Page 19 of Fated to the Lone Shifter
But then Mom mentions the fires.
“They’re sayin’ it’s arson,” she says quietly, folding her napkin. “Like what happened back then.”
I go still.
Back then. Two words that carry a graveyard of meaning.
“It’s not the same,” I lie.
Her eyes search mine. “No? Sure feels the same. Folks dyin’, homes burnin’. And that feeling in the air…” She shakes her head. “Heavy. Like a storm’s coming.”
She’s not wrong. Something’s coming. I just don’t know who’s behind it.
Or who I’ll be when it hits.
On the drive back, I let the truck wind through the trees, headlights cutting swaths of gold through the shadows. The past itches under my skin, memories clawing their way up from where I buried them.
The last time I saw my birth parents, I was five.
My mom had eyes like mine, fierce and burning bright even as she knelt before me, her hands framing my face. "Stay here, no matter what. Don’t come down. Not until you hear the police.”
She stashed me in the tree house—our secret fort in the branches—and then she was gone. Along with everything else I cared about.
I waited. One day. Two. I lost count.
When the cops found me, I was hungry, cold, and half-wild with fear. They said the fire took everything. That there was nothing left to bury. But they were wrong.
“Beware the family curse, Noah. If the pack does not approve of your mate, they will destroy both of you. Choose well and wisely.” My mother’s last words still haunt me.
The Bensons took me home from the tree house, and I never left. They raised me. Gave me a second chance. But my mother’s warning stayed buried in my bones, deeper than any scar. It’s why I’ve never let anyone close. Never risked a bond. Never tempted fate.
And it’s why Sera scares the hell out of me.
With one touch, she could jeopardize everything.
I pull into the Lolo Peak Pub parking lot and cut the engine. Gravel crunches under my boots as I make my way inside, the familiar scent of beer and pine cleaner hitting me like a memory. The lights are low, music pulsing softly from the jukebox. Behind the bar, a friendly face and childhood friend, Cora, raises an eyebrow when she sees me.
“Noah Benson, in a bar on a weekday? I don't recall tripping a fire alarm,” she says, pouring my usual before I ask. I wave her off.
I lean on the counter. “I’m on the clock.”
Her eyes twinkle. “So, fireman by day, detective by night?”
“Something like that.”
I keep my voice light, but my gaze sweeps the room, scanning for anything out of place. “Anyone new pass through lately?”
Cora shrugs, polishing a glass. “A film crew. A few tourists. Oh, and your rookies back there.” She jerks her chin toward the corner.
Sure enough, Marcus is holding court at a back table, gesturing wildly as all five probies and a few senior firefighters roar with laughter. Sera sits at the edge of the group, her smile faint but her eyes alert, tracking everything.
I don’t know whether to avoid them or walk straight to her.
I thank Cora and head toward the table.
As I near, I hear Sera say something that makes the hairs rise on my neck.
“Sometimes you can tell when a fire’s been called by more than just gasoline.”
