Dad nodded, hand steady on Michael’s shoulder. “We’re past the point of secrets. Whatever happens next, you’ll face it knowing the truth. About the pack. About the forest. About what we’re up against.”
Michael looked at me as I joined them, searching my face for reassurance or maybe just a sign that any of this was survivable. “All I care about is keeping Nate safe. And you—” He looked to Dad, then me. “You’re sure you’re ready to fight whatever’s coming?”
“As ready as we can be,” I said, keeping my voice steady, even as my stomach twisted. “We know what we’re up against now. No more pretending. No more blind spots.”
Michael’s jaw tightened, pain flickering in his eyes. “I can’t bring Anna back, but I won’t let her death be for nothing.”
Dad’s expression was carved from granite, equal parts sorrow and steel. “We can’t. So we end it. We protect our own. And we make damn sure whoever’s behind Calder pays for every drop of blood.”
The three of us stood in a silent pact—a human, a wolf, and a father caught somewhere between both worlds—each carrying scars, each refusing to let grief make us weak.
“Whatever it takes,” I said, looking from Michael to Dad, letting them both see how much this mattered. “We end this together. No one else dies for our mistakes.”
Dad gave a solemn nod. “Together, then.”
The conversation continued, Dad explaining decades of supernatural politics while Michael asked questions with the methodical thoroughness of someone who'd spent his career as an engineer, breaking complex systems down into understandable components.
But my attention drifted back to Nate, who'd moved on from archery to hand-to-hand combat drills with pack members willing to go easy on the grieving human. He moved with increasing confidence, blocking strikes that would have flattened him a week ago, returning attacks with growing accuracy.
The pack watched him with cautious respect, some nodding approval at his progress, others muttering doubts about humans who thought they could learn in weeks what took wolves years to master. But none of them questioned his presence here anymore. Anna's death had bought him that much.
When the sun finally set,painting the clearing in shades of amber and shadow, the pack began to disperse. Wolves melted back into the forest to resume patrol duties, while others headed toward the pack house for dinner.
I found Nate sitting on a fallen log at the clearing's edge, bow propped against his knee while he picked at blisters that had formed despite the leather gloves Gideon insisted he wear. Blood welled from broken skin, but he seemed to barely notice.
“You should let those heal,” I said, settling beside him carefully.
“They'll callus over.” His voice came out rough from exhaustion and shouting commands during sparring matches. “Gideon says that's better anyway. Tougher skin.”
“Gideon says a lot of things. Doesn't mean you have to destroy yourself proving him right.”
Nate's laugh held no humor whatsoever. “Destroy myself? I'm building myself. Into someone who can actually protect the people I love instead of standing around useless while they die.”
“You were never useless.”
“Tell that to my mom.” He yanked free, chest heaving with emotions too big for his ribcage to contain. “Tell that to the woman who screamed my name while monsters tore her throat out and I couldn't do a damn thing to save her.”
What could I say to that? How could I argue with grief that had carved itself so deep it had become part of his bone structure?
“Come on,” I said finally, standing and offering him my hand. “Let's go home.”
Home. The word felt different now, loaded with new meaning. Because after the attack, after losing the house where he'd grown up, Nate had moved into my apartment Two lives colliding in a space that had been designed for one, but somehow feeling more complete for the addition. And Michael found a house close to the pack house.
The walk back passed in comfortable quiet, boots crunching on pine needles. Above us, stars emerged one by one, distant lights that seemed to watch our progress with cosmic indifference.
My house had transformed over the past week, subtle changes that spoke of two people learning to share space. Nate's camera gear lined one shelf, lenses and filters arranged carefully. His clothes hung in the closet beside mine, and his bow leaned against the wall near the bed like a promise of violence yet to come.
“Feels like home,” he murmured, echoing thoughts I'd been having but hadn't known how to voice. “Weird, right? Everything I knew is gone, but this feels more real than anywhere I've ever lived.”
I understood what he meant. Home wasn't about places or possessions. It was about the people who chose to stay when staying meant sharing your wounds and your weapons in equal measure.
“Not weird,” I said, watching him unpack boxes that had been salvaged from a house that would never feel safe again. “Just different.”
Over the following days, I watched Nate throw himself into training with the single-minded determination of someone trying to outrun grief through physical exhaustion. He rose before dawn, practiced until his hands bled, sparred against wolves twice his size without yielding an inch.
Every bruise that bloomed across his skin made my wolf bristle with protective fury. Every wince when he moved wrong, every grimace when Gideon pushed him harder, felt like personal failure.
“You'll break yourself,” I told him one evening after finding him practicing arrow drills by lamplight, muscles trembling with fatigue.
