Page 23 of Fated to the Lone Shifter
Golden eyes—burning, familiar, furious—sear into mine, a flash of recognition and rage that roots me in place, heart thundering with the weight of what they mean.
Noah’s eyes.
He snarls once and steps between me and something in the shadows.
Then his voice, low and full of fury, rips through the smoke: “Touch her and die.”
I wake up gasping, drenched in sweat.
My heart hammers as I stare at the ceiling.
It was more than a nightmare.
It was a warning.
By the time morning rolls around, I’ve shaken off most of the dream—enough, at least, to make it through my morning prep.I’m halfway down the hallway toward the mess when Captain Greene steps out of the radio room and blocks my path.
“Knowles,” he says. His tone is unreadable, clipped. “With me.”
My stomach sinks.
He leads me down the hall toward the administrative wing, past the rec room and the gear lockers, straight into the old conference room we rarely use. Two chairs. One window. And an officer from the county sheriff’s department already seated, arms crossed.
Greene gestures for me to sit. “You’ve been selected for a random integrity check. Standard polygraph.”
I blink. “Now?”
“Now.”
Damn it. Did someone hear me at the bar the other night? Did Noah report something? Did Bode?
I glance at the machine. I’ve passed them before. But not under this level of scrutiny.
Still, I’ve trained for worse—interrogations, truth serums, magical compulsion. This is just wires and sweat. I take a calming breath, nod once, and settle into the seat.
I glance at the edge of the table, remembering where I placed a listening device.
The wires tighten around my fingers. I keep my pulse low, my expression neutral.
Whatever this is, I need to stay calm and keep my magical powers in check.
I have no other choice.
Chapter eight
Shadow of the Curse
NOAH
Ilean back in my office chair, jaw tight as I listen to the faint crackle of static through the receiver. Her voice—low, steady, too steady—slips through the static like smoke through cracks.
The police are running her through a gauntlet of questions. Where she was during each of the wildfires? Why she took this job? Who’s she been speaking to in town? She answers coolly, with that same measured confidence she carries even when lifting a jaws-of-life rig like it weighs nothing.
I cross my arms, staring down at the black recorder—pulled from her neatly hung uniform, a secret tucked between the folds. I had no choice after locating the listening device in the old conference room the night before. Stuck to the bottom of thetable, barely detectable. I didn’t set out to find this, but the wolf in me never sleeps. It sniffed out the lie before I did. There was something tugging at me—something beyond curiosity.
I rub my thumb over the recorder’s edges, unsure what’s more dangerous—what she’s hiding, or how I feel knowing she’s hiding something. She’s not clean. She’s not safe. But the image of her exposed—cornered—claws at something raw inside me. My chest tightens, breath shallow, like instinct is trying to outrun reason. Damn it. This would be easier if I didn’t care.
I should turn her in. I know that. I don't know who she works for, but this confirms it—she’s not just a probie with something to prove. She’s spying for someone. On the firehouse. On me.
