Page 16

I follow the tracks to a low bush near the alley fence and crouch. Nestled under the branches is a bundle of clothing. Neatly folded. Familiar.

My heart kicks up, thudding wildly in my chest like it’s trying to outrun the thoughts suddenly crashing into my mind.

It’s not just the paw prints, not just the clothes—it’s the creeping certainty that something impossible might actually be real.

My breath shortens, skin prickling with a mixture of dread and awe.

Every cell in my body screams to run, to deny what I’m seeing…

but some deeper, quieter part of me—the part that knows Deacon, that trusts him—tells me to stay.

To believe. To follow this truth wherever it leads.

Deacon. What the actual hell?

The door slams behind me.

“Sutton!” Gideon’s voice is sharp, full of command. He jogs into the yard, half pissed, half alarmed. “You weren’t supposed to...”

I stand, holding the bundle in both hands. “Care to explain?”

His eyes narrow, the muscles in his jaw ticking. “Not really. Put those down.”

“Not a chance.”

“Damn it.” He runs a hand through his hair. “This isn’t what you think.”

“Oh, really? Because what I think is that Deacon disappeared in the middle of the night, there are wolf tracks in my backyard, and his clothes are sitting under a bush like he peeled them off before going full... what? Werewolf?”

Gideon exhales slowly, starts to say something, thinks better if it, and then says lamely as he hangs his head. “It’s not my secret to tell.”

My arms tighten around the clothes. “But there is a secret, right?”

He hesitates. And that alone tells me everything.

“There’s a reason Team W doesn’t play by the same rules as everyone else,” he finally says. “And Deacon’s not just a soldier.”

I swallow hard. “So what is he?”

Gideon alter his expression, but he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to, just shakes his head.

I nod, every thought in my head twisting like knots in a rope. “Got it.”

He watches me carefully, like I might bolt. And for a second, I almost do—except I’m too rooted, too curious, too damn determined to walk away now. I want the truth, regardless of how much it might hurt or scare the shit out of me.

I walk past him, back through the door, Deacon’s clothes still in my arms. The fabric is warm from my grip, the familiar scent of him—smoke, cedar, something untamed—clinging to the folds.

It sinks into me, a reminder of everything I can’t explain but refuse to ignore.

I pause, fingers tightening around the bundle, then exhale and set it gently on the back of the couch like laying down a piece of him.

My steps turn sharper as I cross to my laptop.

If no one’s going to give me the truth, then I’ll dig until I find it.

Secrets don’t stay buried forever. I’ve never needed permission to follow the facts, and I’m sure as hell not waiting now.

Not when the clues are this loud, this deliberate, and damn near begging to be uncovered.

It starts slow. Mythology, urban legends, local folklore.

Tales of ancient curses and cursed bloodlines.

Skinwalkers, tricksters, men who shift beneath the moonlight.

But none of it fits. No demons, no vampires, no swamp cryptids account for military-grade operatives vanishing into the dark barefoot and leaving behind paw prints the size of dinner plates.

And yet, the stories echo. They whisper truths buried under centuries of fear and fantasy. Something primal. Something hidden. Something that walks in two skins and serves a purpose older than orders and badges.

Then I stumble across it…Shifters. Creatures that can change from man to beast and back again.

My fingers freeze over the trackpad. The word slams into me like a body blow—hard, fast, and impossible to ignore.

My pulse spikes, breath catching in my throat as if the air’s turned to glass.

The edges of the word cut deep—shifter. My mind scrambles to reject it, but my body already believes.

Heat coils low in my belly, a flush rising along my chest, equal parts fear, and fascination.

Not myth. Not fiction. Not anymore. Not when I’ve traced his paw print with my own damn hand.

There's nothing in reputable scientific journals, but tucked inside romance novels and paranormal blogs. Stories of those individuals who become beasts. Of protective instincts, heightened senses, moonlight transformations. Some of it’s trash, but some of it…

some of it feels like they were writing about Deacon.

About them—Team W.

I skim faster, piecing together the patterns. Wolves. Pack structure. Loyalty to the point of obsession. Territorial aggression. And the idea that a mate isn’t just someone you love—it’s someone you claim.

The breath freezes in my lungs. Could it be real?

The idea is insane. Ludicrous, but so are paw prints. Wolves are rare in Texas if not extinct, and yet those prints could be nothing else.

I stare at the screen, one hand curled around a mug of coffee I forgot I made. My heartbeat thuds in my ears, part fear, part adrenaline, and more than a little thrill. If this is real—if he’s not just a man but something more—then everything changes.

And I don’t know if I’m terrified… or intrigued.

There’s a wild electricity sparking beneath my skin now, a current that hums low and fierce, like it’s been awakened by something ancient and irrevocable—a force that doesn’t feel entirely mine but isn’t unfamiliar either.

The idea that Deacon might not just be a man but something older, wilder, sets my thoughts spinning in a hundred directions at once.

It should scare the hell out of me. Maybe it does.

But deep beneath the uncertainty is a pull I can’t shake—raw, electric, magnetic.

And that? That might be the most terrifying part of all.

The back door creaks open. There’s a subtle charge in the air, a weight that announces him before he says a word.

My grip tightens on the coffee mug, knuckles whitening.

I don’t look up. Not yet. Let him walk through it.

Let him close the distance, let the silence stretch until the truth has no room left to hide.

Let him see I know. Let him try to deny it with that unreadable face and those shadowed eyes, because now I’ve seen too much—and I’m not backing down.

Let him feel the heat behind my silence, the challenge laced in every breath I take.

If he thinks I’ll look away, pretend this isn’t real, he’s wrong.

I’m not a woman who runs from truth—I chase it.

And right now, the truth has teeth and eyes that see too much.

Let him lie. Let him try. I’ll still be standing.

Let’s see what happens now—because I’m done waiting, done pretending this is anything close to normal.

The world just tilted on its axis, and I want the truth, even if it shatters everything I thought I understood.

Even if it breaks the rules of reality I’ve clung to like a life raft.

I can feel it now—that pull toward the unknown, toward him.

The wild in my blood answering something I can’t name yet.

Let the lies burn. Let the truth come teeth and claws and fury.

I won’t flinch. Let him walk through that door and face me. I’m ready.