Because even as I track the cougar markers, even as I reinforce the borders with deliberate precision, part of me remains split—pulled in the direction of her. It’s constant.
I move along the tree line, muscles coiled, senses sharp, and still—still—I’m aware of her presence like a second map layered over the first. Back in town. In that building. Alone.
My tiger doesn’t like it.
The low, restless agitation hums beneath my skin, pushing against the control I’ve spent years mastering. It doesn’t understand restraint. It doesn’t care about caution or consequences.
Mate is here. Mate is unguarded. Protect.
I stop abruptly, claws digging slightly into the forest floor as I force the instinct down. Not like this. Not unchecked. I’ve seen what happens when shifters lose control of that drive. When instinct overrides judgment. It never ends well.
A faint breeze shifts, carrying the cougar scent stronger this time. My focus snaps back immediately, the distraction shoved aside as I follow the trail. Fresh. Closer than before. They’re testing more aggressively now. Good. Let them.
A low growl rumbles through my chest as I move along the boundary, reinforcing the warning with heavier markings. This is claimed territory. Protected. Not theirs. And not hers.
The thought slips in. I pause again, exhaling sharply as I force myself to reset. She’s not part of this. She can’t be. Not if I want to keep her safe.
Magnus is right. Conrad is right. The second she knows what we are, everything changes. The risks multiply. The threats become real in ways she won’t be prepared for. And yet…
My gaze lifts toward the distant glow of town, barely visible through the trees. I can still feel her. That connection hasn’t weakened. If anything, it’s stronger now. Settling in. Rooting deeper.
I shift back at the edge of the forest, the change slower this time, more deliberate. My muscles ache slightly as I straighten. Control. That’s what this comes down to. Holding the line. For her. For the town. For myself.
I take one last look toward Redwood Crossing before turning back toward the road. Because no matter how strong the pull gets?—
I can’t afford to let it decide what happens next.
5
TESSA
By mid-afternoon, I’m sweaty, tired, and dangerously close to losing my patience. The truck is still half full. The bookstore is still half a disaster. And I’m starting to think the slope of this street might actually be trying to kill me.
“Just a few more,” I mutter, climbing into the back of the truck again.
I grab a box, then another, stacking them carefully in my arms before stepping back down to the pavement. The incline is subtle. Too subtle. I didn’t think much of it when I parked. Now I’m thinking about it a lot. I shift my grip and step away from the truck?—
And then I hear it. A soft click. Followed by movement. I turn just in time to see the truck roll. Slow at first. Then faster.
“Are you—are you kidding me?”
The boxes slip from my arms as I lunge forward, instinct taking over. I reach for the door handle, trying to grab hold, to stop it?—
It doesn’t budge. The truck keeps moving. Toward me.
“Stop—!”
My foot slips slightly on the pavement as I try to get leverage. Panic spikes sharp and immediate?—
And then something slams into the truck. Hard. The vehicle jerks, lurches?—
Stops.
I stagger back, heart pounding, breath coming fast. Archer stands at the front of the truck, one hand braced against the hood, his entire body rigid with the effort. For a second, neither of us speaks. Then he shoves the truck fully into place and rounds on me.
“What were you thinking?” he snaps.
I blink, still catching my breath. “I—what?”
