Page 3 of Fated to the Lone Shifter (Curse of the Lunaris Alpha #1)

Chapter two

Lone Wolf Instincts

NOAH

T he rookie line forms up like uneven stakes hammered into rocky soil, five pairs of anxious eyes squinting under the shadow of the training tower. Their gear bags sag beside them, half-zipped, helmets still too shiny. First-day stiffness clings to their posture, nervous energy thick in the air.

I pace in front of them, coffee in one hand, clipboard in the other, jaw set. My usual drill instructor routine. Most fall into line when I bark, a few stammer through their "yes, sir" responses. Then there's her.

Serafina Knowles.

Just Sera, she said this morning.

She stands at the end of the row, arms crossed, boots planted firm, her hair jammed up in a bun that’s already slipping from under her helmet. She watches me like she’s waiting for me to make a mistake.

Or maybe she’s sizing me up.

I don’t like it.

She’s the smallest of the probies—not much taller than my shoulder, wiry in frame, probably weighs as much as a nozzle when it’s full. But something about her throws off my instincts, challenges me. Makes me itch beneath the skin.

“Today’s your baptism,” I say. “You’re gonna learn how to sweat, how to lift, and how to suffer. But if you make it through, you’ll know how to survive. Questions?”

No one raises a hand. Good.

We start with drills—hose lifts, ladder raises, SCBA gear races. I keep my eye on Sera the entire time, expecting her to fall behind. She doesn’t. She beats the tall guy—Taylor, I think—by three seconds in the mask-and-pack drill. I time her. Twice. No errors.

She doesn’t grunt. She doesn’t flinch. But she doesn’t show off, either—her movements are tight, efficient, the kind that speak of experience and discipline, not bravado.. Sharp. Clean. Controlled. Like someone who’s trained for more than fire.

By the second hour, sweat’s pouring off the crew.

Sera’s shirt clings to her spine, her breathing fast but steady as she shoulders a hose with one of the other women.

When they complete the obstacle course, she slaps the red button and drops into a crouch to catch her breath, but there’s a ghost of a grin on her face. She enjoys the burn.

I hate how intrigued I am.

I jot a note on my clipboard and move on, pretending I didn’t just watch her more than the rest of them combined.

She’s good. Too good.

And that raises my suspicions.

Because I felt something when I touched her yesterday—something not normal. A spark, sure, but not the flirty kind. Not the kind you laugh off with a joke about chemistry. This one went bone-deep.

And it’s still there. Even now, watching her from across the blacktop, I feel it.

Like heat rolling off a fire you haven’t lit yet.

I’ve avoided this kind of thing for years.

But if she’s what I think she is…

Then I’m not the only one at this firehouse with something to hide.

I call for a water break, mostly so I can observe how the rookies decompress. That’s where the cracks usually start to show.

Taylor’s slumped against a rig tire, chugging water like it might save him from cardio.

Big guy—barrel-chested, neck thick as a tree stump—but slow to process.

He overcompensates with bravado, cracking jokes that land two beats too late.

Still, he listens when it matters. Mostly. And his strength will serve him well.

Rivas lounges on the tailgate like he’s waiting for someone to bring him a smoothie. Sharp eyes, fast hands, cocky as hell. He aced the rope climb but spent the whole time smirking like he’d already made lieutenant. Useful, if he doesn’t get someone killed trying to show off.

Jamie’s perched on a bench, bouncing one knee and watching the others.

Doesn’t talk much, but her eyes catch everything.

She clocked a kink in Nicole’s hose rig and fixed it before anyone else noticed.

Nervous, but meticulous. She’s got that sponge-brain energy—soaking in every move like she’s memorizing a map. A great team player.

Then there’s Nicole. Quiet, efficient, always one step ahead of instructions. The kind who hands you the tool you need before you ask. She’s a pleaser, and that worries me—people like her will burn themselves out before they ask for help.

They’re all green, but they’ve got potential. Together, they’re a rough draft of something solid. But it’s Sera who throws off the curve. She doesn’t defer. Doesn’t ask what’s next. She moves like someone who already knows.

Which means she’s either got real training—or she’s hiding something.

The others haven’t picked up on it yet. They just see the quiet girl who doesn’t complain and keeps up.

But I see the gaps.

And I’ve learned the hard way—It’s the quiet ones who carry the loudest secrets.

I’m halfway through rehydrating and scanning the next drill schedule when Greene’s voice barks from the bay doors. “Benson. Office. Now.”

His tone is all gravel and grit, like he gargled a sandstorm before coffee.

I dismiss the greenhorns for the day and toss my clipboard on the bench. I follow the Captain into his office. He doesn’t look at me right away, just sinks into the squeaky chair behind his desk and gestures for me to shut the door.

The air shifts the second I do.

He pulls a file from the stack beside him and taps it with two fingers. “We’ve got a problem.”

I stay standing. “What kind?” My internal guilt always weighs on me in these moments.

“Pattern recognition kind.” He opens the file. Maps, crime scene photos, thermal imaging from the wildfires. The air smells faintly of char, even though it’s just paper.

He points to six marked locations, spread like a twisted constellation across the Bitterroot region.

“Every single one of the fires from the past six months. Same ignition pattern. Same residue. And—” he flips a photo toward me “—every one of them had at least one corpse.

..we think. They're still testing the ash samples for DNA.”

I narrow my eyes. “Murder victims or just people caught in the burn?”

Greene leans back, face hard. “One or two, maybe the wrong place, wrong time. Six different fires with burned bodies. We’d be foolish to discount homicide as the motive behind the fires.”

He lets the silence stretch, jaw working like he’s grinding down the words before speaking.

“The sheriff’s trying to keep this quiet. No panic. But I heard whispers this morning that the Feds might take interest if we don’t get ahead of it.”

My jaw tightens. “Let me guess—still no suspects?”

“None that hold up. But with the body count adding up, I think we can assume this is more than just an arsonist. Keep your ears open,” Greene says. “And keep your rookies closer. Especially the small one.”

I blink. “Sera?”

“She’s green but sharp. Too sharp.” He fixes me with a look. “Remind you of anyone?”

I grunt. The ghost of a younger me flickers in his stare. Lone wolf. No leash. No backup. Too sharp for my own good. “I’ll keep an eye,” I affirm.

Greene nods once. “Dismissed.”

I leave the office with a dozen new questions and a pit in my gut the size of a flare pack.

Back at the bay window, I watch the probies drifting north alongside the road.

Except one.

Sera.

She’s heading straight for the woods in the opposite direction.

Not the path to the rookies’ dorms where the firefighters stay when they’re off duty or in training. Not the parking lot. The forest line.

And something about the way she moves—deliberate, careful, like she’s trying not to be seen—makes the wolf in me growl low in warning.

I grab my jacket and keys and follow her.

The trees close in quickly, swallowing her silhouette and the last of the firehouse light. I keep my distance, silent and patient, the way I was taught back in the woods outside Missoula, where I first learned to stalk prey without snapping a twig.

Sera doesn’t move like someone out for a walk—she moves like she’s done this before. Purposeful. Silent. She’s hunting something—or worse, tracking it.

She passes the last floodlight and continues on to the burn site, almost as if she knows it’s there.

I duck behind a pine and watch her kneel in the clearing blackened by fire.

Even from here, I can see the brittle, carbon-stained earth.

The closest burn site to the firehouse. My nostrils flare.

There’s something faint in the air beneath the char—an echo of a scent I caught weeks ago but couldn’t name

She brushes ash with her fingertips.

And something happens.

A flash. A ripple, like heat off pavement. Her hand trembles, but she doesn’t pull back. Her shoulders tighten, and her breath catches in a way that makes my own lungs freeze.

I’ve felt that before.

Not here. Not from her. But from the ash itself. Whatever was burned here—it wasn’t natural. And she just touched the memory of it.

My hackles rise.

She reaches down again, slower this time, and pulls something from the dirt. A talisman? No. A simple stone. But the second her fingers close around it, her hand jerks like she’s been burned, but she doesn’t drop it. Just tightens her jaw and breathes through it.

I can’t see it clearly, so I move to get a better view. The branch above me cracks with a sharp snap, splintering under my weight like dry bone.. Rookie move.

That’s when she lifts her head. Her ear toward me. She stands, but doesn’t turn.

My spine snaps straight, and I duck back behind the tree, barely daring to breathe.

Did she see me?

No movement. No shout. A minute passes, then another.

When I peek again, she’s walking away, nonchalantly, pocketing the object like it’s nothing more than a souvenir.

I stay hidden until her footsteps fade completely.

Then I step into the clearing.

The air still hums. Whatever she found, it’s not the only secret buried here. And now I’ve got two mysteries to unravel:

What started this fire?

And who the hell is Serafina Knowles?