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STACY

I ’m worried.

No—that’s not strong enough.

I’m terrified.

My stomach twists with dread, an invisible vice squeezing tighter with every minute that passes.

This wasn’t supposed to be a drawn-out battle—no careful war strategies, no lines in the sand. Just instinct versus instinct. Claw against claw. Blood, dirt, and muscle.

And yet… there’s nothing. No howls of victory. No scent of returning wolves. Only the soft rustle of wind through the trees and the hollow coo of a distant cuckoo.

Even the forest feels wrong. It’s too still, like it’s holding its breath.

“Relax, Red,” Erica says, leaning against the porch railing, arms crossed like she hasn’t a care in the world. “I’m sure they’re all right. It’s not their first rodeo.”

I stop pacing, whip around, and glare—heat rising to my cheeks.

“Rodeo? Are you kidding me? They may be dying out there, and you’re calling it a rodeo?”

She flinches at my tone, her casual facade slipping.

“Hey, don’t get upset on me, girl,” she says, her voice softening. “They’ve done this before. They’re experienced. They know what they’re doing.”

“You should have gone with them,” I snap, the words cutting sharper than I mean them. “They need you and your witch powers. You know they could’ve used you.”

She tightens her jaw, eyes narrowing. She straightens, squaring her shoulders.

“I know,” she says, meeting my angry look with her own. “But Sammy didn’t want me there.”

“Since when do you take orders from?—”

A sharp crack in the air cuts me off, yanking my attention to the yard. A streak of black and red mist slams into the ground then a gust of wind and dust sweeps across the porch. I stumble back a step, blinking and wiping at my eyes to try and see through the swirling debris.

When the smoke clears, four figures stand—two facing two. Three of them are strangers, one is Helena. Between the four of them, slumped, naked, and unmoving, is the one person I could never mistake.

Ray.

My breath catches like a fist to the throat. I can't move. Can't speak. He collapses to the ground and the sight of him—broken, vulnerable—rips a scream that comes straight from my heart.

“Oh my God.” My hands fly to my mouth as I run to him. “Ray… what did they do to you?”

His body is wrecked. Deep gashes are torn through both sides of his abdomen. Long, angry claw marks rake over his torso. His legs are caked in dirt, and his throat… oh god, his throat is marred with dark, angry bites. Blood weeps from the open wounds.

“Get him inside!” Monica’s voice is sharp and commanding. She sprints to the cabin and throws the door open.

“Where are the others?” Erica demands, running to Helena.

“Sam is fine,” the witch says, barely sparing her a glance. “He’s hurt, but he’ll live. So will Raul. Now move.”

“Wait—!” Erica yells.

But Helena doesn’t wait. She raises her staff, slams it to the ground—and vanishes in a swirl of mist before Erica can say another word.

I barely register her departure because I’m stumbling after the others into Ray’s cabin. It’s like wading through molasses—slow, surreal, and suffocating. Everything is surreal. I’m watching this nightmare play from outside my body.

They lower his broken body onto the couch. Monica tosses white sheets over the cushions, then guides them gently into place. They move with something akin to reverence. I don’t know the strangers who brought him, but I want to fall to my knees and thank them for their care.

“Details,” Monica says. Her voice is calm, clinical. Each word is clipped and precise. “How long since he was injured?”

“Thirty, maybe forty minutes,” one of the men answers. “He fought like hell.”

“Forty minutes…” Monica mutters, already rummaging through her kit. “Why wait so long to bring him here?”

“We were in the middle of it,” he says, his voice tight with frustration. “We couldn’t break free from the fight.”

Monica doesn’t respond. Her focus is locked on Ray. She waves them off without looking.

“Fine. Thank you. Now leave. That includes you too, Stacy. I’m sorry, but I need space.”

“How bad is it?” I ask, my voice cracking under the weight of the question. The words scrape past the tightness in my throat. My eyes sting, brimming with unshed tears.

Monica looks up—just for a second—and her mask falters. In that brief moment, I see everything. Panic. Desperation. Grief.

It steals the breath from my lungs.

“Stacy, please,” she says, barely holding it together. And in her eyes, I see something that destroys me—fear. Not just for Ray, but for me. She’s afraid of what this will do to me.

Something inside me breaks.

I turn and stumble outside. Every step feels like I’m dragging my body through quicksand. My lungs can’t seem to fill. My vision blurs. I sink down on the porch steps, my knees giving out beneath me.

The wind stirs, scattering dust across the yard. I brace my elbows on my knees, trembling hands clasped in my lap, and try to breathe. I still see Ray—bloodied and broken. I can still smell the metallic sting of his wounds. The silence presses in like a never-ending scream.

God. Please let him live.

A sound like thunder shatters the quiet. I bolt upright.

A stampede of wolves crashes through the trees, snarling and wild as they charge past the cabin. I don’t recognize most of them—not that it matters. None of them are him.

Ray promised me a bike ride. All the way to New York.

When I get back.

How? How are we supposed to go anywhere now?

He came back shattered. Barely breathing. And those words... they echo in my skull, ghostly and cruel.

“Any news yet?” a deep voice asks beside me.

Sam limps toward the steps, one arm slung around Erica’s waist. His face is pale, streaked with grime and blood. He looks like death. But he’s still standing. Still moving. It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.

“No,” I whisper, my throat raw. “What happened?”

He lets out a breath that sounds like it hurts.

“Too much,” he says grimly. “It was the worst fight we’ve seen.”

“I can tell.” I stare at the wood beneath my feet, blinking fast. Then I speak again, barely above a whisper. “I think your brother’s dying.”

Sam crouches beside me, placing a steadying hand on my shoulder.

“I know,” he says quietly. “I saw him go down.” His grip tightens. “But he’s a fighter, Stacy. You know that. He’s not going anywhere.”

“Don’t,” I say.

He hesitates. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t lie to me. Don’t pretend you believe he’ll be okay.”

“I do believe it,” he says—but his voice falters.

“I’m not a doctor,” I whisper, swallowing against the tight knot in my throat. “But I saw what they did to him. I saw the blood. The bites.”

Before he can respond, Erica kneels beside me and wraps her arms around my shoulders. I collapse into her without hesitation, the weight of it all tearing loose from my chest. My sobs come fast, violent, and uncontrollable.

Her hands stroke my back, gentle and slow.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers. “Let it out, Red. I’ve got you.”

And I do. I let it all out. The fear. The helplessness. The unbearable guilt. It pours from me like a dam breaking until I’m shaking in her arms, gasping through the tears as my heart splits open.

Then— Click.

The cabin door opens.

I jerk upright, head spinning. Monica steps onto the porch, her hands covered in blood, her expression unreadable. Our eyes meet.

“He’s stable,” she says at last. “I stopped the bleeding. That’s all I can do here. I’ve called an ambulance. They’re on their way.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, though the words feel hollow compared to what I mean.

She nods once and slips back inside without another word.

I sit there in silence, cradled between Erica’s arms and Sam’s steady presence.

It should feel like relief. But Monica didn’t say how deep the wounds go. Or how close it was. Or how far we still are from safe. She didn’t say whether Ray would ever walk again. If he’ll wake up. If he’ll remember me.

She didn’t have to.

We’ve known each other too long.

So I fold my hands together.

And I pray.

I pray for Ray to wake up. I pray for one more day.

I pray for that ride to New York. And I pray?—

That I won’t lose the only man who ever made me believe in forever.