Not awkward naked. Not hurried or self-conscious.
Just… naked.
Tall, powerfully built, muscle cut clean along his shoulders and chest like he walked straight out of a field anatomy chart designed to ruin someone’s concentration. A thin scar cuts through his right brow. Another faint line traces along his ribs, older, healed.
I blink once. Then again.
“Well,” I mutter faintly, because apparently that’s the thought my brain has decided is helpful right now.
His jaw tightens a fraction, like he knows exactly where my attention just went and has already decided he doesn’t care.
“Are you—” I stop, shake my head once. “You know what, no. I’m not even sure where to start with that.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. Just stands there like the forest itself decided to grow a very large, very dangerous man in the middle of my porch light.
I drag a slow breath in, testing my lungs. “You want to explain what the hell just happened?”
Silence.
His gaze flicks briefly to my shoulder where the fabric is torn and blood is starting to soak through. Something shifts behind his eyes—fast, controlled, gone almost immediately.
“Thought so,” I say.
I bend carefully and retrieve the bear spray from the porch boards, more out of habit than expectation. When I straighten again, he hasn’t moved an inch.
Up close, he smells faintly of pine and cold air. And something warmer underneath. My pulse kicks once, sharp and unwelcome.
I ignore it.
“You’ve got about five seconds,” I say, voice rough but steady. “Because from where I’m standing, I just watched a wolf turn into a man in my front yard, and I’m having a real hard time filing that under normal wildlife behavior.”
His expression doesn’t change. Not surprise. Not concern. Just controlled, deliberate stillness. The kind that says he’s already made up his mind about something.
“Right,” I add. “Strong silent type. Love that.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks.
For a second I think—hope—he might actually answer.
Instead, his voice comes out low and flat, carrying the same command he used in the forest earlier. “You saw nothing,” he says. “Speak of this to no one.”
6
ALDEN
She cocks her head, eyes fixed on me, then jerks her chin toward the truck.
“Hold on.”
I remain where I am, listening to the tree line while she jogs down the porch steps. Gravel shifts under her boots. The passenger door creaks open. Something metallic clatters around inside the cab.
She returns with a pair of gray sweatpants draped over her arm.
“Field tech left them last season,” she says, extending them toward me. “You can thank him later.”
I take them without brushing her hand. The fabric smells like detergent and old gasoline, a human scent that doesn’t complicate anything. I step aside, pull them on, and knot the drawstring low on my hips.
She gives me a quick once-over. “Better.”