It shouldn’t be. I set it over a week ago. My wards fade after two, three days at most. Brenna’s hold for weeks. Mine burn out fast. I don’t have the power to sustain them.
This one is holding. Stronger, if anything, than when I laid it down.
I touch the thread of it with my awareness. It hums. Solid. Fed by something I didn’t put there.
I pull my hand back. Stare at the wall where the ward sits invisible, and try to make sense of it.
Chapter 13
Conner
I take her to the swimming hole on Tuesday. It’s a shit idea. The swimming hole is mine. The one place I haven’t brought anyone since Maren. But for some reason, I’ve wanted to show her ever since I told her about it. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. So here I am at the motel at nine in the morning like some lovesick pup, telling myself it’s just a day trip.
My wolf knows better. He’s been restless since I woke up, pacing within me, pushing heat into my hands, making my skin feel too tight. The closer I get to her, the worse it gets. When she comes out of the motel room in jeans and a tank top with her hair in a braid, I feel my canines start to lengthen. I lock him down, but not before a low sound rumbles out of me; not quite a growl, not quite anything I can explain.
She hears it. Her eyes snap to mine. Something behind them flickers… recognition, maybe. Like she knows exactly what that sound means.
“Morning,” she says, climbing into the truck.
“Morning.” My voice comes out rough. I clear my throat. “Ready?”
“You’re not going to tell me where we’re going?”
“I told you where we’re going. The swimming hole.”
“You told me it’s not on any map and you can’t find it from the road. That’s not directions. That’s a kidnapping disclaimer.”
“You want directions? Head south on the county road for six miles. Turn left at the dead oak with the fence post through it. Follow the creek bed for a quarter mile. Look for the gap in the trees where the rock shelf drops. Climb down. Try not to break your ankle.”
“Charming.”
“I do my best.”
We drive south with the windows down. She’s got her arm on the window frame, face turned to the wind, and in the side mirror I catch her expression: open, unguarded, the tension she carries in her shoulders eased back for the first time since I’ve known her.
My wolf settles at the sight. Not calm… watching. The stillness of an animal that’s found something worth being patient for.
“So,” she says, turning back to me. “Your brother runs the ranch. What’s your job? Officially.”
“Enforcer.”
“Which means what, exactly?”
“No different from any other pack. When somebody’s squatting on our boundary, or a stray wolf is making trouble, or Garrett needs a situation handled without it becoming a political shit-show, I’m the one who goes.”
“The muscle.”
“The muscle with a brain. Garrett’s the politician. I’m the one who actually gets his boots dirty.”
“You sound thrilled about that.”
“Garrett’s good at what he does. He keeps the pack stable, manages the politics, handles the outside world. I don’t have the patience for that crap. I’d rather be on the ground.”
“Do you like it, though?”
I glance at her. “Like what?”
“Being the enforcer. Is it something you chose, or something that happened to you?”