Page 2 of Flint’s Fate (Silver Falls Shifters #3)

CHAPTER 1

JENNA

J enna gripped the steering wheel of her rental SUV as she drove through Silver Falls, the town both familiar and strangely foreign after all these years. Maribel had always believed Silver Falls was special, tucked away in the Colorado mountains, untouched by the rush of the modern world. Jenna had been too busy chasing promotions to visit very often. Now, her aunt was gone, and she was rolling into town with nothing but a suitcase, a funeral to plan, and an inherited, run-down orchard.

She slowed as she passed the town square, where a handful of small businesses framed a neatly bricked courtyard. Strings of white lights hung over a fountain, casting a warm glow despite the storm-darkened sky. A banner advertising the upcoming Silver Falls Cider Days Festival fluttered over Main Street. Too little, too late, Jenna thought bitterly. The orchard had been Maribel’s legacy, and now it was barely hanging on.

Her hands tightened on the wheel as she made the turn onto Cold Creek Road. The paved streets gave way to gravel, and the scent of rain-soaked earth filled the car. She was almost there.

The first glimpse of Cold Creek Orchards sent an ache through her chest. How had this happened? If her aunt was in financial difficulty, why hadn’t she asked for help? Weather had worn the wooden archway over the driveway, making its carved lettering barely legible. The once-pristine fence sagged in places, and the trees—Maribel’s pride—looked neglected, their twisted branches heavy with unharvested fruit. Weeds crept along the gravel path leading up to the farmhouse, a grand old structure with peeling paint and a porch swing that hung lopsided on one chain.

Jenna shut off the engine, taking a slow breath before stepping out. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of apples and damp wood. A presence stirred at the edges of her awareness, a whisper of something wild in the trees.

"You’re finally here."

The deep, unmistakably male voice came from behind her. Jenna pivoted, already on guard.

The man leaning against the porch railing looked like he belonged in the untamed wilderness surrounding them. Built like a man who knew how to fight and win, he was tall, broad, and powerful. Tawny hair framed a face that was both rugged and striking, with golden eyes that seemed to pierce straight through her. A flicker of recognition pulsed through her, as though they had met, even though she was sure they hadn’t.

Jenna squared her shoulders. "And you are?"

"Flint Mercer," he said, his gaze steady. "Maribel’s friend. I was with her when she died."

She hadn't expected that. Maribel had mentioned someone in her letters—a stubborn, overprotective local who had always been underfoot; the alpha of the local mountain lion clan—but she’d never said he looked like this.

Jenna crossed her arms. "I didn’t know that. When the sheriff called, he said she was found dead in her orchard."

Flint nodded. “She was not part of my clan, but I kept an eye on her. She was one of the best people I ever knew.”

Jenna searched his face for what, she wasn’t sure. “Again, thank you for all you did for her.”

Instead of continuing the conversation, she strode past him and up the porch steps, digging in her bag for the keys. Her fingers shook, but she willed them to be steady. The lock clicked, and she pushed the door open, stepping into the house that had once been a sanctuary.

Everything was as Maribel had left it—except for the silence. Her aunt had been a woman with a bright, cheery personality, and it had always seemed to brighten any room. Without her buoyancy, the farmhouse seemed small, as if it had withered in the days since she’d died.

Flint followed her inside. "What are your plans?”

“Nothing is set in stone, but this place was important to both my aunt and mother. I feel like I have to at least attempt to return it to what I remember from my childhood. How did this happen?” She said the last with a sweeping movement of her arm showing the dilapidated state of the orchard.

“Your aunt was a proud woman. She had a poor harvest, followed by a bad freeze and she never seemed to recover. She hid her difficulties from those of us who would have helped. Every time I offered, she made light of it and brushed my concerns away. I think you need to be careful. I’m not convinced your aunt died of natural causes…”

“That’s what the death certificate says.”

Flint nodded. “I know, but it’s more because there wasn’t any overt cause of death and the autopsy was perfunctory at best.”

She turned to face him. "Perfunctory? What do you know the authorities don’t? This place is a mess. I’m sure this city girl who got to spend a couple of summers out here still sees it with the rose-colored glasses of youth..."

His jaw tightened. "I don’t know anything for certain, but I believe Maribel didn’t just die. I believe something or someone wanted her gone."

A chill prickled down her spine, but she refused to let it show. "The sheriff ruled it an accident."

Flint’s lips pressed into a hard line. "That’s what they’re calling it. Doesn’t mean it’s true."

Jenna didn’t need this—a stranger showing up on her doorstep, telling her how to grieve, how to think. "I appreciate the warning, but I can handle myself."

His gaze slid over her, assessing. "You sure about that?"

She lifted her chin. "Dead sure."

For a moment, neither of them moved. The air between them changed, thick with something unspoken. Jenna felt it like a live wire beneath her skin. Flint’s presence was a force all its own—unsettling, undeniable.

Then, just as quickly, he stepped back, breaking the spell. "You’ll need help to get the orchard back on its feet."

Jenna’s pulse was still hammering in her ears. "What are you offering?"

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he walked to the doorway, pausing with one hand braced against the frame. "Whatever you need, but I’m also telling you to watch your back."

Then he was gone, vanishing into the night like he belonged to it. Jenna exhaled slowly, only realizing now that she had been gripping the doorknob too tightly.

Jenna shut the door behind her and leaned against it, inhaling the familiar scent of wood polish, apples, and cinnamon. The house had always felt warm, safe. Now, an eerie stillness lingered, like a presence that didn’t belong.

She pushed away the feeling and moved deeper inside, trailing her fingers along the worn wooden banister as she climbed the stairs to her old bedroom. Maribel had kept everything the same—down to the blue-and-white quilt folded neatly at the foot of the bed. It was both comforting and heartbreaking.

Dropping her bag onto the mattress, she made her way back downstairs to the kitchen. She needed something stronger than nostalgia.

The cabinets creaked as she rummaged through them, finally finding an unopened bottle of whiskey. She twisted off the cap and poured a generous amount into a glass. The burn as she took a sip grounded her, but it did nothing to push back the unease creeping up her spine.

Then she saw it—a piece of folded paper sat on the worn oak table, perfectly centered, as if waiting for her.

Jenna frowned and set down her glass, reaching for the note. The paper was thick, the edges slightly crumpled, as though someone had handled it more than once before deciding to leave it behind.

Someone scrawled her name across the front in jagged, uneven letters.

Leave now or suffer the same fate as Maribel.

The words slammed into her like a punch to the gut. Cold, calculated. A threat and a promise.

Jenna tightened her grip on the paper, her jaw locking. Coward. Whoever had written this hadn’t had the guts to confront her in person. She turned the note over, looking for anything else—any sign of who had left it—but there was nothing.

From the moment she received the call from the sheriff, there had been something off about Maribel’s death. This ominous note only confirmed it. But no one, other than Flint, seemed to be all that interested. Still, she probably ought to show it to the sheriff. A sharp creak echoed through the house. She froze, pulse hammering. The sound had come from the front porch.

Setting the note down, she tiptoed toward the door. Years in corporate warfare had given her a natural authority, but this—this was different. This was personal. The porch was empty when she stepped outside. Only the sound of the wind moving through the trees greeted her. But she could feel someone or something watching.

Jenna scanned the tree line, searching for any movement, any sign of what had sent her instincts into overdrive. In New York City, her mountain lion instincts had been mostly dormant, but from the time she had stepped off the plane, they had come rushing back. But she could see nothing in the trees. Just the deep black of the forest stretching out beyond the property.

The air carried the scent of damp leaves and distant wood smoke, but underneath it was something else. A whisper of danger.

She wasn’t alone.

"Looking for something?"

Jenna’s spine stiffened, but she managed to keep herself from startling. She turned her head slowly to find Flint leaning against the porch railing, arms crossed over his broad chest. He wasn’t even trying to pretend he hadn’t been watching her.

"Do you always just creep up on people?”

“I don’t creep.”

Jenna snorted. “Did you come back to offer more warnings?”

He tilted his head, studying her. "No. Thought you might need a drink." He lifted a brown paper bag. "And the good stuff. Not that cheap bottle you found in the kitchen."

Jenna narrowed her eyes. "How do you know what I found?"

Flint’s mouth curved slightly. "Small town. I know what Maribel kept in that cabinet. And I know she saved the better whiskey for nights when she needed it."

She glanced at the bag in his hand, then back to his face. The man was too comfortable, too damn confident. It should have irritated her more than it did. Instead, something inside her responded to the challenge he carried in his stance, in his voice. She could feel her she-cat growling in her mind.

"I don’t need company," she said.

Flint took a step closer, his eyes catching the porch light. "I think you do."

Jenna wasn’t used to people challenging her decisions. But Flint Mercer wasn’t like anyone she’d ever met. She reminded herself he was an alpha and that she would need to tread carefully.

She sighed and held out her hand. "Fine. But if this isn’t actually the ‘good stuff,’ I’m making you drink the cheap bottle instead.”

Flint chuckled, handing over the bag. "Deal."

She took it and walked back inside, fully aware of him following. The space between them crackled with an undeniable energy that had nothing to do with the threat lurking outside.

As she set two glasses down on the table, Flint glanced at the folded note. His amusement vanished.

"What’s that?"

Jenna hesitated for half a second before sliding it toward him. He unfolded it, reading the message in silence. His grip tightened.

"Where did you find this?"

"On the table," she said. "Right in the middle, like someone wanted me to see it the moment I walked in."

Flint’s expression darkened, his easy-going manner evaporating. "This isn’t a warning, Jenna. It’s a threat. You need to show this to the sheriff."

"Why? You said her death had been written off as natural causes.”

“Beck isn’t like that. He had nothing to go on. Very few people here even remember you visiting. If you were just going to get rid of the place, with no evidence to the contrary, he didn’t have any reason to suspect foul play. This note? Gives him a reason.”

“You seem to think I should be very concerned.”

“You should be. Colorado isn’t New York City.”

“Maybe not, but this city girl has a carry permit for a Glock, and I know how to use it.”

A faint grin crossed Flint’s face. “I think you have a lot more of Maribel’s spirit than I originally thought. You still need to show this to Beck.”

She poured the whiskey. “I’ll think about it, but I’m staying at least until I can bring this place back to its former glory and figure out what really happened to my aunt.”

Flint clinked his glass against hers. "Whoever left this note isn’t playing games."

She picked up her glass, taking a sip before answering. "Neither am I."

They stood in silence for a long moment, the air between them charged. Flint’s gaze stayed locked on hers, something unreadable flashing through it before he set the note down carefully.

"Well, if you’re staying," he said, voice low, "you’re going to need help."

Jenna looked at him. "You volunteering?"

His mouth quirked, but his eyes held something far more serious. "I’m not letting you take this on alone."

“Why? Because you’re the alpha? I’m not part of your clan.”

Flint expelled a breath. “I’m aware of that. Neither was your aunt, but it didn’t mean we weren’t friends.”

There was something in the way he said it—as if he was making a promise. One Jenna wasn’t sure she should trust, but part of her wanted to.

She set her glass down, meeting his gaze without flinching. "I appreciate your offer. I may hold you to that."

Flint chuckled, the sound low and approving. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees. And in the darkness beyond the porch, something watched.

Jenna sat at the worn wooden table across from Flint, the whiskey warming her from the inside out. She remembered the farmhouse from her childhood, especially her teenage years. It had always felt sturdy, a place built to withstand the seasons, unchanged by time or weather. But tonight, something was different. The surrounding air seemed heavier, as if the walls were holding onto something unseen. It wasn’t just quiet—it was expectant, like the house itself was waiting for something to happen.

It seemed Flint felt it, too. There was an edge to his energy—predatory, protective, on guard. His eyes scanned the darkened kitchen, his body still watchful.

“You think whoever left that note is going to try something else?” she asked, running a finger along the rim of her glass.

Flint didn’t look at her when he answered. “I don’t think. I know.”

Jenna leaned back in her chair, her posture deceptively relaxed as she twirled her whiskey in its glass in front of her face. “Good. I’d hate for this to be too easy.”

That earned her an assessing glance. There was something in his gaze—not quite amusement, but not full-blown disapproval. “You’re not afraid.”

“No.” She took another sip of whiskey before setting the glass down deliberately. “But I am angry.”

Flint studied her, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he folded his arms across his chest. “Anger isn’t always the worst thing you can be, but it can get you killed if you don’t use it right.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Let me guess, you think you’re the one to teach me how?”

A slow, measured look. “I am. You’ve been in the city too long. If you’re smart, you’ll let me help you and will listen to me.”

Jenna didn’t respond right away. The way he said it—it wasn’t a challenge. It was a certainty. And damn if that didn’t stir something inside her that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with how he carried himself. How he looked at her, not like she was breakable, but like he was trying to figure out just how much fight she had in her.

She liked that.

“Then stay,” she said finally.

He observed her carefully. “Stay?”

“Yes. If you’re so worried about my safety, Flint, then stay the night. Protect me.”

His jaw worked for half a second before he drained the rest of his whiskey and set the glass down with a soft clink. “You sure you want me here, Jenna? Because if I stay, I’m not just babysitting.”

Something unspoken passed between them, electric and undeniable.

She didn’t look away. “I don’t need a babysitter. I need an ally.”

Flint held her gaze a moment longer before nodding once. “Then I’ll stay.”

Jenna rose from the table, pushing her chair back with a deliberate scrape. “Good.”

Without another word, she turned and headed upstairs. She didn’t check to see if he followed—she already knew he would.

The farmhouse was quiet. Too quiet.

Jenna lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening. The wind outside had picked up, rustling through the apple trees, their branches groaning under its force. But it wasn’t the wind that had woken her.

It was the sound of something scraping against the front door. She sat up instantly, her heartbeat steady, but her instincts kicking in. She wasn’t the kind of woman who panicked. She assessed. Calculated. Fought.

Carefully, she slid out of bed and grabbed the knife she had placed on the nightstand. A habit from living in a city where locking your door wasn’t always enough. The wooden floor was cool beneath her bare feet as she padded to the window, pushing the curtain aside just enough to peer outside.

Darkness stretched beyond the porch light’s glow. The orchard loomed in the distance, its twisted branches like skeletal fingers against the night sky. But something was out there. She could feel it.

Another sound. This time, the unmistakable drag of claws against wood.

Jenna didn’t hesitate. She moved swiftly down the stairs, her grip on the knife firm but calm. Flint was already in the living room when she reached the bottom, standing near the door, dressed only in jeans, his torso bare. He looked every bit the predator he was, eyes bright in the dim light, muscles coiled, ready.

“You heard it,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

He nodded, his focus trained on the door. “Whoever—or whatever—it is, they’re testing you.”

Jenna strode past him and unbolted the lock.

Flint grabbed her wrist before she could yank the door open. “What the hell is wrong with you, Jenna? Do you have some kind of death wish?”

She met his gaze with a fire of her own. “If someone’s coming for me, they need to know they’re going to have to face me.”

Flint muttered something under his breath that sounded like a curse, but he let her go. Jenna threw the door open. Nothing.

The porch was empty, the night wind kicking up fallen leaves and stirring the scent of damp earth. But the claw marks on the door were there—long, deep gouges in the wood, fresh and deliberate.

She crouched, running her fingers along the grooves. “Whatever did this, it wasn’t human.”

Flint stood behind her, his presence a solid wall of heat. “No. It wasn’t.”

She straightened, turning to face him. “Then what are we dealing with?”

His expression was grim. “Something that doesn’t want you here.”

Jenna lifted her chin. “Too bad for them.”

Flint let out a rough chuckle, but there was no humor in it. “You don’t scare easy, do you?”

“No.” She stepped closer, her gaze locked on his. “And I don’t run.”

Flint’s voice was a low rasp, full of certainty. “Then you better be ready, because whatever this is, I have a sneaky suspicion it’s just getting started.”

Their breath mingled in the cool night air, the space between them shrinking with every heartbeat. A sound stirred in the orchard—deeper this time, more deliberate. Not the wind. Something else.

Flint held her gaze, unreadable, unshaken. For a beat, the real danger wasn’t in the orchard—it was right here, between them. Breaking the tension, he continued, “How about we take that note in to Beck?”

Jenna nodded. “Sounds like a plan—maybe not a good plan, but more than I had yesterday.”

“Did you have a plan yesterday?”

“Not really, which is why yours doesn’t sound too bad.”

Jenna strode into the Silver Falls Sheriff’s office, Flint following behind her. She wondered if the scent of stale coffee and old paper was universal to all law enforcement offices. The place seemed to have been stuck in some time loop from the sixties—if had a ‘Mayberryesque’ quality to it, having the same wood-paneled wainscotting, same outdated furniture, same damn sheriff’s star tacked on the front desk.

The man she assumed to be Beckett Grey sat behind his desk, his boots propped up, flipping through a case file. He barely glanced up as she walked in, but then he spotted Flint behind her, his brow lifting slightly.

“Well, if it isn’t trouble and more trouble,” Beck muttered, setting his file down. “You must be Maribel’s niece. So to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Jenna didn’t waste time. She pulled the folded note from her pocket and tossed it onto his desk. “Someone left this for me at the orchard.”

Beck frowned, unfolding it. His gaze flicked over the words, and his expression darkened. He let out a long sigh, tossing the paper back toward her. “Could be kids messing around. Or someone trying to scare you off.”

Jenna’s jaw tightened. “It’s not kids, and I don’t scare easily.”

Beck pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jenna...”

“No,” she cut him off. “Flint seems to think you don’t believe my aunt’s death wasn’t an accident. And I have no plans to leave Silver Falls until I know exactly what happened to her.”

Beck’s lips pressed into a tight line. He didn’t argue, but glared at Flint.

Flint, standing beside her with his arms crossed, finally spoke. “I’ll be keeping an eye on her.” His voice was low, edged with something final.

Beck took the note and placed it in a manila folder.

Jenna reached across the desk and retrieved it. “Make a copy. I’m keeping the original.”

Beck took the note and made a copy. As he handed it back to her, he met her gaze. “I’ll look into it.”

Jenna didn’t say thank you. She didn’t trust Beck to do much of anything when it came to her aunt’s death—but at least now he knew she wasn’t backing down.

As they left the office, Flint turned to her. “You could have been nicer.”

“So could he.”

“We’re not your enemies, Jenna. I need to check in with my clan. You going to be okay in town for a bit?”

Jenna looked at him. “It’s broad daylight, Mercer. I think I can handle myself.”

Flint’s golden eyes held hers for a long moment, as if weighing whether to argue. Then he grunted. “Stay in town and stay visible.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s broad daylight and I’ll have my Glock handy. I may pick up a couple of things, but then I’m heading back to the orchard. I have a lot of work to do. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

Flint snorted and muttered something about obstinate she-cats.

Left alone, Jenna scanned the street. The town had changed little—maybe a bit more polished, a little more tourist-friendly. A small coffee shop caught her eye, the scent of roasted beans drifting through the crisp air.

She headed towards it and pushed open the door, a bell chiming overhead. Inside, the place was warm and inviting—wooden shelves lined with homemade jams and baked goods, soft music playing from an old radio behind the counter. A woman in her early forties stood behind the register, her auburn hair pulled into a messy bun, a flour-dusted apron tied around her waist.

She looked up and smiled. “Well, now. You must be Maribel’s niece.”

Jenna blinked. “You know who I am?”

The woman laughed, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Small town, sweetheart. Everyone knows who you are. I’m Colleen Briggs. This is my place.” She gestured around the cozy shop. “I buy all my apple cider from Flint’s press. He always used your aunt’s apples.”

Jenna glanced at the display case where fresh apple fritters sat behind the glass.

Colleen followed her gaze. “Maribel’s apples made the best fritters. You planning to reopen the orchard?”

Jenna hesitated. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Colleen nodded, studying her. “Well, if you do, I’ll be first in line for another batch.” She wiped down the counter, then looked up again. “Your aunt was a good woman, Jenna. Silver Falls is worse off without her.”

Jenna swallowed hard, nodding. “Yeah. It is.”

She got a cup of coffee and a fritter to go before leaving the shop a few minutes later, Colleen’s words settling deep in her gut.

Maribel had mattered here. And Jenna wasn’t leaving until she found out who had taken her away.