"This conversation isn't over," I call back without turning around.
"Yes, it is."
His voice carries that same infuriating finality, but I'm done letting him have the last word. I've spent too many years shrinking away from conflict, from attention, from the space I'm entitled to occupy.
The walk back to town feels longer in the dark, every shadow a potential threat. But anger is a surprisingly effective antidote to fear. By the time I reach my room, I'm already mentally drafting the story outline, planning my next moves.
I unlock the door and step inside, muscle memory guiding me to the light switch. The warm glow of the table lamp illuminates my makeshift workspace—laptop open on the small table by the window, research notes scattered across the surface, empty coffee cup marking a ring on the wood.
Something's wrong.
I freeze in the doorway, my eyes scanning the familiar chaos. Everything looks exactly as I left it, which is precisely the problem. My notes aren't scattered—they're arranged. The legal pad that was askew now sits perfectly parallel to the table's edge. The pen I'd tossed carelessly beside my laptop rests at a precise ninety-degree angle.
"No." The word escapes as barely a whisper.
I approach the table like it might explode. The coffee cup has been moved three inches to the right, away from the water ring it created. Someone cleaned up after me. Someone who wanted me to know they'd been here but didn't want to appear threatening.
My hands shake as I rifle through the papers. Nothing's missing—that would be too obvious. Instead, everything's been subtly reorganized. The timeline I'd sketched is now in chronological order rather than the scattered mess I'd left. The list of missing persons has been alphabetized.
I grab my laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard to check the browser history.
There—between my research on local land records and missing person databases—a single entry I didn't make. A search for my own name.
Not just my name. My byline. My recent articles. The body-positivity panel that started this whole nightmare.
Someone knows exactly who I am and why I'm here. They've been in my space, touching my things, reading my work. And they've done it all with the kind of careful precision that screams professional.
"Son of a…"
I spin toward the window, half-expecting to see a face peering back at me. The glass reflects only my own pale features, but the curtains hang differently than I remember. Straighter.
As if someone adjusted them for a better view.
16
CALEB
Ireach her door before I've made the conscious decision to move. My knuckles connect with the wood three times—sharp, authoritative knocks that brook no delay.
"Ellie."
The door opens faster than I expect, revealing her paler-than-usual face and wide eyes. She's holding her laptop, clutching it against her chest like armor.
"How did you…?"
"We need to talk." I step forward, not waiting for an invitation.
The mate bond screams at the distress radiating from her, and my wolf pushes against my control with protective fury.
"Now."
"Excuse me?" She backs up but doesn't retreat far enough.
I'm already inside, already too close to the scent of her fear and the sight of her reorganized research spread across the table.
"You can't just…"
My wolf growls. He’s moved beyond just wanting to be near his mate, and is now desperate to protect her at all costs.