Page 15 of Shifting Hearts

ONE

Kieran

T he Fire Pit quiets as I move through it—smoke thick, air heavy, every gaze tracking my steps like gravity itself.

The bar hums around me; low voices, the scrape of glass against wood, the steady rhythm of bodies lost in their own worlds.

But the second she stumbled through that door, everything shifted.

She’s drenched, rain dripping from her torn clothing, soaking into the worn floorboards beneath her. Her skin is pale, moonlight against ash, too stark for this place, too fragile for the storm she must’ve come through. She’s shaking enough for me to notice, enough for everyone to notice.

I take another step forward. No one says a word, but I can feel the shift, the quiet expectation settling in the air. It’s always like this. They wait for me to react, to decide what happens next, and I don’t hesitate.

I crouch beside her, close enough to see she’s passed out from exhaustion. How long was she running? No one would be enough of a fool to follow her in here, knowing what pack land she’s entered.

Her scent is all wrong. Wolf clings to her like a memory, but beneath it is something colder, sharper. Not human. Not prey. Something ancient. Something mine . She’s like nothing I’ve ever encountered before. It pulls at me, something unfamiliar but not weak. Something untamed, waiting.

No one speaks, but the room tightens. Chairs creak. Glass stills midair. They feel it too. Whatever she is, she’s not just another stray.

I lift her in my arms. She’s heavier than she looks. Solid, real, but limp in my arms, her breath shallow against my chest. Rain clings to her like a second skin, cold and slick, but her pulse is there. Unsteady but alive.

The room doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe.

They know better.

I turn toward the hallway behind the bar, the one that leads to the back rooms. No one follows, no one questions. That’s the rule here. When I move, they stay still.

But I feel their eyes. The Brotherhood watches like wolves scenting blood, like they know something’s shifting beneath the surface. They don’t understand it yet. Hell, I don’t either.

But I feel it.

Her scent curls around me; frost, cedar and something wild, something that doesn’t belong to any pack, to any bloodline I’ve ever known. It doesn’t repel me. It pulls .

I push open the door to my room, kick it shut behind me, and lay her on the bed. The sheets are rough, the mattress firm—nothing soft, nothing gentle, but she doesn’t stir.

I crouch beside her again, studying the curve of her jaw, the way her hair fans out like spilled ink across the pillow. There’s a faint mark beneath her wrist, a crescent, barely visible.

I’ve seen that shape before. Burned into enemies, carved into traitors.

But never like this. Never natural, never born.

I reach out, fingers brushing the edge of the mark, and something shifts.

Not in her. In me.

A low hum vibrates through my chest, deep and ancient, like a chord struck in a forgotten song. My dragon stirs—not violently, not with fire—but with recognition.

Fated.

The word hits hard. I don’t say it, don’t even think it fully but it’s there, buried beneath instinct and blood.

I pull back, my jaw tight.

This changes everything.

She’s not just a stray, nor just a rejected mate. She’s something else entirely. My mate.

And the moment she wakes up, I’ll have to decide what that means.

She looks up, slow, hesitant, and meets my gaze. Ice-gray, storm-heavy, haunted eyes find mine. She doesn’t flinch. At least, not at me but there’s something buried deep in her expression, something that tells me she’s been running too long, too fast, without knowing where the hell she’s going.

The moment our eyes lock, something inside me tightens.

I don’t know what she is but I feel it, her new powers emanating from her porcelain skin. Not in the way a shifter recognizes their own kind, not in the way dominance settles between alphas and challengers. It’s deeper. Older. Unshaped, but undeniable.

It presses against my ribs, curling like static beneath my skin as if it’s searching for something in me, as if it recognizes me even though I don’t recognize it.

I keep my voice steady, quiet, edged with something unreadable.

"You lost, little wolf?"

She flinches.

Not just at the words, but at me. At whatever she’s sensing, whatever I am.

Suddenly, I realize she doesn’t know. She has no idea what’s waking inside her, and I’ve no idea why it’s pulling at me, too.

She doesn’t answer.

Her lips part, but no sound comes out. Just breath—shallow, uneven, like she’s afraid words might shatter whatever fragile control she’s clinging to.

I don’t push.

She’s not ready. Hell, I’m not sure I am either.

But the bond pulses again, low and insistent, like a drumbeat beneath the surface of my skin. It’s not claiming, not yet. But it’s watching. Waiting.

She shifts, just slightly, and the scent sharpens; moonlit frost and something older, something that doesn’t belong in this world. It brushes against my senses like a whisper, like a warning.

I’ve felt power before. I’ve been power.

But this? This is something else.

“You’re not with a pack,” I say, more to myself than to her. “Not theirs. Not anyone’s.”

Her eyes flicker, storm-gray, silver-bright. There’s pain there, yes, but beneath it all is something sharp, something dangerous.

“I was,” she says, voice hoarse. “Once.”

I nod slowly. “Not anymore.”

She doesn’t flinch this time, doesn’t look away.

For a moment, the silence between us feels like a vow.

The creak of boots on floorboards breaks the moment.

I don’t turn. I don’t need to.

I know that gait; confident, heavy, laced with suspicion. Maddox. One of the old guards. Loyal to the Brotherhood, loyal to me but not subtle. Never subtle.

“Everything good in here?” he asks, voice low but pointed.

The girl stiffens. Her fingers twitch at her sides, like she’s ready to bolt.

I step forward, just enough to block Maddox’s view of her. “Handled.”

He stops a few feet away, arms crossed, gaze flicking past me to the girl I’m clearly shielding. “Didn’t look handled from the bar. She yours?”

The question is casual. The implication isn’t.

“She’s not a threat,” I say, jaw tight.

Maddox raises a brow. “Didn’t ask if she was. Asked if she’s yours.”

The bond pulses again, sharper this time. Possessive. Protective. I grit my teeth.

“She’s under my protection,” I say, voice low, dangerous.

Maddox doesn’t back down. “That supposed to mean something? Because she smells like trouble. And you—” he steps closer, eyes narrowing “—you’re acting like something’s got its claws in you.”

I move fast.

One step. One breath, and I’ve got him by the collar, slammed against the wall.

“She’s mine to deal with,” I growl. “You question me again, you won’t like the answer. I’m the fucking Alpha of this Brotherhood, and I demand respect.”

Maddox doesn’t flinch, doesn’t fight. He just stares at me like he’s seeing something he doesn’t recognize.

“Whatever she is,” he says quietly, “it’s changing you.”

I release him roughly, pushing him toward the door.

He straightens his jacket, gives her one last look, and walks off without another word.

I turn back to her.

She’s watching me like I’m the storm now.

And maybe I am.