"Watch me." I start uphill, forcing my legs to move. "We've got a rogue to find and a council ready to tear itself apart. The last thing I need is a fated mate complicating everything."
"Fate doesn't care what you need."
I know.
That's the problem.
Shifting again, I head in the direction of her scent, where it’s stronger. She’s close by, on the Blackmoore property. I come to the pine tree, my wolf-eyes catching sight of her. The beast salivates, and I rein him in by shifting back to human.
I know I shouldn’t, but move from the trees to where this human woman, with the most delectable, indescribable scent, is crouched on the ground with a measuring tape.
3
CASSIDY
Dawn breaks cold and gray, the kind of light that turns the forest into silhouettes and shadows. I cross the boundary stakes at six-forty-seven, GPS logging every step, camera ready.
The tracks start twenty feet past the iron markers.
Fresh. Deep enough that moisture still beads in the lowest impressions. I crouch beside the clearest print and pull out my measuring tape, stretching it across the width.
Six and a half inches.
I move to the next print, ten feet ahead. Seven inches. Then another—six and a half. The sizes don't match. Different animals, all moving through here within the last twelve hours, all significantly larger than documented gray wolf populations.
I pull out my phone and open the voice recorder app, thumbing it to record while I work.
"Day four. Six-fifty a.m. Crossed Blackmoore boundary at first light. Multiple tracks confirmed—at least four distinct animals based on paw size variation. Largest print measures seven inches width, the smallest six and a half. All exceed regional gray wolf averages by significant margins."
I follow the trail northeast, documenting as I go. The prints don't scatter the way normal wolf packs do during a hunt. They stay parallel, evenly spaced, moving in formation.
I stop and replay that thought.
"Stride pattern suggests coordinated movement. Not typical predatory behavior—wolves during active hunts show erratic spacing, directional changes following prey scent. These tracks maintain consistent intervals. Almost..." I pause, searching for the right word. "Military."
The forest is too quiet. No birdsong. No chatter of squirrels. Just wind moving through pine needles and the distant rush of water from a creek I can't see yet.
I move deeper, following the tracks as they curve around a granite outcrop. The soil here is softer, darker. Rich with decomposed organic matter. Perfect for impressions.
And there are dozens.
Layered prints, some crossing others, some perfectly preserved alongside older tracks that have started to erode along the exterior of the impression. I kneel and count—eight distinct trails, maybe more. All heading in the same direction.
"Multiple animals converging on a central point. Behavior inconsistent with territorial patrol or hunting pattern. This suggests..." I stop recording and sit back on my heels.
Organized movement. Deliberate coordination. Predators don't operate like this unless they're protecting something. Or preparing for something.
I stand and scan the tree line ahead. The tracks lead deeper into Blackmoore land, toward a ridge thick enough with pine that I can't see what's on the other side.
The prickle starts at the base of my skull.
Not sound. Not movement. Just the sudden, visceral awareness that I'm not alone.
I turn slowly, keeping my hands visible, non-threatening. My bear spray is clipped to my belt, but reaching for it feels like the wrong move.
The tree line is empty. Just shadows and undergrowth and the slow sway of branches in the breeze.
But the feeling doesn't fade. If anything, it sharpens—a weight pressing against my spine, heavy and deliberate.
