I don’t like that answer.
He tilts his head slightly. “You’re out here a lot.”
“I patrol.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
My gaze narrows.
He continues, unfazed. “You return to the same area more than necessary.”
I don’t respond. Because he’s right. And I don’t need that spoken aloud.
“Something in town?” he asks.
“No.”
But the word lands wrong. Even to me. He looks past me—toward town. Toward the bookstore district.
“You’re predictable when you’re focused,” he says quietly.
I tense slightly.
“Careful,” I warn.
He gives a faint shrug. “Just an observation.”
Then he steps back into the trees and disappears. I stand there for a moment longer than I should. Because now I know?—
I’m being watched too. By rogues. By my own people. And that changes the calculation. By the time I return to town, the decision is already forming.
I reinforce the perimeter around the bookstore district personally. Not visible. Not obvious. Just enough to strengthen coverage. Just enough to compensate. My tiger is agitated the entire time. Too close. Too exposed. Too important. I stop across the street from the bookstore and watch it through the window.
She’s inside. Alive. Unaware.
Mine.
The word returns harder than before. I exhale slowly.
“I can’t keep doing this,” I mutter.
And for the first time?—
I admit it out loud. Not to anyone else. To myself. Avoiding her won’t work much longer.
Not with rogues circling. Not with eyes on me. Not with instinct this loud. I turn away from the building and head back toward Conrad.
Because the truth is finally settling in. I can protect her at a distance. I can try. But sooner or later?—
Something is going to force the distance closed. And I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop it when it happens. The forest tells me before anything else does. Something changed. Not visually.
Not audibly. But structurally. The scent markers are denser now. Layered. Reinforced. Not just mapping anymore—establishing boundaries.
This isn’t reconnaissance. This is preparation. My tiger rises immediately. They’re setting a perimeter. Around Redwood Crossing.
I move faster now, no longer following a casual patrol rhythm. Each step is deliberate, scanning intersections where scent lines overlap. I find more of them as I go. Too many. Too coordinated. This is no longer a scouting operation. It’s a claim-in-progress.
I stop near the ridge line and look out toward town. The bookstore district sits quietly below. Too quiet. My jaw tightens. She’s there.
