Page 32 of Fated to the Lone Shifter
I stay a few moments longer, ensuring my animal has re-gained his composure.
My hands are still shaking when I duck into the locker room. I grab a clean shirt from my cubby. As I pull it over my head, something catches my eye in the mirror.
No.
My breath stalls.
The tattoo on my shoulder blade—the wolf claw I inked into my skin when I was fifteen—glows faintly now, pulsing with a silvery red shimmer. It thrums beneath my fingertips like a live wire, a warning, a prophecy waking up under moonlight. Faint, but glowing, pulsing with a soft, silvery red light.
Shit.
That only happens for one reason.
A fated mate.
I press a hand over the mark, willing it to still. But it keeps pulsing, in time with the thundering of my heart.
This can’t be happening. Not now. Not her.
I shove the shirt down, covering it up just as the Captain calls my name.
As I step into the hallway toward the interview room, the heat of her magic still lingers on my skin—and the terrifying truth is, I don’t want it to fade—not the heat, not the memory, not the mark she left behind.
Chapter eleven
The Witch’s Mark
SERA
Istep into the hallway just as Noah disappears into the interview room.
Our eyes lock for half a second—long enough for the air to thicken between us, taut with unspoken fire, tight as a noose. There’s no nod. No smile. Just that same raw intensity we keep throwing at each other like lit matches in a room full of gas. My heartbeat picks up. I can’t tell if it’s anger or adrenaline…or something worse.
I keep walking.
The door clicks shut behind him, and I let out the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
My interview wasn’t hard. The questions were routine. Where was I stationed? Did I see or hear anything unusual? Did Nicole mention anything off earlier in the day? I gave them just enough truth to pass—everything but the magic, the wolves, the dreams and why I’m really here.
So, not a lot.
It seems like the more practice I get lying, the more complex the webs are getting. But I doubt it would matter if I told them the truth anyway. They’re not capable of hearing it…or believing it.
The cops are miles out of their depth. That much is obvious. They’re grasping at wildlife reports and theories about psycho locals, but no one wants to say the word “arsonist.” And definitely not “supernatural.” Not unless Noah talks. And I’d bet my badge he won’t.
Not yet.
Back in my dorm room, I shut the door behind me and sink down onto the bed. The Firehouse was still humming with muted voices and the occasional clatter of boots when I left, but here, in this tiny room down the road, everything is still.
I press my back against the wall and pull my knees up to my chest, Noah’s shirt still clinging to my skin. It smells like him—cedarwood and smoke and something wilder I can’t name. My arms wrap around myself before I can stop them, pressing the fabric tighter.
It’s reckless. I know that. Dangerous even. But for one indulgent minute, I let myself pretend he’s still here. The man and the wolf. That his arms are the ones wrapped around me, holding me together while the world burns around us.
I should be listening to the rest of the interviews, mining for information to feed to Ember.
Instead, I close my eyes and surrender to the exhaustion clawing at me. Just for a few minutes. Just to reset.
The pillow is soft beneath my head. The scent of him surrounds me. And the fire I’ve been holding in check all night finally flickers out.
