Page 11 of Taken By the Pack

“You’ve been out here all morning,” she says, her voice light, lilting. She tugs at the collar of her jacket, the wind whipping her blonde hair across her face.

“I’m working,” I reply without looking up.

“Obviously,” she says with a laugh, stepping closer. Too close. “But even you have to eat. Or take a break. I was thinking, maybe we could grab lunch?”

I let out a short breath, shutting my notebook and standing. “Appreciate the offer, but I’ve got a lot to do.”

Karen’s smile falters, but she doesn’t back down. “Ash, you work harder than anyone I know. It’s one of the things I admire about you. But you can’t keep going at this pace. It’s not healthy.”

Her tone is loaded, her gaze lingering. She’s tried this before, a dozen different ways, and it always ends the same.

“I’m fine, Karen. Really,” I say and sling my bag over my shoulder.

“You don’t have to do everything alone, you know,” she presses, softer now. “Whatever it is you’re holding onto… you can let it go.”

My jaw tightens. “I’ve got to log these findings. See you back at the lab.”

She doesn’t follow, but I can feel her disappointment trailing behind me as I walk away.

The lab is cool and sterile, the air filled with the hum of computers and a faint chemical smell. I drop my bag on the counter and pull out my notebook, flipping through the pages to find where I left off.

“Bennett!” Dr. Lowe’s voice cuts through the quiet, sharp and commanding.

I turn to see her marching toward me, tablet in hand. She’s in her forties, a no-nonsense type who runs this program like a tight ship.

Her silver-streaked hair is tied back, and her glasses sit perched on the bridge of her nose.

“Dr. Lowe,” I say, standing straighter.

She stops in front of me, scrolling through her tablet before glancing up.

“The photos you sent this morning—excellent work. And your last few reports? Impeccable. You’ve got a damn good eye for this, Bennett.”

“Thanks,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.

She studies me for a moment before continuing. “Because of your results, I’ve got some great news. We’ve secured funding for a six-month study of the tide pools at Driftwood Cove. And I want you to lead it.”

Driftwood Cove. The name stirs something in the back of my mind—a quiet coastal town somewhere up north. Small. Remote.

“When do I leave?” I ask.

“Monday morning,” she says, tapping at her tablet. “Take the weekend to prepare. You’ll be there for at least six months, and I expect regular updates—photos, data logs, everything.”

“Understood,” I say, my mind already making a list of what I’ll need to pack.

As she walks away, I glance at the clock. There’s still time to wrap up a few loose ends here before heading home.

My apartment is quiet when I get back, the kind of silence that presses in on you. It’s a small place, functional.

The walls are bare, and the furniture is minimal. It works.

I toss my bag onto the bed and pull out my notebook, setting it on the desk next to my laptop. Then I open my wallet and pull out the photo I keep tucked inside.

Mia’s smile is as bright as ever, her wet hair clinging to her cheeks and a surfboard under her arm. She looks so alive in this picture, so full of light.

I drop into the chair by the desk, the picture in my hand. “Well, Mia, it looks like I’m heading to Driftwood Cove.”

She was everything—light, life, the sea itself. And then she was gone.

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