Page 19

SUTTON

T he scent of cedar and strong coffee lures me from the edge of dreams, curling through my senses like an invisible hand and tugging me gently toward wakefulness.

It stirs something in me before the sunlight even has a chance to warm the room—earthy, rich, and grounding.

The aroma wraps around my awareness, comforting and commanding all at once, and I know, even before I open my eyes, that I’m not in my own bed anymore.

For a second, I’m weightless—caught in that hazy space where dreams haven’t quite let go and reality hasn’t fully landed.

But then I stir, feel the unfamiliar mattress beneath me, the cool air brushing bare skin above the covers, and it all clicks back into place.

Team W headquarters. A sprawling ranch in the middle of nowhere, secured tighter than Fort Knox and filled with people who can turn into wolves.

And one of them—Deacon—claims I’m his fated mate, like the universe tied some invisible thread between us I never asked for and can’t seem to untangle.

I stretch slowly, testing sore muscles that ache with a residual burn—part fatigue, part something else entirely. The bed creaks softly beneath me, and I pause, hand pressed to my ribs, breathing through the reminder of everything that’s changed.

There’s an awareness under my skin now, like my body is listening for something, bracing for movement I haven’t decided to make.

It’s not just soreness. It’s anticipation—and a quiet ache that has Deacon's name all over it, that throb with the dull ache of a body coming down from high alert. Each motion pulls a whisper of resistance from places I didn’t even know could be sore—like I’ve been rewired overnight.

My fingers flex instinctively, brushing the sheet beside me, and a ripple of memory runs through my limbs—of Deacon’s steady touch, of adrenaline surging like wildfire.

There’s a weight beneath the surface, heavy and intimate, that makes me hesitate before swinging my legs over the edge of the bed.

Emotional bruises I’m still pretending aren’t there press against my awareness—each ache a quiet echo of yesterday’s chaos—and though I felt weightless a moment ago, the gravity of it all rushes back in like a tide, unrelenting and cold.

My ribs protest when I twist too far, and there’s a tightness in my chest that has nothing to do with injury and everything to do with Deacon’s voice lingering in my head.

My hand drifts to the base of my throat, where the memory of Deacon’s voice still lingers more than any touch.

The sense that I belong to something—or someone—bigger than myself presses at the edge of my thoughts. Like Deacon’s presence is a tether I hadn’t noticed tightening until now.

That deep, possessive declaration should rattle me—send me running for the hills. Instead, it settles in my bones like something I’ve always known, quiet and unshakable.

I sit up, brush a strand of hair from my face, and glance around the room. It’s spare but not unfriendly. Clean lines. Heavy furniture. An old wooden dresser, a cozy armchair in the corner. A rifle propped in plain view near the window because apparently subtlety isn’t high on anyone’s list here.

I dress quickly—jeans, soft cotton tee, boots—and find my way toward the smell of coffee.

The hallway opens into a massive kitchen where sunshine floods through tall windows.

Cassidy stands at the island, ponytail swinging as she pours coffee into mismatched mugs.

Beside her, a woman with pale red hair and fierce eyes slices a grapefruit like it insulted her mother. That has to be Maggie.

And Kari… Kari sits at the breakfast table, legs tucked under her, sipping from a steaming mug with both hands like it’s the most important ritual of the day.

She’s younger than I expected, with glossy brown hair and a face that’s too sharp to be called pretty.

She looks like she’d call your bluff with one raised eyebrow—and flatten you with the other if you tried to lie.

Three sets of eyes turn toward me, and for a beat, I freeze.

Their expressions aren’t unfriendly, but I feel the heat of their focus settle like a weight across my chest. A flicker of doubt ripples through me—will I be judged, welcomed, challenged?

But then something softer takes root. I’m not prey.

Not a burden. I’m a woman among others who’ve already walked through fire—and part of me wonders if they see a spark in me too.

. The weight of their scrutiny lands squarely on my shoulders, but it’s not hostile.

It’s assessing—curious, even. For the first time in days, I feel seen.

Not as a victim, not as a liability, but as someone who might belong.

The feeling is foreign and dangerous, so I do what I always do—I raise my chin, meet their gazes head-on, and let my sass do the talking.

Cassidy smiles first. “Morning. Coffee?”

“Is that a threat or a promise?” I ask with a wry grin.

Cassidy hands me a mug. “Promise. Cream’s in the fridge, sugar’s on the counter, but don’t let Gideon catch you using it. He thinks sugar or honey in your coffee is for the weak and should only be used in baking.”

"He has a point," says Maggie, who I know owns a bakery I've frequented in town.

“Well, Gideon and I are going to have problems,” I mutter, adding a solid two spoonfuls of sugar before I even take a sip.

The redhead glances at me, curiosity sharp in her gaze. “Sutton, right?” she asks, like she’s connecting dots from a story she’s only half heard.

I tilt my head, wary. “Guilty as charged. I've been in your bakery. You make the best cinnamon rolls. When I'm going to go visit my dad, he always tells me to bring him some.”

The smile on Maggie's face is genuine even though it's fleeting. “Dalton’s been pacing like a caged wolf since he got back. You must be the reason he has a perpetual growl going on,”

"The growly persona is just kind of Dalton's default setting," Cassidy says. Her lips twitch and her eyebrow arches slightly as she studies me. “You’re not what I expected,” she says, her tone laced with curiosity more than challenge.

I meet her gaze, heart giving a subtle lurch.

Not in fear—but in something quieter, deeper.

Validation, maybe. Or the thrill of being seen for who I truly am.

"I’m not what anyone expects—least of all myself," I reply with a faint, crooked smile.

"I’m still deciding whether that terrifies me or sets me free. "

"Thrill," says Kari, Gideon's younger sister. "You’re Deacon’s mate.”

Not a question. A statement, delivered like a field report.

“So I’m told,” I reply, sipping the coffee. Kari nods like that makes sense. I take the seat across from her. “You were born a shifter, right?”

She nods. “Gideon is my big brother. He was supposed to be alpha of our pack, so we were members of the most prominent family.”

I blink. “Family. Got it. Sounds better than litter.”

Cassidy laughs behind me. “Welcome to wolf culture.”

I turn back to Kari. “So, what’s it like? Growing up... like this.”

“For me, it's normal. It's all I've ever known. You have to learn early on that you’re different from humans and purebreds and not to share with humans that our kind even exists. There are rules, instincts, hierarchies. But you never really feel alone. Your wolf is always with you. It’s like having a second self that lives just beneath your skin—a silent partner with instincts you didn’t know you had, waiting for the moment you finally stop fighting it and let it rise.”

I chew on that, unsure if it comforts or unnerves me. The idea of something primal always lurking just under the surface—listening, watching, waiting—it should scare me. Instead, a strange pull tightens in my chest, like I’m reaching for something I didn’t even know I had.

Maggie speaks up. “That’s the part they don’t tell you when you get turned. It doesn’t come with a manual.”

I glance at her. “So you weren’t born into it.”

She shakes her head. “Nope. I was human until about a year ago. Got caught in the crossfire of a land developer trying to ensure my business went under. Kari and I have always been close so she sent in big brother Gideon to watch over me. Cassidy?”

Cassidy nods. “I fell for Rush when I was trying to chase down my father's killer. I wanted to be one with him so he turned me. All of us have one thing in common: fated mates who wouldn’t be denied. It can be a little intimidating and a little discombobulating—the whole there are shifters thing—but actually if you choose to be turned, the pieces just seem to fall into place.”

"I sometimes wonder if there isn't latent wolf or shifter DNA in all, or at least some, of us. Might that be what calls to your mate? Are we really turned, or simply awakened?" says Maggie philosophically.

Kari groans. "That's a bit esoteric for this hour of the morning."

Something in the way they talk—quiet and steel-strong—sends a ripple down my spine. I look down at my coffee and try to imagine what it would be like. Feeling something else inside you. Living with it. Letting it out.

“And you’re okay with it?” I ask.

Maggie shrugs. “It’s not easy. The instincts are wild, the control takes time, and the cravings... they can be intense. But yeah. I’m okay with it.”

Cassidy leans against the counter. “You thinking about it?”

I look up slowly, eyes meeting hers. “I don’t know,” I say slowly, swirling the coffee in my mug.

“Deacon told me it’s my decision, but it feels like there’s more to it than just saying yes or no.

Like part of me already knows the answer, even if I’m not ready to admit it yet.

But I can't help but feel really drawn to it.

It's almost like Maggie said, I wonder if Deacon is the key to unlocking something that's been waiting to be freed a long time.”

“What kind of something?” Kari asks.

I struggle to put it into words. “Like I know things I shouldn’t.

Like I can sense... I don’t know, more. Not just people, but emotions.

Energy. It prickles along my skin, a low hum I didn’t know I could feel until recently.

My breath catches, heart thudding as I realize—whatever this is, it’s growing stronger.

Familiar. Like I’ve been waiting for it without knowing what it was. ”

Maggie tilts her head. “Could be your bond with Deacon deepening. Or it could be something else entirely.”

Kari’s gaze sharpens. “Have you felt something when Deacon transformed?”

I blink. “I didn't see him transform, he was human when I saw him afterwards and I haven’t seen any of you transform.”

She smiles slowly, predator-bright. “Not yet.”

A chill races down my spine, but not from fear, but from anticipation.

I take another sip of coffee, steadying my hands. “Well, if you decide to put on a show, I’ll try not to faint.”

Cassidy laughs. “You won’t. You’re too stubborn for that.”

“Damn right I am,” I mutter, but my mind’s already elsewhere. Circling a truth I’ve been trying not to look at too closely.

Something’s changing in me, and it’s not just about Deacon.

Before I can chase the thought, the door swings open with a sharp creak, slicing through the low hum of voices like a warning shot. My head snaps up. Every instinct goes taut.

Deacon strides in—fresh from the shower, his shirt clinging damp at the collar and chest like he couldn’t be bothered with a towel. His gaze locks on me with laser focus—hot, intense, and unreadable—and the rest of the room blurs out of existence.

Without pause, he crosses the space and grips the back of my neck, his callused fingers firm, the heat of his palm anchoring me with possessive certainty. One fluid, commanding pull and I’m against him—his mouth crashing down on mine.

It isn’t soft. It’s not gentle. It’s raw, consuming, a firebrand seared into the center of my soul. My breath vanishes. My body arches into his as he devours doubt, silences hesitation.

When he breaks the kiss, it’s only enough to speak—his voice a rasp of heat against my lips. “We need to talk.”

Then something changes, but it’s not his voice that sets off the alarm in my spine.

It’s the sudden stillness in the air, the subtle drop in temperature that tightens the back of my neck. My pulse stutters, heart ticking faster even before my brain catches up. There’s something in his eyes—fierce, hunted, raw—that tells me this isn’t a casual conversation.

Something followed him in—something more than danger or bloodshed. It’s in the way his eyes lock onto mine, sharper than usual, shadowed with knowledge he hasn’t spoken yet.

I straighten instinctively, every nerve sparking like I’ve been plugged into a storm.

There’s no question anymore.

The danger we’ve been tracing like smoke through the trees finally takes shape and is no longer circling. It’s coming.

And it’s coming for me.

Not in theory. Not in nightmares. Here. Now.

Deacon’s jaw ticks once. "Get ready," he says. "We don't have much time."