Page 53 of Pack Frenzy
Eli’s the calm one—the one who keeps us from tearing ourselves apart. Rowan’s got control down to a science.
Me? I’m the one they both watch when things go bad—the one they expect to lose it first.
They’re not wrong.
And I haven’t felt steady since she walked through that door with eyes that saw too damn much.
The trees close around me fast. Old pine and oak, thick enough to swallow the house whole if you step far enough in. Sunlight filters through in strips, hitting damp leaves that smell like rot and rain. Quiet except for my boots and the pulse in my ears.
Quiet’s supposed to help. Usually does.
Not today.
She’s still here. In the air. In my head. That scent sticks like sugar on my tongue, daring me to taste her.
I push harder. Faster. Let my body burn it out.
Branches whip my shoulders. Something small darts through the underbrush—a flash of eyes, then gone.
Everything out here knows when to keep its distance.
I climb until the ground starts fighting back—rocks slick under the mud, slope steep enough to make my thighs shake. By the time I hit the ridge, my lungs are burning.
It helps. A little.
Up here, the air smells different. Cold. Clean. Untouched. I brace my palms against a fallen trunk and bend forward, trying to shake the noise out of my head.
Movement catches my eye—downhill, near the creek.
A shadow glides between the trees, fluid and low. Gray fur catches the last of the light.
A wolf. Alone.
He pauses in the open, maybe fifty yards off, and lifts his head. We lock eyes. No pack scent. No collar. Just muscle, scars, and the kind of silence that knows the world doesn’t owe you a damn thing.
I don’t move, and neither does he.
The wind shifts, carries my scent down to him. His ears flick once, and for a second, he bares his teeth—not threat, not fear. Recognition.
I know that look. I’ve worn it. Hell, I’m wearing it now. The kind that saysI don’t want a fight, but I’ll finish one.
We stare each other down until the light breaks and he fades back into the brush. No sound. No trace. Just gone.
Figures. Lone wolves don’t stick around. They don’t get soft. They don’t want a connection. They survive.
That’s the rule. It’s the only reason I’m still standing. Last time I let someone in, she vanished.
The silence he leaves behind hits harder than it should.
I curse, push off the log, and keep moving. The creek’s just below the ridge, narrow but fast. I crouch, scoop a handful of water, and splash it over my face.
It’s cold, but not freezing. I wish it were.
Pain’s honest. Pain doesn’t lie the way scent does. I used to sneak onto Dad’s Coast Guard boat before dawn, hide behind the emergency kits until we were too far out for him to turn back.
The first time he caught me, I was nine and already staring at a surfboard bitten clean through. Saw more shark bites, including a guy lucky to have his arm. Real teeth, real damage. What the ocean does when it decides you’re in the wrong place.
Sharks don’t lie. People do.
