Which was probably everyone inside.
Guilt sat heavy in my chest, thick as molasses and twice as bitter. Three hours I'd spent hiding in my childhood bedroom, staring at photographs that now felt like evidence of my own blindness. Three hours replaying every word I'd screamed at Evan, every accusation I'd hurled like grenades designed to cause maximum damage.
I'd been a complete ass. A self-righteous idiot who'd let shock transform into fury because it was easier than admitting I was scared.
The front door opened before I could work up the courage to knock.
“I thought you'd avoid us after today.”
Daniel's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts, steady and calm with just enough edge to let me know I was being evaluated. He stood in the doorway of what looked like a study, sleeves rolled up and reading glasses perched on his nose like he'd been working late into the evening.
“I came to apologize,” I managed, hands buried deep in my jacket pockets to hide their trembling. “For earlier. For losing my shit and taking it out on everyone. I was shocked, and I handled it badly.”
Daniel studied my face for a long moment, those steel-gray eyes cataloging every micro-expression like he was reading a book written in a language only he understood. Finally, he stepped aside and gestured toward the study.
“Shock is natural,” he said. “Better than fear. Fear paralyzes people, makes them do stupid things. Shock fades.”
The study was exactly what I'd expected from someone like Daniel Callahan—leather-bound books and heavy furniture built to last centuries. A fire crackled in the stone hearth, casting dancing shadows across walls lined with what looked like pack records and territorial maps.
But it also felt lived-in. Warm. Like a place where important conversations happened over good whiskey and comfortable silence.
“Sit,” Daniel said, settling behind a massive oak desk covered with papers. “Evan's out on patrol with the others. Won't be back for hours.”
I perched on the edge of a leather chair that probably cost more than my car, feeling like a kid called to the principal's office. But Daniel's expression wasn't hostile, just watchful in that way parents got when they were still deciding whether their child's friend was worth keeping around.
“You want to know why we didn't tell you,” he said. Not a question.
“I think I understand why,” I said carefully. “Obviously you couldn't just announce to random humans that werewolves exist. That would be...”
“Dangerous,” Daniel finished, reaching for a bottle of whiskey that sat on the corner of his desk. The amber liquidcaught the firelight as he poured two glasses. “For us and for you.”
He slid one across the desk toward me, and I wrapped my fingers around the glass, grateful for something to do with my hands.
“We've built our entire society on keeping ourselves hidden,” Daniel continued, taking a measured sip. “Generations of secrecy, of teaching our children that humans can't handle the truth about what else shares this world with them.”
I took a tentative sip of the whiskey, expecting it to burn. Instead, it went down smooth and warm, cutting through the knot of tension in my chest. “But you think that's wrong?”
“I think isolation breeds its own problems.” Daniel leaned back in his chair, firelight playing across features that looked carved from stone and shadow. “That keeping secrets creates distance. Makes real connection nearly impossible.”
“I thought I knew him,” I said, voice rougher than I'd intended. “Knowing everything about him. Finding out I was wrong about something so fundamental made me question everything else. Made me wonder what other secrets I'd been missing.”
Daniel's expression softened, and something paternal shifted in his posture. He looked at me the way fathers looked at their children's friends when they were trying to decide whether those friends deserved protection or needed protection from.
“Evan let you closer than most,” he said quietly. “Closer than anyone outside the pack, actually. That should tell you something about how much you mean to him.”
The observation cut deep, slicing through my residual anger to the guilt that lived underneath. Because Daniel was right. I'd been so focused on what Evan hadn't told me that I'd ignored everything he had shared. All those quiet moments, all thosecareful touches, all those times he'd chosen my company over anyone else's.
“I was an asshole,” I said, the admission scraping raw from my throat.
“You were shocked,” Daniel corrected, and there was something almost gentle in his voice. “Shock makes people do things they regret. The question is what you do next.”
I took another sip of whiskey, letting the warmth spread through my chest as I considered his words. “What do you think I should do?”
“That depends.” Daniel's eyes met mine across the desk, and I felt the weight of his attention like a physical thing. “Are you planning to stay in Hollow Pines? Or are you going to run back to Chicago the first time things get complicated?”
The question shouldn't have stung, but it did. Probably because it hit too close to a truth I'd been trying not to examine—that my first instinct when things went sideways was always to pack up and disappear.
“I don't know,” I said honestly. “Part of me thinks I should run. This is all... it's a lot to process.”
