Heat flushes along my spine. My wolf recognizes it before I do, muscles tensing with something beyond alertness. A response both primal and new.
I know that scent.
I start moving again, no longer fleeing but hunting. Following that trace through the underbrush, past a fallen tree, and around a stand of naked aspens.
The energy changes. Air pressure shifts again. Not paranoia—physics. Someone big just moved. Someone is tracking the same pattern I am.
A tingle races across my scalp. The forest around me seems to hold its breath.
I’m not alone.
And whoever it is ... they’re letting me go deeper.
I pause, listening to the silence. My pursuer thinks they’ve outsmarted me. That I’ll keep moving forward, straight into whatever trap they’ve laid.
Bad bet.
I scan the terrain—creek bed to my left, rise of land to my right. The trees thin ahead where moonlight slices through branches. Perfect funnel point. Someone who knows the land would position themselves there, using the natural contours to predict my path.
I drop down on one knee, press my palm to the frozen earth, and close my eyes. Vibration travels better through frozen ground. I filter out the distant sounds—night birds, water trickling under ice, wind through pine needles.
There. Footfalls. Heavy but controlled. Northwest position, moving parallel to my path.
I pivot and circle wide, cutting northeast through denser underbrush. The thorns catch at my jacket, but I move with practiced silence, placing each step with precision. My wolf vibrates under my skin, wanting to break free, to hunt properly. Not yet. Human form is quieter for this.
The ground slopes upward. I use it for cover, staying low as I double back toward where I detected movement. Mypursuer will expect me to keep running forward, away from the compound. Away from safety.
But I don’t run from threats. I eliminate them.
I find a fallen log and crouch behind it, knife in hand. The forest holds its breath around me. I regulate mine—shallow and silent. Three breaths. Four. Five.
Movement. A shadow among shadows. Big. Deliberate.
My pursuer pauses at the spot where I changed direction, head turning slowly. Scanning. His profile cuts clean against the darkness—broad shoulders, the set stance of a predator tracking prey.
Dane.
My wolf recognizes him before I do, rising with a surge of heat that catches me off guard. I push it down.
He takes another step, and I launch.
I hit him from the side, using momentum instead of weight. He grunts—surprise, not pain—as we crash to the ground. My blade finds his throat in the same instant my knees pin his arms.
“Looking for me?” I press the flat of the blade against his skin.
His eyes lock on mine, sharp with fury. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. The rage rolls off him in waves, hot enough to melt the frost around us.
Even pinned beneath him, I’m aware of his size—6‘4“ of broad, hard muscle, combat-scarred and built for war. His ash-brown hair falls across his forehead, and those steel-gray eyes burn gold at the edges. The black shirt stretches across his chest, utility pants that have seen action, and steel-toe boots that could crack bone.
Everything about him suggests controlled violence held in careful check.
“Why are you following me?” My voice comes out harsher than intended.
“Why are you running?” he counters, jaw tight.
“I’m not running. I’m hunting.”
Something flashes across his face. “In my territory.”
