“The air pressure’s off,” Nova says, breaking the silence. Not looking at me when she says it.
I nod.
We keep walking, pace quickening without discussion. Nova stays at my right flank, perfectly matched, like we’ve done this a hundred times before. My wolf recognizes the synchronicity, wants to push closer, claim deeper. I keep that shit locked down tight.
The trees thin as we approach the compound perimeter. I can see the wooden fence now, smell the familiar scents of pack territory. Home ground. Safer, but not safe enough with whatever’s brewing.
Nova stops ten yards from the boundary. I halt beside her, automatically checking our six.
“We’re not talking about this,” she says.
“No.” What happened in the woods stays there. Has to.
She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t look wounded. Just nods once, straightens her shoulders, and steps forward again.
I follow, watching the strong line of her back, the confidence in her stride. My wolf paces beneath my skin, unsettled andhungry still. The taste of her lingers on my tongue. The feel of her around me burns in my muscle memory.
I push it all down, locking it away where it can’t interfere with what matters: protecting what’s mine. The pack. The territory.
And now, whether I wanted it or not, her.
Ash Hollow’s main gate comes into view. Two sentries on duty; Marcus and Eli. They clock us immediately, faces carefully blank. Their nostrils flare, reading exactly what happened in those woods. They won’t say a word. Not to my face, anyway.
The price is already adding up.
Nova walks through the gate without hesitation, chin high, eyes forward. I follow, shoulders back, stance wide. Alpha. In control. The lie sits cold in my stomach, but I wear it like armor.
Something’s coming. The wrong feeling in the forest wasn’t just paranoia or magical residue. It was a warning.
And I just complicated everything by crossing a line I can’t uncross.
The compound buzzes with activity, but not the organized kind. Small clusters of packmates stand in tense conversation. Voices rise and fall, sharp and staccato. Wrong rhythm. Wrong energy.
“Alpha,” Wyatt nods as I pass, his tone even but his eyes watchful. He’s one of the good ones. Steady. Reliable. But the tension in his shoulders tells me even he feels what’s building.
Nova keeps stride beside me, not behind. Wolves notice. They always notice.
Callum breaks away from a heated conversation with Reyna and intercepts us, falling into step on my left. “We need to talk,” he says, voice pitched low. “Pack’s getting restless. Marcus’s been asking questions. Making statements.”
I scan the yard ahead, taking inventory. Three distinct groups have formed—unusual for mid-day when everyone should be at assigned tasks. Near the storage shed, Derek gestures forcefullywhile four younger wolves listen, faces grim. Near the main house, Kari paces like a caged predator, Rafe watching her from ten feet away.
“What kind of statements?” I ask Callum.
His eyes flick briefly to Nova, then back to me. “The kind that question leadership decisions. Specifically about outsiders having too much influence.”
I don’t react visibly, but Callum knows me well enough to read my silence.
“And the magic’s still off,” he continues, keeping pace. “Lyanna says the wards are fluctuating. Ben checked the south perimeter twice this morning. Says it smells wrong.”
Wrong. Just like the forest. Like something followed us back from Silverwood.
We reach the central clearing, and the conversation nearest us—three of my scouts arguing over patrol rotations—cuts off abruptly. They straighten, nodding respectfully, but the tension doesn’t leave their bodies.
“Dane.” Kari’s voice cuts through the yard as she approaches, direct and sharp. She doesn’t acknowledge Nova at all. “We need decisions about Silverwood. Now. Not later.”
It’s nearly insubordination, that tone. Nearly.
“After nightfall,” I reply, keeping my voice level. “Full briefing.”
