I hit the tree line, and her scent wraps around me like a fist to the chest. Honeysuckle and herbs, a combination so familiar my wolf nearly howls at the recognition. We spent two years memorizing that scent, burying our face in her hair, and pressing our nose to the curve of her neck. Ten years apart hasn’t dulled the memory one bit.
I strip off my clothes and call on my wolf before my jeans even hit the dirt. The change comes fast and easy after a decade of constant use with the agency. Bones snap and reform as muscles stretch and fur ripples across my skin. Within seconds, I’m on four legs with my muzzle pressed to the ground.
Her trail cuts through the underbrush in a zigzag pattern, suggesting she was either panicking or deliberately trying to confuse anyone following her. Knowing Skylar, probably both. She was always smart, always thinking three steps ahead, evenwhen her emotions were running high. I barrel forward and leap over a rotting log as my paws tear into the soft earth.
The forest rushes past me in shades of gray and green. I dodge between tree trunks and crash through patches of ferns, following the thread of her scent like it’s the only thing that matters. My wolf pushes harder, desperate to close the distance before she disappears. We’ve tracked targets across three continents and hunted Cheslem wolves through terrain far more treacherous than this. Finding one woman in the forest we grew up in should be simple.
It’s not.
The scent goes cold at the stream near the eastern border.
I skid to a stop on the muddy bank and pace back and forth with a whine building in my throat. The water rushes past, carrying away any trace of where she went. She must have walked through the stream to wash away her trail, and I have no way of knowing which direction she chose. Upstream toward the mountains? Downstream toward the lake? Straight across and deeper into the territory where the old-growth pines crowd so close together you can barely squeeze between them?
I try upstream first and follow the bank for a quarter mile before admitting there’s nothing to find. Then I double back and try downstream with the same result. The water has done its job.
I widen my search and circle through the surrounding forest in ever-larger loops. My nose stays glued to the ground as I check every fallen branch and moss-covered rock for some hint of her passage. Nothing. No footprints in the mud, no broken twigs, no lingering trace of honeysuckle. She grew up running through these woods and knows every game trail, every hollow log, every trick for vanishing when she doesn’t want to be found.
I spent ten years tracking down wolves who didn’t want to be found. Cheslem operatives who’d gone to ground in remote locations, hidden themselves in cities, and used every technique in the book to disappear. I found them all eventually.
But Skylar isn’t a target. She isn’t an enemy combatant or a threat to be neutralized. She’s the woman I loved, the woman I left, and she has every right to run from me if that’s what she needs.
An hour passes before I finally admit defeat. My lungs burn, and my legs tremble from the relentless pace I’ve been keeping. Even my wolf, stubborn as he is, recognizes a lost cause when he sees one.
I finally stop at the top of a ridge overlooking the valley with my sides heaving and my tongue lolling. Silvercreek spreads out below me, tiny pinpricks of yellow and white dotting the darkness where houses and streetlamps hold back the night. Somewhere down there, Skylar is probably locked in her house and wishing I had never crossed the border this morning.
The run back to the Hollow takes less time than the search. Most of the crowd has cleared out by now, leaving behind trampled grass and the smoky residue of torches that have burned down to nothing. A few stragglers linger near the Mother Tree in small clusters, and their conversations die when they see me emerge from the trees.
I find my clothes in a heap where I left them and pull them on without caring about the dirt and scratches covering my skin. My shirt snags on a cut across my ribs that I don’t remember getting, probably from a branch I didn’t dodge in time. The sting of fabric against the wound gives me something to focus on besides the disaster this night has become.
Nic is waiting for me near the Mother Tree with his hands shoved in his pockets.
“Lost her trail at the stream.” I rake my fingers through my hair and dislodge a few leaves along with a twig I didn’t notice before. “She could be anywhere by now.”
“She’s home. Ruby texted.” He pulls out his phone and glances at it. “Skylar won’t open the door, but Ruby can hear her moving around inside.”
Some of the tightness in my chest eases. At least she’s safe. At least she didn’t do something stupid like run all the way to the border and keep going.
“I never expected to be included in the lottery,” I tell him after a moment. “Told you this afternoon I might not be sticking around. Why would the magic waste a match on someone who’s already got one foot out the door?”
Nic shrugs and slides the phone back into his pocket. “The magic doesn’t care about your travel itinerary. It sees what it sees and chooses who it chooses.”
“Then it made a mistake this time.”
“It doesn’t make mistakes.” He kicks at a clump of grass with his boot in a surprisingly casual gesture for an Alpha. “That’s the whole point of the tradition. The magic identifies compatible pairs, wolves who complement each other in ways that strengthen the pack. Luna and I didn’t make sense on paper either. Half the pack thought the magic had finally gone senile when her name was drawn. Now I can’t imagine existing without her.”
A faint smile crosses his face before he pulls it back. “The lottery sees things we’re too blind or too stubborn to recognize on our own. Connections that run deeper than logic or history.”
“Skylar ran from me, Nic.” I don’t know how many different ways I can say this before he understands. “She heard my name and looked like she might be sick. When they called hers, she didn’t hesitate for even a second. Just bolted into the woods without looking back.”
“Can you blame her?”
“No. That’s the whole damn problem.” I scrub a hand over my face as exhaustion drags at my bones. “I can’t blame her for any of it. But I also can’t force her into a bond she obviously doesn’t want. I won’t do that to her. Not after everything else I’ve already put her through.”
Nic narrows his eyes. “You know what refusing a match means? It’s not just politely declining and going about your business. You’d be rejecting the pack itself. Declaring yourself rogue, giving up any claim to protection or territory or the right to ever come back.”
“I know what it means. I’m not trapping someone in a mating bond against her will.” My voice rises, and I force it back down. Arguing with the Alpha in the middle of the Hollow won’t help anything.
Footsteps approach from the direction of the town, and I turn to see Thomas Ennes walking toward us. Nic’s second-in-command has been part of the pack leadership for as long as I can remember, serving first under Nic’s father and then proving himself indispensable through every crisis Silvercreek has faced. If anyone knows what this pack has been through and what it needs to survive, it’s Thomas.
