It’s been two hours since Connor left my office, and I’ve read the same paragraph of case notes at least a dozen times. The words all run together, rearranging themselves into meaningless shapes on the page. My mind keeps drifting back to our conversation, replaying it on a loop I can’t seem to break.
The way he looked at me when I pushed him away. The quiet acceptance in his voice when he said okay. The promise that I don’t have to carry my burdens alone anymore.
I don’t know what to do with any of that. I don’t know what to do with him.
Outside my window, the sun has started its descent toward the tree line. Most of the staff left an hour ago and headed home to their families. Skylar poked her head in to ask if I wanted to grab dinner, but I waved her off with some excuse about paperwork.
The truth is, I needed to be alone. Needed time to think without the weight of curious eyes and unasked questions pressing down on me.
The lottery. The bonding ceremony. Connor.
It’s too much. All of it, too much.
I push back from my desk and rub my temples, trying to ward off the headache building behind my eyes. Maybe I should call it a night. Go back to the cottage, take a hot bath, and pretend for a few hours that my life hasn’t been completely upended by ancient werewolf traditions and a man who turns into a wolf.
My phone vibrates on the desk, and I glance at the screen out of habit. My stomach drops straight to the floor.
Unknown number.
I stare at the phone as it buzzes again. The sound is impossibly loud in the empty office. Every instinct screams at me not to answer, not to engage, not to give him any indication that I’ve seen his attempt to reach me.
The call ends. A moment later, a notification appears. One new voicemail.
Then another vibration. A text message.
Stop ignoring me.
My hands start to shake as I scroll through my messages with trembling fingers. Dozens of texts have come through today, all from unknown numbers, all variations of the same threat. They must have come through while I was with patients, when my phone was silent and tucked away in my desk drawer, where I couldn’t hear it screaming warnings at me.
You can’t hide from me.
I will find you.
You belong to me, Fern. You always will.
Did you really think you could run?
The room tilts sideways. I grab the edge of my desk and try to breathe, but my lungs have forgotten how to work. Each inhale comes too fast, too shallow, and my vision blurs at the edges as panic claws its way up my throat like a living thing.
He found me. Somehow, despite everything I did to cover my tracks, despite the cash payments and the burner phone and the random route I took across three states, Robbie found me.
I’m vaguely aware of my phone going off again with another message lighting up the screen, but I can’t look at it. Can’t move. Can’t think. My chest constricts like someone is squeezing my ribs with both hands, and I slide out of my chair onto the floor, pressing my back against the wall as I fight for air that won’t come.
This is what dying feels like, some distant part of my brain observes. This is how it ends.
“Fern.”
The voice cuts through the fog, distant and distorted like it’s coming from underwater.
“Fern, look at me.”
Hands hold my shoulders, firm but not painful. I blink, and Connor’s face swims into focus, his blue eyes intent on mine as he crouches in front of me.
“You’re having a panic attack,” he tells me. “I need you to breathe with me. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Can you do that?”
I try to shake my head, try to tell him I can’t, but he doesn’t let go.
“Yes, you can. Watch me.” He breathes in slowly, holds it for a count of three, then exhales through parted lips. “Match my rhythm. In… and out. In… and out.”
