He bent down and hugged me tight. I licked his face. We stayed like that, surrounded by chaos and relief and barking dogs, breathing each other in as if the world might tilt again if we let go.
Marion’s family cabin finally came into view through the windshield.
Cooper eased the car to a stop. I sat there for a second longer than necessary, hands braced on my knees. I was human again, dressed in borrowed clothes that hung a little loose on me.
My shoulder throbbed faintly, more reminder than pain. Jaime sat beside me in the backseat, jaw tight, eyes locked on the cabin like it might lunge if he looked away.
“You two ready?” Cooper asked from the driver’s seat.
Jaime nodded once. “Let’s do this.”
We got out together. The sheriff’s vehicles were already there, lights muted but unmistakable. Two deputies moved about, probably ready to catalogue and bag evidence.
The sheriff himself stepped forward as Cooper approached, hand already extended.
“Sheriff,” Cooper greeted.
The man shook Cooper’s hand firmly, then turned his attention to us. His gaze lingered on Jaime’s bandaged leg, then on me, sharp but not unkind.
“You the one he took?” the sheriff asked Jaime.
“Yes.”
“And you’re his partner?” the sheriff said.
I nodded. “This is Chris.”
“Well,” the sheriff said, gesturing toward the cabin, “let’s make sure this place tells the truth.”
The door creaked when one of the deputies pushed it open. That sound hit me harder than I expected.
My chest tightened as the interior came into view again, unchanged and yet completely different now that Marion was behind bars. I stepped inside, with Jaime and Cooper close behind.
The air still carried echoes of what had happened here. My wolf stirred uneasily under my skin, hackles raised at a place that had dared to hold what was mine.
Deputies fanned out immediately, methodical and efficient. Gloves were snapped on, and cameras clicked. Drawers were opened, then left open, everything documented before being touched.
“That pipe,” Jaime said, pointing. “That’s where he cuffed me.”
One of the deputies crouched, photographing the metal ring bolted into the wall. “Got it.”
Another voice came from the kitchenette. “Sheriff, you’re going to want to see this.”
They pulled out a sealed plastic tub from beneath the sink. Inside were several small bottles, partially unlabeled, the liquid inside faintly cloudy. Even from a distance, my nose caught the smell of poison.
The sheriff swore under his breath.
“Bag it,” the sheriff said.
The deputy complied immediately, sealing it.
Then someone else spoke up from the back room. “We’ve got pamphlets. A lot of them.”
I followed, heart sinking. The walls were plastered with anti-shifter propaganda, arranged carefully, obsessively. Flyers accused packs of corruption. There were dates circled. Names scribbled in the margins.
Jaime inhaled sharply beside me. I felt his hand brush mine, just for a second, grounding.
“This wasn’t random,” Cooper said quietly behind us.
