I'm moving before the sound fades, pushing past Gideon toward the tree line. Sam bursts through the underbrush seconds later, still in wolf form, shifting as he skids to a stop.
"Rogue scent," he gasps. "Lower forest. Near the rental cabins."
My blood turns to ice.
"How close?"
"Quarter mile. Maybe less. Fresh trail, heading downhill."
Toward her.
"Alden." Ciaran appears at my shoulder, voice low. "Don't."
I don't answer. Don't think. Just let the shift take me—bones cracking, muscle reshaping, fur rippling across skin in a wave of heat and pressure. The world sharpens into scent and sound, every detail crystalline.
Her scent hits me immediately. Faint but unmistakable, drifting up from the valley below. Lavender and something warmer underneath, something that makes my wolf howl with recognition.
And layered beneath it—another shifter. Male. The same signature from the carcass this morning.
Hunting.
I launch forward before anyone can stop me, paws tearing through underbrush, branches whipping past. The forest blurs into shadow and moonlight. Behind me, voices shout—Ciaran calling my name, Gideon demanding explanation—but I'm already gone, already racing downhill toward the rental cabin.
Toward her.
The rogue's trail cuts through the trees like a scar, fresh enough that disturbed leaves still settle in his wake. He's not hiding anymore. Not circling. He's moving with purpose, direct line toward the cluster of rental cabins.
Toward the one with the state wildlife decal on the truck outside.
I push harder, muscles burning, lungs screaming. The terrain drops steep and I don't slow, just adjust my stride and let gravity pull me faster. Trees thin as I approach the valley floor, and the cabin comes into view through the branches.
Lights on. Movement behind the window.
She's still there. Still alive, but she’s standing on the cabin porch with bear spray in her hand. What is she doing?
The rogue lunges.
She's mine.
The forest holds its breath.
5
CASSIDY
Imount the first camera with a full view of the clearing, tightening the strap around a pine trunk where the soil dips soft and dark. The lens faces the tree line, angled slightly down to capture ground movement.
“Motion sensitivity high. Infrared active. Thirty-second burst,” I murmur, checking the alignment before stepping back.
The forest smells of sap and cold earth. No wind tonight. No birds settling in the branches. Just the slow creak of trees adjusting to a temperature drop.
I crouch near the nearest impression and stretch my measuring tape across the pad. The claw marks cut deep, symmetrical, almost precise.
“Six and a half inches across. Depth consistent with earlier observed prints,” I record, voice steady. “Estimated mass over two hundred pounds.”
I move ten feet east and measure another.
“Seven inches. Distinct individual.”
