"Stay close."
We climbed the final stretch together. The ridge was narrow at the top—barely wide enough for two people to stand abreast—and the wind hit like a physical force, threatening to knock us off balance.
But I barely noticed.
Because there, on the other side—huddled in a hollow carved by centuries of weather, pressed against the rock like he was trying to disappear into it—
A wolf.
Pale fur, matted and scarred, streaked with gray at the muzzle. Smaller than he should have been, ribs visible beneath the ragged coat. Yellow eyes that tracked our movement with a blank wariness.
No recognition. No spark. Just survival instinct, calculating threat.
He saw me.
And nothing happened.
No flicker of awareness. No response through the bond. Just those empty yellow eyes, watching and waiting for us to make the first move.
My chest ached.
Chapter twenty
The wolf didn't move.
He stayed pressed against the rock, yellow eyes tracking us with that flat, predatory awareness. No aggression yet—just assessment. Calculating whether we were threats, prey, or something to be avoided.
I studied him from twenty feet away, cataloging details. He was smaller than I'd expected from the tracks—not because he was a small wolf, but because starvation had whittled him down to sinew and bone. His coat, which might once have been a pale tan, was matted and dull, streaked with gray at the muzzle. Old scars crossed his shoulders and flanks, evidence of fights with predators or prey or maybe just the mountain itself.
His eyes were the worst part. Yellow and empty, holding nothing but animal wariness. Whatever person had once lookedout through those eyes was gone—buried so deep that the surface showed only wolf.
"Okay," I breathed, more to myself than to James. "Here we go."
I took a slow step forward.
Behind me, I felt James tense through our bond. His wolf was responding to the presence of another shifter—hackles rising, instincts screaming warnings about the threat radiating from that huddled form.
"Stay back," I said without turning. "Let me try to reach him first."
"Lumi—"
"I know what I'm doing." I didn't, not really. But I knew more than he did, and that would have to be enough. "Just stay back. If something goes wrong, don't engage. Get clear."
"I'm not leaving you."
"I'm not asking you to leave. I'm asking you to be smart." I glanced over my shoulder, meeting his eyes. "Please. Trust me."
He didn't like it. I could feel his resistance through the bond—the protective instincts warring with his promise to follow my lead. But after a long moment, he nodded.
"I'll be right here."
I turned back to the wolf and took another step.
The feral's ears flattened against his skull. A low sound escaped him—not quite a growl, more like a warning. The kind of noise an animal makes when it wants you to know that you're pushing your luck.
"Easy," I murmured, keeping my voice low and even. "I'm not here to hurt you. I know you don't understand me, but that's okay. You don't have to understand. You just have to feel."
Another step. Ten feet now. Close enough to see the individual hairs of his matted coat, the chips and cracks in his yellowed claws.
