Page 8 of Fated to the Lone Shifter (Curse of the Lunaris Alpha #1)

Chapter seven

Trail of Embers

SERA

D owntime doesn’t mean off-duty. Not when you're undercover.

I spend my day off in town, blending in with the locals, letting my ears do most of the work while my eyes track everything. The town is small enough that one stranger stands out—let alone a film crew. But it’s not the documentarians that set my nerves on edge.

It’s Noah.

Last night at the pub, I caught a flicker of something in his expression when the silver-haired director walked in—tight shoulders, clenched jaw, eyes that tracked like a predator recognizing another hunter. Not fear exactly. More like... recognition. And maybe something darker.

I replay the moment again as I wander the shops downtown. Something about the way he stiffened made my gut clench. Like he knew this guy—knew the weight of his footsteps, the danger curled behind his easy smile. Knew exactly what kind of ruin he could bring.

And that’s when Marcus struts past the bookstore window, grinning like a devil as he nudges one of the female crew members, whispering something that makes her laugh and blush.

Classic Marcus—he’d flirt with a fire hydrant if it winked at him.

But this time there’s something almost.. . practiced about it.

I file it away.

The bartender from last night, Cora, greets me when I step into the pub for a quick pick-me-up. Small talk turns into big answers after I ask about the film crew.

“They've been here filming some backcountry eco-documentary for the past five or six months,” she says, handing over my latte. “But I haven’t seen a single camera set up. It's all out in the woods supposedly.”

I raise a brow. “What about the director? What’s his story?”

Cora leans in, voice dropping. “He's a local. That’s Bode Lunaris. Noah’s uncle, technically. Used to live here decades ago before he left town right after that terrible house fire.”

House fire.

She doesn’t have to spell it out. I know she means the house fire—the one that killed Noah’s real parents. The one that left him orphaned. For some reason, the FBI has lots of information on that particular fire.

My chest tightens.

“Only blood Noah had left, and the bastard vanished when it mattered most. Can you believe that?" Cora's on a roll. "Of course, Noah was far better off growing up with the Bensons as his folks if you ask me."

True that.

I thank her and step back out into the crisp mountain air, heart pounding in a rhythm that feels too personal for someone who’s just investigating.

I’m supposed to be objective. I’m supposed to gather facts, not get tangled up in the emotional debris of my suspect’s past.

But Noah…

Noah is complicated.

And the more I learn, the more I start to question whether I’m hunting a criminal—or protecting one from something worse.

Still, none of this changes my mission.

It just makes the truth a whole lot messier.

The grocery store’s lighting is a little too bright, the kind of sterile that amplifies how tired you look when you’re trying not to be noticed. I loiter near the cold case, one eye on the checkout lanes and the other on the entrance. When he walks in, I don’t even have to fake the shiver.

Bode Lunaris.

He moves with the casual arrogance of someone used to being watched and obeyed.

Worn denim, thick jacket, a beanie pulled low over silver-streaked hair.

Rugged, camera-friendly in that weathered-woodsman way.

He doesn’t notice me until he turns the corner and spots me holding a frozen pizza like it might whisper secrets.

“Oh hey,” I say, feigning breathlessness. “Weren’t you at the bar last night? You’re the director, right?”

He gives me a once-over and smiles. “Depends who’s asking.”

I widen my eyes, cranking up the small-town charm. “Just a curious nobody. I’ve never met a real director before.”

He chuckles. “Well, now you have. Bode. I’m filming a piece on climate risk and wildland burn patterns.”

“Wow,” I say, watching him toss a half-dozen cartons of eggs and three gallons of milk into his cart. “That’s really cool. What kind of stuff have you filmed before?”

“Oh, mainly documentaries. Some of my best work never made it out of post,” he says cryptically. “But I do love returning to the places I know best. Montana’s full of good stories.”

Including the one you ran away from twenty years ago.

I tilt my head. “Looks like you’re cooking for an army.”

“Big crew, big appetites,” he says, tossing in a stack of steaks. “Gotta keep the protein up when you’re hiking into fire country.”

Right. The perfect hunting ground.

"Be safe out there," I laugh nervously as I get in the fast lane, watching his eyes track me just a little too long. There’s an interest there. Male curiosity? The kind that sleezy film directors are known for? No. It’s something darker.

More calculating. I feel like prey—and that’s the way he likes it.

We part ways at the checkout, and I wait in my car until I spy him leaving.

I don’t need confirmation to know what my instincts are screaming: he’s hiding something.

And I’m not just talking about camera gear.

The fire circle is nestled between two granite boulders, charred from use and age. Tori stands waiting, her long coat pulled tight against the crisp air, her features serene in the moonlight.

“You didn’t forget,” she says, her breath curling like mist.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I reply, stepping into the circle, exhausted from the day's investigating.

But tonight is about control, and I'm going to need every ounce I can muster for this assignment.

Tori presses a pouch of herbs into my hand. “Burn this. Let the smoke settle you. Then call the heat to your center.”

I kneel, sprinkle the contents onto a small ember pile, and light it with a flicker of my will. The smoke curls upward—sweet, pungent, grounding.

Tori circles me slowly. “Now—shape your will. Give it teeth. Make the fire kneel.”

I raise my hands. A small spark dances on my fingertips, tentative.

“More,” she urges. “Push past fear. Let it feel you.”

The spark flares. A stream of flame spirals upward, weaving into a rudimentary pattern. I grit my teeth, sweat dotting my temple.

“Good. Again. Shape it into something real.”

I close my eyes, heart racing. Focus. Not on the fear, or Noah, or the secrets pressing at my chest. Just the fire. Just me.

When I open them, the flame has transformed.

A mountain lion made of pure ember, sinew and heat, blinks at me. Solid. Fierce. Enormous.

My familiar.

Tori lets out a low whistle. “You won’t want to let that one out of the cage in public.”

I can’t speak. The bond is overwhelming. Raw. Beautiful.

It’s more than power. It’s identity.

And something tells me I’ll need both in the days to come.

I toss and turn in my bed in the dorm, but sleep doesn’t come easy. The fire training, the investigation, the heat of Noah’s presence—all of it clings to me like smoke in my lungs.

When I finally drift off, the dream hits hard and fast.

I’m running through a burning forest, ash and sparks falling like snow. And ahead of me, in the clearing, a massive wolf blocks my path.

Golden eyes—burning, familiar, furious—sear into mine, a flash of recognition and rage that roots me in place, heart thundering with the weight of what they mean.

Noah’s eyes.

He snarls once and steps between me and something in the shadows.

Then his voice, low and full of fury, rips through the smoke: “Touch her and die.”

I wake up gasping, drenched in sweat.

My heart hammers as I stare at the ceiling.

It was more than a nightmare.

It was a warning.

By the time morning rolls around, I’ve shaken off most of the dream—enough, at least, to make it through my morning prep. I’m halfway down the hallway toward the mess when Captain Greene steps out of the radio room and blocks my path.

“Knowles,” he says. His tone is unreadable, clipped. “With me.”

My stomach sinks.

He leads me down the hall toward the administrative wing, past the rec room and the gear lockers, straight into the old conference room we rarely use. Two chairs. One window. And an officer from the county sheriff’s department already seated, arms crossed.

Greene gestures for me to sit. “You’ve been selected for a random integrity check. Standard polygraph.”

I blink. “Now?”

“Now.”

Damn it. Did someone hear me at the bar the other night? Did Noah report something? Did Bode?

I glance at the machine. I’ve passed them before. But not under this level of scrutiny.

Still, I’ve trained for worse—interrogations, truth serums, magical compulsion. This is just wires and sweat. I take a calming breath, nod once, and settle into the seat.

I glance at the edge of the table, remembering where I placed a listening device.

The wires tighten around my fingers. I keep my pulse low, my expression neutral.

Whatever this is, I need to stay calm and keep my magical powers in check.

I have no other choice.