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Something's different about Luna.

The thought nags at me as I watch her hurry from the Council chamber once more at the conclusion of the meeting, her magic crackling in her wake.

The scent trail she leaves is... altered somehow.

Still lavender and sage and pure Luna, but with an undertone I can't quite identify.

My wolf paces restlessly, sensing something important just beyond our understanding.

"Should someone check on her?" Thomas asks, but I wave him off.

"Give her space." The words cost me, going against every instinct that demands I follow her. "Ruby's with her. She'll be fine."

But 'fine' isn't the right word for how Luna's been lately. There’s a crackling energy about her like electricity—I feel it in the air whenever she’s nearby. She moves differently, more carefully, though I can’t tell why.

And she's been avoiding me—ducking down different corridors when she spots me, making excuses to leave rooms I enter, keeping careful distance even during required meetings.

A week has passed since I last got close enough to touch her. Seven days since she let me catch her scent properly. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. It’s been hell—I’d never admit that out loud to anyone, least of all her, but it has been. One hundred and sixty-eight hours of burning.

Not that I'm counting.

"Nic?" Thomas's voice breaks through my brooding. "The border patrol?"

Right. I have actual duties beyond obsessing over Luna Morgan's changing scent. "Gather the teams. We leave in ten."

The autumn air hits me like a slap as we exit the pack house, crisp with approaching winter, simultaneously waking me up and pissing me off.

Perfect tracking weather—every scent sharp and clear, every sound carrying for miles.

My wolf is eager for the run, desperate to burn off some of the restless, discontented energy that’s been fizzing in my gut for days.

But even as we shift and race toward the northern border, my mind keeps circling back to Luna. To the way she paled during the meeting, one hand pressed to her stomach. I’d kill to never see that fear and discomfort on her face ever again.

Focus. The territory needs its Alpha’s full attention. It doesn’t need him distracted—not even if it’s by her.

We reach the border markers at a steady lope, eight wolves spread out in standard patrol formation. The forest feels wrong somehow today—too quiet, the usual wildlife sounds muted. Even the air carries some strange wrongness I’m not magically attuned enough to put my finger on.

A howl splits the air—James, on point position. Intruders, the sound conveys.

My wolf takes full control as we charge toward his position. The corrupted magic grows stronger, making my fur stand on end. Through the trees, I catch flickers of movement—dark shapes that don't belong in our territory.

Then everything explodes into chaos.

They hit us from three sides—massive black wolves with eyes that glow an unnatural red. Cheslem Pack raiders, carrying that same corrupted magic we found in the herb bundle. My team responds instantly, years of training taking over.

I take the largest one head-on, meeting his charge with fangs and fury. He's strong—Alpha strong, and huge, even bigger than me in my Shift—but there's something wrong about how he moves. I can see something flickering at his edges somehow, wrong and sharp like a bad chord.

We clash in a fury of teeth and claws. His fangs catch my shoulder but can't penetrate the thick fur there.

I get a grip on his throat, tasting that wrongness in his blood as my teeth break flesh.

I get a mouthful of bunched skin and, reiterate my grip and feel my teeth puncture something soft and bloody.

He thrashes, unnaturally strong, but I hold on.

Around us, the fight rages. Thomas takes down a smaller raider with clinical efficiency.

James and two others have a third cornered.

My instincts are braying, howling, as if urging me to sense something I haven’t yet noticed.

But I can’t tell what it is they want me to take note of. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

The thought costs me. My opponent twists impossibly, spine bending at an angle that should break it, and his back claws rake down my flank. Pain explodes through me, but the conscious part of my mind barely registers it, too focused on my task.

I slam the Alpha into a tree hard enough to crack bark. He yelps—the first normal wolf sound he's made—and crumples.

But instead of staying down, his body begins to... change. Not the clean Shift of a normal wolf returning to human form, but something grotesque. His fur seems to melt into shadow.

Wrong, my wolf snarls. Corrupted. Tainted.

Before I can close for the killing blow, all three raiders disengage at some silent signal. They melt into the shadows between trees, leaving behind that taste of corruption and wrongness. James starts to give chase, but I call him back with a sharp bark.

Something about this feels staged. Like they wanted us to see what they've become. What their corruption can do. This wasn’t an attack, some part of me knows—it was a show of force.

I shift back to human form, ignoring the sting of claw marks across my ribs, and press a hand to my bleeding midriff, holding back a wince. "Report."

"Three raiders," Thomas summarizes, already wrapping a field bandage around his arm, then tossing the roll to me. "Cheslem Pack by their scent, but... changed. Corrupted."

"Fucked up," James adds eloquently. "That magic was… wrong. We need to talk to the Elders, and soon.”

The memory of Victoria's careful revelations hits fresh. The protectors who died maintaining our wards. The way she danced around certain details.

And Luna. Even in the aftermath of battle, my mind circles back to her.

If the Cheslem wolves attacked us with all their force, would she be safe?

Would I be able to keep her tucked away somewhere safe, somewhere hidden, until I could return to her?

Would she even allow that? Gods know she’s probably still desperate to get out of here.

At our first distraction, she might just disappear.

The mere thought of it makes me want to kill someone.

Get it together, Alpha. But still, my wolf whines, wanting to run back to the pack house. To check on her. To figure out what's different about her scent. To—

"Alpha?" Thomas's voice breaks through my distraction. "Orders?"

I force myself to focus on the immediate threat.

"Double our existing patrols—all of our volunteers, I want everyone chipping in as much as possible. I want eyes on every inch of our borders. And send word to neighboring packs—they need to know the Cheslem Pack is using corrupted magic. We’ll speak to the Elders, figure out all we can about their last appearance. We’ll figure this out.”

But even as I give the orders and issue reassurances, even as we begin the careful process of documenting the attack scene, my mind keeps drifting. I hate how flighty my thoughts are, how unfocused and fuzzy I am. I hate that she has this power over me even when she’s not here.

My wolf paces restlessly, torn between territory protection and the urge to seek her out. To press her against another convenient surface and taste her gasps. To figure out what's different about her scent. To finish what we started that day by Shadow Creek...

***

The trek back to pack territory gives me too much time to think.

My wolf's blood still runs hot from the fight, making every sensation sharper. The forest around us feels alive with memory—especially as we pass near Shadow Creek, where Luna's scent still lingers even weeks after our encounter, though I can’t tell to what extent I’m imagining it.

"Nic?" Thomas's voice breaks through the beginnings of a dangerously vivid flashback. "You're bleeding through the bandage."

I glance down at my side, where the raider's claws caught me. The wounds are already healing—one advantage of being a powerful shifter—but they sting, and I can see and smell my own blood, a nauseating reminder of my own weakness.

"I'm fine." But I'm not. He can see it, and so I can I. Thomas and James, of all people, can tell I’m cracking, have likely known it for days, weeks, maybe even all the years since she left. They know me better than I know myself.

But it’s getting worse. This morning was the first time I've seen real fear in her eyes since she returned. Not the defensive wariness she usually shows around pack members, but genuine terror at something I couldn't identify.

"You're thinking about her again," James observes as we reach the pack house grounds.

I don't bother denying it. "Something's different about her."

"Maybe she's just nervous about tomorrow's trial." But he doesn't sound convinced.

I hum. I’m not convinced, either. But whatever it is, a bitter, jaded, hungry part of me knows she won’t share it. Not with me. Not until I earn her trust—something I’m becoming increasingly convinced I’ll never manage to do again.