Behind him, every kitchen utensil drooped dramatically, as if already mourning the death of spontaneity.
Delilah stomped up the winding dirt path, muttering curses that made nearby wildflowers wilt in sympathy. The cabin perched on the hillside looked exactly like Sam—sturdy, unassuming, and deliberately isolated from the world. Smoke curled from the chimney despite the warm evening.
"Stubborn, infuriating wolf," she grumbled, kicking a pinecone that had the misfortune of being in her path. Her vision had shown her exactly where to find him, though the throbbing headache it left behind did nothing to improve her mood.
She pounded on the door. "I know you're in there, Wolfe! Your Jeep isn't exactly inconspicuous!"
Silence.
"Fine. Be that way." She placed her palm against the door and closed her eyes. "Your lock is going to mysteriously unlock in three... two..."
The door swung open before she reached one. Sam stood there, shirtless, a glass of smoking amber liquid in his hand. The bandages wrapped around his torso were stark white against his tanned skin.
"Breaking and entering is illegal, you know," he said flatly.
"So is leaving medical care against doctor's orders." She pushed past him.
Then stopped dead in her tracks.
The cabin's interior was nothing like she'd imagined. Bookshelves lined every wall, filled with leather-bound volumes on magical theory, supernatural history, and shifter lore. A hand-carved table dominated the center of the room, its surface inlaid with what appeared to be a map of ley lines. The furniture—all beautifully crafted from local wood—spoke of craftsmanship and permanence, not the temporary existence of someone passing through.
"You... made all this?" she asked, running her fingers along a bookshelf edge.
"Keeps my hands busy." He closed the door, wincing slightly at the movement. "What are you doing here, Delilah?"
"Making sure you haven't reopened your wounds while having your little pity party." She gestured at his glass. "Is that wolfsbane whiskey? Seriously? You're drinking poison?"
"Diluted. Just enough to dull the healing factor." He took a deliberate sip, the liquid smoking slightly as it passed his lips. "I heal too fast otherwise. Scars form wrong."
"God forbid you have an imperfect six-pack," she muttered, then turned to the investigation wall that dominated one side of the room.
Red strings connected newspaper clippings, photographs, and hand-drawn maps—forming a pattern that matched the ley line disturbances they'd been tracking. Only a few connections were missing from what they'd discovered together.
"You've been working on this alone. For how long?"
"Six months." He set down his glass. "Since the first thefts started."
"And you didn't think to share this with anyone?"
"I was handling it."
"Oh yes, brilliantly. Right up until you got impaled by shadow creatures." Her temper flared. "You don't get to decide what risks I take. I've been seeing danger in visions my whole life without running away from it."
"I wasn't?—"
"Yes, you were! You pushed me away because you think you're protecting me. Newsflash, Wolfe—I don't need your protection. I need your partnership."
He moved closer, his expression darkening. "You have no idea what you're up against."
"Neither do you! That's the whole point of working together!"
They were standing toe to toe now, the air between them practically crackling with tension.
"I work alone," he growled.
"How's that working out for you?" she shot back.
The door burst open. "Found you!" Mac announced triumphantly, holding up what looked like a vintage Game Boy. "Tracker works perfectly."
