Page 7 of Fated to the Lone Shifter (Curse of the Lunaris Alpha #1)

Chapter six

Wolves at the Door

NOAH

I roll the stone between my fingers, its surface smooth and cold—until it isn’t. Heat pulses beneath the carved ridges, just enough to prickle against my skin like a warning. A protection rune on it, but what is it protecting?

It's been three days since she's touched it, and her scent still lingers on the stone—lavender smoke with an edge of scorched earth and wild musk, primal and untamed, curling beneath the sweetness like a growl waiting to surface. I close my eyes and inhale deeply.

Witch energy. No doubt about it. But not hostile. Not yet.

The same energy laced through the ashes I found at the last fire site.

The same strange tug in my chest when Sera’s near.

And now this rock, pulled from the embers like a clue too obvious for me to ignore.

And it’s not the only one apparently. My instincts scream one thing: we’re not alone out here.

And we’re up against a lot more than your average arsonist.

But what does Sera have to do with all this? How did she find the stone? Did she know it was there? Was she just retrieving it, or like me, was she looking for clues? Does she know who is behind the arsons?

My mind won’t stop whirring, and I have no one to confide in. No pack, no mate, no one to rely on but myself. Damn it! If I could only trust her. It would be nice to have someone to share my secrets with for once in my life.

I pace my office, boots thudding against the worn tile.

A rogue pack. It has to be. The scent in the ashes was muddled—wild, unclaimed.

Not local. But trying to prove it? That’s a whole other beast. I can’t just walk up to the Captain and say, “Hey, I think there are unsanctioned werewolves torching our forests and leaving charred corpses behind.”

Yeah. That’d go over real well.

Instead, I scan a lunar calendar on the wall. Red circles mark specific days—the arsons forming a grim pattern across the months. My throat tightens.

Every one of them aligns with the full moon.

The realization hits me like a freight train. I smack my forehead. Of course, during every arson, my wolf was gnawing at me.

My mind whirrs. If it is a pack, it means they are not only ruthless. They're strategic. So am I. And now I know when to expect them.

But that leaves only three days until the next full moon!

Which means three days to figure out who’s behind this.

Three days to stop another wildfire. Three days to make sure I don’t become the next headline.

Because if the rogue wolves are nearby, they’ll smell me too.

And if I lose control—if the moon’s pull hits me wrong—I could become exactly what I’m trying to stop.

I scrub a hand through my hair and grab my keys. I need grounding, perspective, something real. There’s only one place I can find that.

Home.

The Benson house smells like cinnamon, soap, and memories I don’t deserve. The screen door creaks as I step inside, and Mom’s already turning from the stove, wooden spoon in hand and apron dusted with flour.

“Well, look who the fire dragged in,” she says, beaming.

I smile for the first time all day. “Hey, Ma.” I sneak up and give her a kiss.

Dad’s voice booms from the living room. “Thought I smelled burnt toast.”

“Stuff it, old man,” I call back, dropping my gear bag by the door.

I treasure these moments with my parents. Everything as predictable as my mother’s inevitable complaints about her kitchen. “Dinner will be ready soon, if this old stove can make it through another meal,” she manages to work into the conversation now. My dad just rolls his eyes and chuckles.

“One of these days I swear I’m going to burn it down and start from scratch!” she playfully threatens, hurling a side glance at her husband already seated at the table.

I envy them both, so secure in each other’s love. Knowing that, no matter what, they have a mate for life. No secrets between them; they know everything there is to know about each other and love each other anyway.

Dinner is roast chicken and potatoes, warm bread slathered in butter, and the kind of laughter that shakes the dust off your bones. For a moment, I almost believe I’m just a regular guy, not a ticking time bomb with a haunted past.

But then Mom mentions the fires.

“They’re sayin’ it’s arson,” she says quietly, folding her napkin. “Like what happened back then.”

I go still.

Back then. Two words that carry a graveyard of meaning.

“It’s not the same,” I lie.

Her eyes search mine. “No? Sure feels the same. Folks dyin’, homes burnin’. And that feeling in the air…” She shakes her head. “Heavy. Like a storm’s coming.”

She’s not wrong. Something’s coming. I just don’t know who’s behind it.

Or who I’ll be when it hits.

On the drive back, I let the truck wind through the trees, headlights cutting swaths of gold through the shadows. The past itches under my skin, memories clawing their way up from where I buried them.

The last time I saw my birth parents, I was five.

My mom had eyes like mine, fierce and burning bright even as she knelt before me, her hands framing my face. "Stay here, no matter what. Don’t come down. Not until you hear the police.”

She stashed me in the tree house—our secret fort in the branches—and then she was gone. Along with everything else I cared about.

I waited. One day. Two. I lost count.

When the cops found me, I was hungry, cold, and half-wild with fear. They said the fire took everything. That there was nothing left to bury. But they were wrong.

“Beware the family curse, Noah. If the pack does not approve of your mate, they will destroy both of you. Choose well and wisely.” My mother’s last words still haunt me.

The Bensons took me home from the tree house, and I never left. They raised me. Gave me a second chance. But my mother’s warning stayed buried in my bones, deeper than any scar. It’s why I’ve never let anyone close. Never risked a bond. Never tempted fate.

And it’s why Sera scares the hell out of me.

With one touch, she could jeopardize everything.

I pull into the Lolo Peak Pub parking lot and cut the engine.

Gravel crunches under my boots as I make my way inside, the familiar scent of beer and pine cleaner hitting me like a memory.

The lights are low, music pulsing softly from the jukebox.

Behind the bar, a friendly face and childhood friend, Cora, raises an eyebrow when she sees me.

“Noah Benson, in a bar on a weekday? I don't recall tripping a fire alarm,” she says, pouring my usual before I ask. I wave her off.

I lean on the counter. “I’m on the clock.”

Her eyes twinkle. “So, fireman by day, detective by night?”

“Something like that.”

I keep my voice light, but my gaze sweeps the room, scanning for anything out of place. “Anyone new pass through lately?”

Cora shrugs, polishing a glass. “A film crew. A few tourists. Oh, and your rookies back there.” She jerks her chin toward the corner.

Sure enough, Marcus is holding court at a back table, gesturing wildly as all five probies and a few senior firefighters roar with laughter. Sera sits at the edge of the group, her smile faint but her eyes alert, tracking everything.

I don’t know whether to avoid them or walk straight to her.

I thank Cora and head toward the table.

As I near, I hear Sera say something that makes the hairs rise on my neck.

“Sometimes you can tell when a fire’s been called by more than just gasoline.”

Cryptic. Precise. And it lands like a blade to the gut—too close to the truth to ignore. My breath catches, and a muscle tightens in my jaw.

Definitely not something your average probie, or human, would say.

The group laughs and turns their attention back to Marcus.

I step up behind Sera and fold my arms. “That so?”

I perceive that I’ve made her uncomfortable with my surprise attack, but she doesn’t show it. Instead, she looks over her shoulder, her expression perfectly blank. “I read it in a training manual.”

“Oh really. Which one?”

She shrugs. “One of the new ones.”

Liar.

I pull up a chair at the end of the table next to her. The others are too distracted by Marcus’s antics to notice our conversation tightening like a wire between us.

“You ever smell ozone when you’re near a fire?” I ask, keeping my voice casual.

Her eyes narrow a fraction. “Depends on the chemicals burning.”

Another dodge. My wolf bristles.

I lean in, lowering my voice. “How do you like to start fires?”

She leans forward too, her tone syrupy-sweet. “The same as you.”

I'm not used to people challenging me, and I'm not sure whether I like it. Either way, I bite. "What's that?"

“Anger,” she says, voice quiet but unflinching. Her eyes lock on mine, as if she’s daring me to deny it.

She’s digging too deep and hitting pay dirt.

I consider this. Before I can come up with a witty comeback, the front door opens with a gust of cold air. I look back, annoyed, just in time to see a boisterous group of seven make their way into the pub. Unknowns. Except for one.

A man I haven't seen in twenty years.

Bode Lunaris.

Older. Meaner. But unmistakable.

And behind him… the rest of his pack.

My blood turns to ice.

What brought him back to Lolo after all these years?

And just days before a full moon?