Rook appears at my side again. “She’s fun.”
“Alpha she-wolf. They’re tougher than most.” I think of Brenna. “And she’s been holding this place together with no resources and no backup. She gets to be whatever she wants.”
“Didn’t say otherwise.” He pauses. “She reminds me of someone.”
I know who he means. The stubbornness. The sharp tongue. The way she holds her ground and doesn’t give an inch.
So much like Brenna.
I push that thought down and turn my attention back to what’s important right now.
The morning fills with work. Sienna takes inventory with the Ravenclaw elder. The old woman’s name is Greta, and she runs the kitchen, the supply chain, and probably the weather, knowing that type. Dane is already framing repairs on the barn with two Ravenclaw teenagers trailing him, handing him tools, watching how he works. He doesn’t talk to them, but he doesn’t chase them off, which for Dane is practically an invitation to Thanksgiving dinner.
I walk the property. The ranch is bigger than it looked from the road. Eighty, maybe a hundred acres of cleared land before the forest takes over. The river forms a natural boundary to the west. The hills rise steeply to the east and south. North is the only easy approach, and that’s the road we came in on.
One way in. One way out. That’s either a fortress or a trap, depending on who’s controlling the high ground.
My wolf doesn’t like it. Too enclosed. Too many blind spots in those hills. A handful of shooters on the eastern ridge could pin this whole property down, and these wolves wouldn’t have anywhere to run except the river.
Fuck.
They’ve been sitting in this fishbowl with the most rudimentary system and no escape plan. The fact that they’re alive is either luck or something else keeping the threats at a distance.
Brenna kept them safe. That’s what Cameron said at Aurora. She held the line until she couldn’t.
“Goddammit, Brenna,” I say to the empty air. “What the hell went wrong?”
Nobody answers. The trees just stand there, old and patient and full of shadows.
Briar finds me at the south fence line. She moves out of the brush without a sound, and I barely catch her scent before she’s beside me. I swear the woman’s half wolf, half smoke.
“Security’s shot,” she says. “Some human systems in place. Couple of old wards surrounding the main areas.”
“Anyone taking advantage of it?” I ask.
“Maybe,” she says. “Southeast ridge. Old tracks, human boot prints, but a pattern. Same approach three times over the last couple weeks. Someone’s been watching the property from the high ground.”
My hands close into fists at my sides. “Syndicate?”
“Can’t confirm. But they knew exactly where to stand to avoid the sight lines from the house. That’s not amateur.”
Son of a bitch.
Watched. They’ve been watched. Willow and her wolves going about the business of not dying, and somebody’s been sitting on that ridge with binoculars—or worse—taking notes.
“Don’t tell Willow yet,” I say.
Briar tilts her head.
“She’s running on fumes. I want to know what we’re dealing with before I drop that on her. Get me details: how many, how often, what direction they came from, and where they went. I need a picture before I need a panic.”
Briar nods and ghosts back into the trees like she was never there.
I stand on the fence line with the morning wind carrying oak pollen and river damp against my face. Below me, the ranch spreads out. The house, the barns, the garden, the wolves who are all that’s left of a pack that used to run these hills without fear. Cameron is sitting on the porch steps with Greta, and even from this distance, I can feel him through the anchor sense,calmer now, the tremors fewer, his wolf settling into familiar ground.
At least one thing’s going right. I’ll take it.
The ring presses warm against my chest. I wrap my hand around it through my shirt as a breeze carries a sound that could be the murmur of trees. Could be a voice. Could be her.
