Page 6

"Mrs. Finley is watching her, right? She'll be fine for another hour." Luna’s expression softens. "Besides, running away right now will only make things worse. Trust me—I’d know.”

I take a reluctant sip of the wine, the sweetness doing nothing to dissolve the knot in my throat. "Let them talk. They always have."

"True enough." Luna glances over my shoulder, her eyes widening slightly. "Heads up. He's coming this way."

I don't need to ask who. Thomas's scent reaches me before he does—pine and leather, unchanged after all these years.

My body reacts instinctively, a warmth kindling low in my belly that has nothing to do with the wine and everything to do with muscle memory.

I hate that he still has this effect on me.

"I should go," I say quickly, but Luna’s hand on my arm stops me.

"Talk to him," she urges quietly. "Just for a minute. People are watching."

She's right—dozens of eyes track Thomas's progress across the clearing, hungry for drama. If I bolt now, it will only feed the gossip mill for weeks.

So I stand my ground as Thomas approaches, schooling my features into careful blankness.

Up close, the changes in him are more apparent—lines at the corners of his eyes that weren't there before, a small scar across his left eyebrow, the broader set of his shoulders beneath his dark ceremonial jacket.

"Fiona," he says, my name sounding strange in his deeper voice. "Can we talk?"

Luna squeezes my arm once before slipping away, leaving us in a bubble of artificial privacy surrounded by curious onlookers.

"Isn't that what we're doing?" I ask, proud of how steady my voice sounds.

His jaw tightens. "Somewhere less public."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

His eyes—still that impossible blue I remember too well—search mine. "Please."

Something in his tone—a vulnerability I've never heard from him—makes me waver. But then I remember another night, six years ago, when his voice held a different note. Cold. Dismissive. Final.

"I have nothing to say to you," I tell him, the words clipped.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. "We need to discuss the trials."

"We will. Tomorrow. During daylight hours, in a public place, with witnesses." I drain my wine cup in one swallow, the alcohol burning a path to my empty stomach. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get home to my daughter."

His expression changes at the mention of Maisie, something flashing in his eyes that I can't interpret. "Your daughter. Right."

There's an odd emphasis on the word "your" that makes my skin prickle with alarm. Does he suspect? No—impossible. I've been careful. No one knows.

"Yes, my daughter," I say firmly. "Who is waiting for me."

I turn to leave, but his voice stops me.

"The Pack Building. Tomorrow. We'll go over the details of the first trial."

It's not a request. I don't bother acknowledging it, simply walking away with as much dignity as I can muster, feeling the weight of his gaze on my back all the way to the tree line.

Once I'm out of sight of the Hollow, I abandon all pretense of composure. My legs shake so badly that I have to lean against a massive oak, gulping in the cold night air. This can't be happening. Not after everything. Not after I've worked so hard to build a life without him.

Unbidden, the memory rises—sharp and clear as cut glass.

Six years ago. Thomas's cabin. The last time we spoke properly—eye to eye, face to face—before today.

I arrived with my heart full of plans and hopes.

We'd been meeting in secret all summer, stealing moments away from judging eyes.

That night, I'd finally worked up the courage to tell him I'd applied to the same college he was attending in the fall.

That we could have a future beyond stolen kisses in the forest.

But the man who opened the door wasn't the Thomas I knew. His face was shuttered, eyes cold in a way I'd never seen before.

"We need to talk," he said, stepping back to let me in but not reaching for me like he usually did.

"What's wrong?" I asked, alarm spreading through me as I took in his rigid posture, the carefully maintained distance between us.

"This thing between us," he said, gesturing vaguely. "It was just a summer distraction. Nothing more. And I’m finished with it.”

The words didn't make sense at first. Couldn't reconcile with the man who'd whispered "forever" against my skin just days before.

"What are you talking about?" My voice sounded small, even to my own ears.

"Come on, Fiona." His voice was harsh, unfamiliar. Flat. Empty. “Neither of us thought it would last.”

"But we talked about—"

"We talked about a lot of things." He cut me off, his voice cold enough to freeze my blood. "Things people say in the moment. It didn't mean anything."

I stared at him, searching for any sign of the man I thought I knew. Found nothing but a stranger wearing his face.

"So that's it?" I asked, tears threatening. "Everything we shared was just... what? Practice?"

Something flickered in his eyes then—pain? regret?—before his expression hardened again.

"You should go, Fiona. It's better this way."

"Better for who?" I demanded, anger finally breaking through the shock.

He turned away, his back a wall between us. "Just go. Please."

I left his cabin with my dignity in tatters, stumbling through the dark woods, tears blinding me. Two weeks later, the pregnancy test showed positive. A day after that, my father found the test in the trash and erupted in rage.

"No daughter of mine will bear a shifter's bastard," he'd snarled, his hand gripping my arm hard enough to bruise, and the implications terrified me to my core.

“I’m a shifter!” I tried to snap back with just as much fury, but as he loomed over me, I knew it was a fight I couldn’t win. Only flight would save us.

That night, I packed a bag, emptied my savings account, and disappeared from Silvercreek. I'd thought, forever.

The memory fades, leaving me cold in the autumn night. I push away from the tree, wrapping my arms around myself as I walk the lonely path to the cottage where Maisie waits.

Mrs. Finley, a kindly older wolf who's never shown me the contempt others have, meets me at the door with concern etched on her face.

"There you are, dear. I was getting worried."

"I'm sorry I'm late," I say, stepping inside and scanning the room for Maisie.

"She's asleep on your bed," Mrs. Finley says, gathering her knitting. "Wanted to wait up for you, but those little eyes couldn't stay open past eight." She hesitates, then adds gently, "She had another episode. Got very warm. It passed quickly."

My heart sinks. "Thank you for letting me know."

Mrs. Finley pats my arm. "She's a special little one. Strong blood." She peers at me more closely. "Are you alright, Fiona? You look shaken."

I know what she’s asking. Who was picked? Was it you?

"Just tired," I lie. "Thank you for watching her."

After she leaves, I check the locks twice before going to my bedroom.

Maisie is a small lump under the quilt, her dark curls spread across my pillow.

In sleep, the resemblance to her father is even more pronounced—the same stubborn set to her jaw, the same long lashes.

She has my dark hair, not his blonde curls, but their eyes are identical. She looks more like him every day.

I change quickly into an oversized t-shirt and slide in beside her, her small body automatically curling against mine. Her skin is still warmer than it should be, but not alarmingly so. I stroke her hair, watching her breathe, my mind racing with impossible choices.

I could run. Pack my daughter and what little we own, steal a car, drive until Silvercreek is just a bad memory again. But Victoria's words echo in my mind: "Rogues are hunted by all allied packs. It's for their own protection as much as ours."

A pretty way of saying they'd track us down and drag us back—or worse.

Sleep eludes me for hours, my thoughts circling like trapped birds. When dawn finally breaks, I've made a decision. I need to speak with Victoria. There must be some loophole, some way out of this nightmare.

I wait until Maisie is safely at school before making my way to Victoria Blackwood's cottage on the eastern edge of pack land. The oldest living Elder, Victoria, has always stood slightly apart from pack politics. If anyone might bend the rules, it would be her.

Wishful thinking, I know. But I have no other options.

Her cottage appears from between the trees like something from a fairy tale—stone walls covered in climbing vines, smoke curling from the chimney despite the mild morning. I hesitate at the gate, suddenly unsure.

"I've been expecting you," Victoria calls from the open doorway. "Come in, Fiona. The tea is already steeping."

I follow her inside, ducking beneath the low doorframe. The interior is warm and fragrant, with herbs hanging from the ceiling beams and bubbling pots on the old wood stove. Victoria gestures to a worn armchair near the fire.

"Sit. You look like you haven't slept."

I sink into the chair, watching as she pours tea into mismatched cups. Her movements are deliberate, unhurried, as if we have all the time in the world. Finally, she hands me a steaming cup and settles into the chair opposite mine.

"You want a way out of the lottery," she says without preamble.

I wrap my fingers around the warm cup. "Is it that obvious?"

A smile touches her lined face. "You practically ran from the Hollow last night. And your history with Thomas is hardly a secret, not to those of us who remember how he was after you left."

"Then you understand why this is impossible." I lean forward, desperate for her to see. "There must be some way to invalidate the drawing, to—"

"There isn't." Her voice is gentle but firm. "The lottery is binding. It has been for generations."

"But this is the twenty-first century," I argue. "Surely there's some provision for... for extenuating circumstances."