He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to. Everyone knows those woods hold memories we'd rather leave buried.
"Thanks for the heads-up."
Gregson nods and retreats, leaving me alone with the sudden roar of blood in my ears. My wolf surges forward like a tide breaking against a seawall—urgent, demanding, absolutely certain that this cannot happen. The sensation floods my chest with heat, every muscle tensing as if I'm about to launch myself through the window and straight to wherever she is.
Now. Stop her. Protect.
The chair creaks as I grip its arms, knuckles white against the worn leather. I count my breaths—in for four, hold for four, out for four—until the immediate surge subsides enough for rational thought to resurface.
She's not just sitting in the library thumbing through files anymore. She's doing her own investigating.
“Of course she is,” I mutter.
Journalists don’t stop because someone politely suggests they might want to. They stop when the story runs out—or when they hit something sharp.
And Ellie Carter does not strike me as someone who enjoys being told no.
I reach for my radio, thumb hovering over the call button. One word and I could have her intercepted before she takes a step toward those trees. One conversation and I could redirect her attention somewhere safer, somewhere that won't unravel everything we've built here.
But the image of her face during our last encounter stops me—the way she'd straightened her shoulders when I'd deflected her questions, the spark of determination that had replaced disappointment. She'd already decided I was an obstacle. Direct intervention would only confirm her suspicions.
Instead, I dial a different number.
"Rowan? I need quiet eyes on the Hollow perimeter. Starting tonight."
"How quiet?"
"Ghost quiet. She doesn't see you, doesn't sense you. Just... awareness."
A pause. "The journalist?"
"She's getting too close."
"Want me to?—"
"No interference. Just watch. Report movement, timing, approach routes. Nothing more."
Another pause, longer this time. "Caleb, if she's heading into those woods alone?—"
"I know." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Just... keep her safe from a distance."
I end the call and I tilt my head back, staring at the ceiling tiles as if they hold answers. The wolf paces beneath my skin, dissatisfied with half-measures and silent surveillance when every instinct demands I simply claim what's mine and remove her from danger.
But she's not mine to claim. Not yet. Maybe not ever, if I can't find a way to protect both her and the truth she's hunting.
The radio crackles with routine chatter—traffic stops, noise complaints, the ordinary problems of ordinary people living ordinary lives. None of them know how close their world teeters on the edge of exposure.
The scent hits me first—metallicand wrong, threading through the evening air like spilled copper. I pause mid-stride on the patrol route, nostrils flaring as my wolf surges beneath the surface.
Fresh tracks press into the soft earth near the forest’s edge, too deliberate for wildlife, too purposeful for coincidence. Theimpressions are deeper at the heel, suggesting weight carried in haste. Or pursuit.
"Shit." The word escapes before I can catch it.
I kneel beside the clearest print, measuring it against my palm. Human, but the gait pattern speaks of something else—something that moves between forms when necessity demands. The spacing tells a story of controlled aggression, of hunting rather than wandering.
My phone buzzes against my ribs. Text from Rowan:Perimeter check complete. All quiet on the eastern boundary.
All quiet. Right.