The words hang between us like a confession. Raw. Unguarded. More truth than I’ve given anyone in years.
Dane steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that his scent fills my lungs with every breath.
“You don’t just witness,” he says, his voice rough. “You participate. You care. That’s why you’re still here.”
“I don’t—“
“You broke into our territory to warn us. You stayed despite being imprisoned. You’re helping us hunt the bastard who’s been manipulating us.” His hand rises, hovering just beside myface without quite touching. “That’s not documentation. That’s investment.”
My wolf surges forward, drawn to his dominance, his certainty, his absolute refusal to let me hide behind professional distance. Every instinct screams to lean into that almost-touch, to close the gap between us, to stop running from something I’ve been avoiding for years.
Instead, I step back.
“We should keep moving,” I say, voice carefully neutral. “He’s got other cache points. Other surveillance positions.”
Dane’s hand drops, but his eyes don’t leave my face. “You can’t run forever.”
“I’m not running. I’m working.”
“You’re running.” He turns away, resuming the trail deeper into the forest. “The question is what you’re running from.”
I follow without answering, because the truth is too dangerous to speak aloud.
I’m not running from him.
I’m running from the way he makes me want to stay.
The third cache point sits higher up the ridge, concealed behind a natural rock outcropping that provides perfect concealment and clear sight lines to the compound below. This one’s more recent—the scent is stronger, the equipment traces fresher.
“He was here yesterday,” I say, crouching beside the disturbed earth. “After his visit to the compound. Checking his work.”
Dane examines the position, noting angles and distances with hunter precision. “Range?”
“Six hundred yards. Maybe less.” I follow his gaze to the compound below, clearly visible through the treeline. “Audio pickup would be excellent from here. Visual surveillance perfect.”
“Bastard’s been watching us like TV.”
The bitter anger in his voice makes my chest tight.
“Dane.” The sound of his name on my lips surprises us both. I’ve been thinking it but not saying it. “This isn’t your fault.”
His laugh is harsh, humorless. “Isn’t it? I’m supposed to protect them. Keep them safe. And instead I’ve been leading them around like sheep for some bastard’s entertainment.”
“You’ve been leading them toward healing. That’s what made you a threat.”
“A threat to who? Some fae with too much time and twisted hobbies?”
I freeze, the casual reference hitting like ice water. “What did you say?”
“Phil’s fae, isn’t he? Has to be, to pull off this level of manipulation. The emotional amplification, the systematic approach ...” He turns to face me, reading my expression. “What?”
My mind races through possibilities, probabilities, and implications. Phil Dawson. Fae. Systematic pack manipulation. Proving that redemption is impossible.
“Not just any fae,” I breathe. “Someone with a specific agenda. Someone who benefits from supernatural communities failing.”
“You know who he is.”
“I know the type.” I turn away, staring out over the forest as pieces click into place. “There are factions in the courts that oppose integration. That believe mixing with other supernatural communities weakens fae power.”
