The door opens to hard morning light. Bright, unforgiving. The kind that exposes everything. Nova steps out first, her shoulders squaring as if bracing for impact. I follow, letting the door fall shut behind us without looking back.
The compound stretches before us; cabins to the left, training yard to the right, the lodge ahead. Too still. Too quiet.
Wyatt stands near the training ring, shirtless despite the chill, towel draped over his shoulders. His hands pause mid-wrap, the white strips of cloth hanging loose from his knuckles. He watches us pass with careful neutrality, straightening from casual to alert in the space of a breath.
Callum and Torres stand locked in conversation by the equipment shed. Torres’s mouth hangs open mid-sentence, whatever point he was making forgotten. Callum’s eyes narrow, calculating. He nods once, to me, not Nova, and turns back to Torres, resuming their argument in lowered tones.
We walk in step, not touching but close enough that her sleeve brushes mine. The dirt path crunches beneath our boots, each step sounding too loud in the unnatural quiet. Wolves pause in doorways. Conversations stop, then resume in whispers.
Rafe stands near the path to the outer perimeter, arms crossed over his chest. He looks like he’s been there for hours. Or never left. His gaze tracks Nova, not me. Something in his expression sets my teeth on edge. Not judgment. Recognition.
Kari emerges from the armory, clipboard in hand. She freezes, eyes darting between us before locking onto Nova. Something passes between them, female to female, wolf to mostly-wolf, that I can’t read.
Nova doesn’t shrink under the attention. She walks like she belongs exactly where she is, at my side, in my territory, wearing yesterday’s clothes with my scent clinging to her skin.
Halfway across the clearing, she stops. Turns to me.
“I need coffee,” she says quietly. Her eyes hold mine for one beat, two.
Then she turns toward the lodge, steps smooth and unhurried. Walking away. Alone.
My wolf rises, bristling. Follow her. Track her. Keep her close.
I plant my feet. Stand taller. Fix my gaze on the command center ahead.
I don’t call her back. Don’t explain. Don’t acknowledge the eyes drilling into my spine as I walk the rest of the way alone, shoulders squared, jaw set.
I keep walking.
The pack’s silence hangs in the air like smoke.
I veer toward the command center entrance when movement catches my eye. The door to the storage building swings open—the structure that houses medical supplies and a small meeting room, set back from the main path.
Harper stumbles out, spine going rigid as she catches herself. Her face cycles through shock, hurt, and then careful blankness in the space of a breath. Her hands clench into fists before she forces them to relax. She doesn’t look back at what she walked in on. Doesn’t say a word. Just walks toward the outer trail with measured steps that speak louder than shouting would.
Through the open doorway, I catch a glimpse of Ben buttoning his jeans, belt hanging loose. Lydia, a wolf from a northern pack, pulls her shirt down over her head, hair mussed, fingers smoothing the fabric into place. They’d heard the door open. Seen Harper’s face before she fled. Neither of them speak. The space between them already cooling.
Ben appears in the doorway, sensing eyes on him. Our gazes meet across the clearing. His eyes are hollow. Haunted in a way that has nothing to do with what just happened and everything to do with what’s been eating at him for months.
He turns and disappears in the opposite direction from Harper.
I let them both go.
There’s nothing I can say that won’t shatter what’s left of him. And nothing I can do to fix what just broke between them.
But something cracked in that building.
And both of them are walking away like it didn’t happen.
Fuck.
I push into the command center, jaw still tight, mind still half-locked on Nova walking away—and now on whatever the hell just happened between Ben and Harper. Maps cover the table. Reports stacked in neat piles. Morning light slices through the blinds, cutting lines across the room.
Kari slips in behind me, clipboard pressed to her chest. Her eyes stay on her notes, thumbing through pages with deliberate focus. I smell coffee on her breath, fresh dirt on her boots. She was up at dawn, checking perimeters.
Callum storms in next, door swinging harder than necessary. He drags a chair out, drops into it. Tension radiates off him in waves.
“Torres wants to rotate the younger wolves to night patrol,” he says, voice clipped. “Says they need the experience.”
