossible odds.

Our family. The words still feel strange, tentative, like a gift I'm afraid to fully claim.

Maisie sleeps through the journey, exhausted from her ordeal. Thomas carries her with natural ease, his arms protective around her small form. He pauses when we reach my cottage, uncertainty flickering across his features.

"Come in," I say softly, leading the way through the door that I'd left in such panic just yesterday.

Everything inside looks exactly as we left it—Maisie's breakfast dishes beside the sink, her stuffed wolf fallen from the sofa, my half-empty coffee mug on the counter. Such ordinary objects, yet they feel like artifacts from another life.

Thomas follows me to Maisie's bedroom, laying her gently on her bed. Together, we tuck her in, a domestic act so simple yet so profound in its newness. He lingers in the doorway afterward, watching her sleep with naked wonder on his face.

"She has your nose," he whispers as we move to the kitchen. "And the way she furrows her brow when she's thinking—that's all you."

"But her eyes are yours," I reply. "And that stubborn chin."

We stand awkwardly in the kitchen, exhaustion, and emotion catching up with us now that the immediate danger has passed. Six years of separation stretch between us, alongside the fresh intensity of what we've just survived together.

"You should get some rest, too," Thomas says, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. "I can take the couch, or head back to my cabin if you'd prefer—"

"Stay." The word escapes before I can second-guess it. "The couch is fine. I just... I think Maisie would feel better knowing you're here when she wakes up."