Page 16

As we follow her down the hill, I find my eyes drawn to Ruby more often than I should. There’s something different about her here—more confident, more herself. In the city, she always has an edge of defensiveness, like a wolf backed into a corner. Here, she moves with natural authority.

It’s disconcerting to realize how much I know about her—the sound of her laugh when she’s truly amused versus when she’s being polite, the small scar at the base of her spine, the way she curls inward when she sleeps; intimate details that feel out of place in this professional expedition.

And I’m not the only one watching her. Hamilton’s eyes track her movements with intensity. Even Prescott seems drawn to her, though, in a different way—like she’s a fascinating puzzle he’s trying to solve.

How did we three brothers, who once shared everything without complication, end up here—each circling this wolf in our own way?

After hours of trekking through what feels like every square inch of Wolfstone’s wilderness, we finally emerge into a small clearing. I nearly walk straight into Ruby’s back again when she stops abruptly.

There, nestled between ancient oaks and partially reclaimed by nature, stands a weathered cottage that looks like it tumbled straight out of a fairy tale—or a horror movie, depending on your perspective.

Moss creeps up its stone foundation, the wooden siding has faded to a silvery gray, and the porch sags slightly on one side like it’s tired after decades of standing watch.

It’s nothing like the sleek, modern structures I typically design, but something about it makes me pause, ears perking forward with curiosity.

“What’s this?” Hamilton demands, finally catching up, slightly out of breath. “Some local landmark we need to preserve?”

Ruby shakes her head, and for the first time since I’ve known her, she looks… vulnerable. “It’s my grandmother’s cottage. Or was. It’s mine now.”

“Yours?” I repeat, surprised. “This is on the development site.”

“Yes,” she replies, walking toward the building with measured steps.

Prescott bounds ahead, tail wagging furiously as he examines the structure. “This place is incredible! Look at that stonework—that’s craftsmanship. And those beams must be original.”

“They are,” Ruby says, her voice softening. “My grandfather built this place himself. My mother was born here.”

I follow her onto the creaking porch, taking in the craftsmanship with new eyes. As an architect, I can appreciate the attention to detail—the hand-carved railings, the way the cottage seems to grow from the landscape rather than imposing upon it.

“It needs work,” Ruby continues, pushing open the door without a key. It swings inward with a protesting groan. “I haven’t been back here in three years.”

“Why not?” Prescott asks, peering inside with unabashed curiosity.

Ruby throws a pointed look at Hamilton, who has remained at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed defensively. “Too busy fighting certain development companies in the city. No time for maintenance.”

Hamilton has the decency to look uncomfortable, if not quite guilty. He studies the cottage with the calculating gaze I recognize from countless board meetings—assessing value, potential problems, leverage points.

“Don’t even think about it,” I mutter to him, following Ruby inside.

The interior of the cottage is like stepping back in time.

Mismatched furniture draped in dust covers, shelves lined with old books and curious objects, and a stone fireplace dominating one wall.

Light filters through windows cloudy with dust and spiderwebs, casting dappled patterns across the wooden floor.

“My cousins are the only family I have left,” Ruby explains, trailing her fingers over a bookshelf. “They’re scattered across the Wolfstone land and have their own families now. No one’s been taking care of this place.”

I watch her move through the space, touching objects gently as if they might crumble under too much pressure. Witnessing this moment is intimate, and despite her invitation, I feel like an intruder.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, and mean it. “Different from our city apartments.”

She snorts. “You mean it doesn’t have stainless steel appliances and minimalist furniture? Yeah, my grandmother wasn’t exactly a design influencer.”

“I like it,” Prescott declares, examining a collection of old photographs on the mantel. “Who’s this?”

Ruby joins him, taking the framed photo. “My mother. And that’s my grandmother beside her.” She hesitates, then adds quietly, “Both gone now.”

Hamilton finally enters, ducking his head under the low door frame. He looks ridiculously out of place—his expensive hiking gear and perpetual CEO posture at odds with the rustic, timeworn interior.

“Is this part of your strategy, Wolfhart?” he asks, but the usual edge in his voice has dulled. “Show us the family homestead, tug at our heartstrings?”

Ruby replaces the photograph carefully. “Not everything is a strategy, Hamilton. Sometimes people just want to share something important to them.”

An uncomfortable silence falls, broken only by Prescott excitedly examining a collection of what appears to be handmade wooden toys in a corner trunk.

“There’s more I want to show you,” Ruby says finally. “Come on.”

She leads us out the back door and down a narrow path that winds through dense trees.

After about ten minutes of walking, the trees thin, and suddenly we’re standing at the edge of a lake so clear it looks like liquid crystal.

The surface mirrors the surrounding trees and sky in perfect reflection, disturbed only by the occasional leap of a fish.

“Holy shit,” I breathe.

“Yeah,” Ruby agrees. “Holy shit indeed.”

The development plans flash through my mind—specifically, what we’d designed for this area.

The southeastern lakeshore was slated for luxury waterfront cabins.

The northern edge would become a private beach for residents.

The water itself would be “enhanced” with decorative fountains and a swimming platform.

Looking at it now, I can see how obscene those plans are.

The clarity of the water would be compromised by increased sediment from construction.

The peaceful silence would be replaced by the sounds of recreation.

The wildlife—the fish jumping, the birds swooping for a drink—would retreat from shifter presence.

Our marketing materials had promised to “improve upon nature.” Now I wonder if there’s anything more arrogant than thinking we could improve on something that’s already perfect.

Even Hamilton looks impressed, though he tries to hide it behind his usual mask of indifference. We all knew there were lakes on the land, but seeing one up close like this… it’s breathtaking.

“This is perfect!” Prescott exclaims, already tugging off his backpack. “Can we swim? Tell me we can swim.”

Ruby laughs—a genuine sound that echoes across the water. “That’s why I brought you here.”

Prescott needs no further encouragement. He strips down to his boxers, his tail wagging so hard it’s practically a blur. I catch Hamilton’s eye, and for once, we share the same thought: our nerdy, introverted little brother is happy.

“What the hell,” I mutter, pulling my shirt over my head. “When in Rome.”

“We’re not in Rome,” Hamilton points out dryly. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, about to swim in an unregulated body of water that probably contains parasites and—”

His lecture is cut short by Prescott’s spectacular cannonball into the lake, sending a spray of water high into the air. His delighted squeals echo off the surrounding hills.

“Come on, Ham,” I tease, unbuckling my belt. “Live dangerously for once.”

“I take calculated risks,” he corrects stiffly. “This isn’t—”

Ruby suddenly darts past us both, stripping down to her sports bra and boyshorts with fluid grace. “Last one in is a corporate sellout!” she calls over her shoulder before diving into the water with barely a splash.

I laugh at Hamilton’s scandalized expression. The tension between him and Ruby has been uncomfortable at best, explosive at worst. The fact that they’ve hate-banged each other hasn’t exactly helped matters.

But here, in this hidden corner of Wolfstone, the dynamics feel different. Lighter.

I kick off my boots and jeans, leaving me in just my boxers. “Coming, big brother?”

Hamilton glares at me, but I don’t miss how his eyes track Ruby’s movements as she surfaces with a triumphant whoop, water streaming from her hair.

“This is highly unprofessional,” he grumbles.

“That’s kind of the point,” I reply, then turn and run for the water, launching myself in with abandon.

The lake is perfect—cool enough to refresh, but not so cold it shocks. I surface with a gasp, shaking water from my eyes to find Prescott already engaged in a splashing contest with Ruby. A pig having the time of his life.

My own ears twitch happily, picking up the sounds of birds, rustling leaves, and my brothers’ voices.

“Come on, Hamilton!” Prescott calls. “The water’s amazing!”

To my genuine surprise, Hamilton actually begins removing his hiking gear, methodically folding each item before placing them on a rock. Even when letting loose, he can’t help being Hamilton.

“I can’t believe it,” I say to Ruby as she swims closer. “You broke Hamilton.”

She grins, water droplets clinging to her eyelashes. “Not broken. Just… rebooting.”

Hamilton enters the water with considerably more dignity than the rest of us, wading in slowly rather than diving. But once he’s chest-deep, something in him visibly shifts and he tilts his head back to look at the sky.

“It is… pleasant,” he admits reluctantly.

Prescott seizes the opportunity to send a massive splash in Hamilton’s direction, drenching his carefully maintained hair. For one terrifying second, I think Hamilton might actually murder our little brother—but then something miraculous happens.

Hamilton Porkwell, CEO and notorious hardass, splashes back.

What follows is the most ridiculous, childish, and utterly delightful water fight I’ve participated in since we were children. All four of us splashing and diving and laughing like we don’t have competing business interests and complicated histories.

At some point, I swim to the far edge of the lake, drawn by something I spotted from the center: a stretch of shoreline composed of dark, rich mud glistening invitingly in the sun.

I haven’t had a proper mud wallow in years. It’s not exactly socially acceptable for the architect of Porkwell Development to roll around in dirt. But here, with the others distracted by their splash war…

I haul myself out of the lake, water streaming from my boxers, and approach the mud patch. It looks perfect—not too thick, not too thin, warmed by the sun to just the right temperature.

Without overthinking it, I let my transformation take over completely. Within seconds, I’m on all fours, my snout fully extended, my entire body covered in short, pink-tinted hair.

I’m a pig.

A full, actual pig.

I haven’t shifted in years.

And it feels amazing.

I dive into the mud with a happy squeal, rolling onto my back and letting the cool, slick earth envelop me.

This is bliss—pure, unadulterated bliss.

I roll from side to side, coating every inch of myself in the glorious mud.

“Percy? What are you—” Prescott’s voice cuts off, and then I hear his delighted laugh. “Oh man, that looks AWESOME!”

There’s a splash as he exits the water, and within moments, he’s joined me in full pig form, smaller than me but just as enthusiastic, snuffling and rolling with abandoned joy.

“You two are ridiculous,” Ruby calls, but there’s laughter in her voice.

I peek through mud-crusted eyelashes to see her watching us from the water’s edge, arms crossed but smiling. Without warning, she shimmers and transforms, her body elongating, fur sprouting across her skin, until a sleek wolf stands where the female had been.

She approaches cautiously—wolves and mud aren’t the natural companions that pigs and mud are—but after a moment’s hesitation; she bounds in, playfully rolling in the mud and nipping at Prescott’s ear.

“This is completely undignified,” Hamilton announces from the water, but his pig’s ears are out.

I roll onto my back, snout pointed skyward, and let out the most contented pig-sigh I can muster. Then shift slightly back to my human form, “Who cares?” I call. “No one’s watching but us.”

“That’s precisely the—”

“Ham,” I interrupt, “for once in your life, stop calculating risks and rewards and just… be a pig.”

Ruby sits on her haunches and lets out a howl that sounds like a challenge.

Something flickers across Hamilton’s face—annoyance, resistance, and then, finally, surrender.

With a grumble that could mean anything, he wades out of the water, his movements becoming less bipedal with each step. By the time he reaches the mud, he’s a massive boar, larger than both Prescott and me, with impressive tusks and an air of dignity that somehow survives even his transformation.

He hesitates at the edge of the mud pit, clearly conflicted.

“Come on,” I encourage, flicking mud in his direction with my snout. “It’s good for the skin.”

With what can only be described as a resigned sigh, Hamilton steps into the mud—daintily at first, then with growing enthusiasm as the cool earth squishes between his hooves. Within minutes, he’s rolling alongside us, grunting with pleasure.

The four of us—three pigs and a wolf—spend the next hour in a state of animal joy.

We chase, wrestle, wallow, and play with the kind of uninhibited freedom I’d forgotten existed.

Ruby darts between us, her wolf form quick and graceful, occasionally letting out playful howls that echo across the lake.

In this moment, we aren’t business rivals.

We aren’t Porkwell’s and Wolfhart.

We’re just our true selves, enjoying the simple pleasures that have been coded into our DNA since the beginning of time.

And as I watch Hamilton—straight-laced, rule-following Hamilton—roll onto his back in the mud with his eyes closed in bliss, I know Ruby’s plan is working.

Maybe there’s more to Wolfstone than property value and development potential.

Maybe there’s something here worth preserving, not just for Ruby’s sake, but for our own.