I can’t stop giggling until the end of our appointment, especially because it feels like a weight has been lifted off me.

But as I take the elevator down, I’m surprised to find Noah’s parked SUV empty.

I freeze. My soul dampens before it’s ripped from safety; I haven’t been sensing anything from Noah for at least ten minutes. I didn't think I needed to focus on his emotions.

But the more I pay attention now, the more I realize it’s because he’s so petrified that he’s numb.

Shock courses through my limbs. My purse clatters to the sidewalk, the sharp sound bristling the hairs across every inch of my skin.

All I can sense is my wolf.

She’s begging me—urging me—to shift, right in the middle of the street. But I can’t let Jenny have another Sasquatch sighting.

With my belly in both hands, I hobble as fast as I can to Noah’s driver’s side. Ripping open the door, I suck in a deep breath, preparing myself to do the near-impossible; I have to heave myself and my huge stomach up into the tall seat. With my back to the chair, I stretch on my toes, my arms straining behind me as they drag my heavy body toward the driver’s seat. I inch higher, step by step, until I can finally collapse into the seat, a gasping, sweaty mess.

I have to both move the chair forward to reach the pedals and move the wheel back to fit our baby. But as I stretch to start the car, my breath cuts short.

Sharp stabbing in my pelvis forces me to wince. I double over myself, whimpering through the pain as a contraction tightens itself all the way to my back.

“Oh, my God —” I hiss aloud to the empty car. “Oh, my God.” This feels far harsher than any Braxton Hicks contractions I’ve had thus far. Am I just stressing out my strained body too much, or is this the start of early labor?

But the longer I’ve taken just to get inside the damn car, the worse this instinct feels in my gut. It’s different from OCD’s frantic, urgent voice; it’s my wolf, demanding I run to protect everything I stand for.

The contraction finally ends, and I let out a slow, heaving breath.

Noah, where are you? My mindlink comes out as desperate as my pulse hammering in my ears.

No answer.

Tuning into our bond, I search Noah out in our bond’s inner world as I pull out of the parking spot, frustrated I can’t try to smell him while I’m driving.

Or maybe I can.

Rolling down the window, I stick my head out to sniff the wind rushing in, even if I might look crazy.

But Noah isn’t far; within milliseconds, I latch onto my most familiar scent.

Quivering as I drive, I swing onto a side street: the shortcut I used to take from preschool to my parents’ cabin. The one toward Mrs. Jensen’s farm.

Today is one of those Pacific Northwest dark days, appearing as if the sun has almost set when it’s only morning. Mrs. Jensen’s red barn appears at the end of the road, shining like a deep, bloody beacon beneath the overcast sky’s blue-gray hues washing over the horizon.

The second I pull up to her farm, a chill trickles down my spine; the cows are huddled deep into their pen despite the day being young, and there’s a huge, black creature hunched in Mrs. Jensen's field—about four acres away.

I don’t need to see him up close. I don’t even need the glaring proof his scent gives me as it rushes through the car window on the wind. I know him solely by the way he stands.

Noah’s wolf.

My heartbeat surges faster as adrenaline bursts through me. Everything feels wrong about how Noah is crouched. I drag myself from the car, breathless as a hard, heavy contraction wracks my body. Curling over myself with a deathgrip on the SUV door, I struggle to catch my breath.

Noah, answer me, right now.

But all bird chirping halts, thrusting Mrs. Jensen’s field into pure silence. Except the birds don't fly away.

Just like the cows, they’re hiding.

My lungs heave faster, sensing someone is close to death.

It can’t be Noah. It better not be Noah.

Shaking through a squat, I drop myself low to the ground, crouching in the brush with my knees splayed wide. But my belly is so big that I can’t crawl forward.

I need to reach him. You’re terrifying me.

Noah doesn’t respond.

That’s when I smell something putrid. I slam a hand over my mouth, stifling a sharp gag; it’s the scent of an old, rotten wolf pelt.

But the rancid scent guides my eyes to the treeline at the edge of Mrs. Jensen’s property. That’s when I spot the rifle. A man. A fur coat.

Everything clicks into place.

In my heart, I know I’m looking at Jack Hart. And Noah isn’t responding because he’s 100% wolf and 100% petrified.

As this abusive Alpha who we were convinced would never sacrifice his pride to kill with a gun marches straight for Noah, I know in my heart that Mason’s confession was true. This is the man—the Lycan—who joined Mason in shooting our fathers.

But only after traumatizing Noah for life. And I’m willing to bet Noah's trauma was perpetrated, decades in advance, for this exact moment: the moment Jack decides Noah is at his most defenseless, most nervous, and in one of the final days he’s alive without an heir. The day Jack Hart can become the top Greenfield Alpha.