We had arrested the men. We had evidence that would sting in court. We had chosen to prove rather than punish. And yet, as Tanner scrolled feeds and Rivera closed a file with a signature, the tabloid piece winked up from the dark.
Somebody had already started dressing the truth in fangs.
Ana’s next message landed like a verdict: “If this leaks as anything other than criminal conspiracy, you’ll have another fight. Call Mia. Warn her. She needs to hear it from you first.”
I pocketed the phone and walked into the moonless field.
A howl answered from the trees—long, low, threaded with warning. It wasn’t for the men cuffed in the cruiser. It wasn’t just the pack. It felt like a challenge sent from someone with more to lose.
I started to dial Mia. My thumb trembled.
Her voicemail clicked in. I left a short, steady message: We got them. Evidence is clean. There’s a leak. Don’t talk to reporters. Ana’s on it. Stay home tonight. Lock the doors.
Tanner swore. Rivera cursed softly. Mateo’s fingers went white on the wheel; someone had already taken the tabloid’s lead and forwarded it to a private list—a man who knew how to make trouble personal.
My throat closed.
We’d chosen the law. The law had already whispered to a paper.
The field went quiet except for the predator’s echo. In my jacket, Mia’s folder folded like a fragile thing. On my phone, Ana’s last line glowed: “If this gets framed as ‘shifters’ in the press, custody shifts from criminal evidence to myth. We lose the angle we won. Get her somewhere safe. Now.”
9
MIA TORRES
The judge says the words before I can. "Custody to Ms. Torres."
My knees don't give out. My fingers go numb instead, like the part of me that has to hold steady has been cut off until it matters.
Outside the courthouse, cameras whisper and shutters click. Someone huffs a comment I don't bother to hear. Ana presses a hand to my elbow and pulls me into a hug that smells faintly of peppermint and coffee. Tanner waits by a black SUV with his jaw set. Caleb stands a little back, hands shoved in his coat pockets, eyes hooded against the glare. He looks like a man who has been holding his breath for a week and doesn't know when he'll let it go.
"I'm so sorry you had to—" Ana begins and then stops. She never finishes sentences that shouldn't be said aloud. She slides the thumb drive into her pocket like a talisman.
"We did what we had to," Caleb says. No flourish. No ego. Just fact.
I want to ask how much of this was him, how much Tanner and Mateo and the rest took on. Part of me already knows. Part of me doesn't want to know the full reckoning the packperformed on my behalf; knowing will mean owing. Owing is paper and receipts and people who can turn those receipts into expectations.
"We kept it legal," Ana says. "No mention of shifters. The judge saw the chain of custody, the motel receipts, the satellite-comm recordings. Detective Rivera's report was solid. The tabloids can squawk. They won't matter in court."
The tabloids are already squawking. A reporter edges closer, mic extended. "Ms. Torres, will you comment?—"
"No." I clamp my mouth shut before grief can come out sounding like admission. Leo is waiting in the truck with Tanner. He'll think I cried because my eyes sting from the sun. That's good enough for him.
Caleb watches me like he can read the way my hands clench. He moves when I move, a shadow mapped to my outline. It makes sense he would; he doesn't do small things.
We don't go home. Ana insists on somewhere quiet to go over next steps. Caleb drives us to the ranch. He doesn't mention the council; he doesn't have to. The truck smells of leather and freshly cut hay. His callused hand on the wheel is steady and plain.
On the ride, Tanner fills in gaps. "We cleared the courier trail. Rivera got a warrant on the motel. The burnt leather matched a courier in the city. Your ex's prints were on the comm. He'll be held pending charges."
My throat tightens. The man who taught me to divide a rent check, who taught me how to hold panic down so it wouldn't speak in court—he could be jailed for what he did. Relief is a strange, guilty thing to feel.
Caleb parks under a wash of stars. The ranch is quieter than the city's sleep. Fences. Gates. The night smells like grass and something that feels like balm. Leo is asleep in a small guestroom after a hot shower and pancakes for dinner—Tanner's bribe for bravery.
A low sound threads the night. A wolf-call? I don't call it that. Not yet. It's a reminder of the things I haven't fully understood about the man I'm walking toward.
Inside, Mateo sits with a thermos and a slow grin. He'll insist the grin is only for coffee. Tanner parks himself at the stove and does the business of being solid. Ana sets her legal files on the table and smooths them flat like she's about to be surgical with someone's life.
Caleb closes the door behind us and drops his coat over a chair. He leaves a space between us, then bridges it with a single step that's all intention. He doesn't kneel, doesn't make a scene. He moves like someone who keeps adjusting the dial until the room is the right temperature.
