Chapter 4
WORDS LEFT UNSPOKEN
EVAN
Amonth. Four weeks of stolen glances and careful conversations conducted entirely through my notebook, and I still couldn't figure out what the hell Nate Harrington wanted from me.
He'd made it his personal mission to crack whatever code he thought I was hiding, showing up everywhere I went with that crooked smile and his ever-present camera.
At my locker between classes, sneaking into the library corner where I usually sketched alone, even following me to the forest edge like some persistent shadow I couldn't shake.
Not that I'd tried very hard to shake him.
That was the problem. Every logical part of my brain screamed that getting attached to the human boy was dangerous, stupid, a complication I couldn't afford.
But my wolf had claimed him from that first day in English class, marked him as something precious and worth protecting, and arguing with wolf instincts was like trying to reason with a hurricane.
So I'd let him stay. Let him sit across from me during lunch, chattering about photography and city life while I pushed food around my plate and pretended I wasn't memorizing every expression that crossed his face.
Let him walk with me to the edge of Evernight Forest, respecting the invisible boundary I'd drawn without ever needing to explain it.
Let him matter, which was the most dangerous thing of all.
Now I sat in the back booth of the Moonbeam Café, hot chocolate cooling in front of me while I sketched the outline of his camera against window light.
Martha Greer had brought the drink without asking, like she always did, her weathered hands gentle as she'd set it down with a knowing smile that made my cheeks burn.
The whole town had noticed my strange friendship with the city boy.
Pack members watched us with carefully neutral expressions that didn't hide their concern.
Human locals whispered behind hands about the “quiet Callahan boy” finally finding someone to talk to, as if my silence was a disease that Nate might cure through sheer persistence.
If only it were that simple.
My hand trembled as I shaded the curve of the camera lens, and I forced myself to breathe deep, to find the calm center that Dad had taught me to reach for when the wolf got restless.
But even that meditation was tainted now, because every lesson from my father came wrapped in expectations I wasn't sure I could meet.
You'll need to speak up eventually, his voice echoed in my memory from breakfast that morning. An Alpha who can't address his pack is no Alpha at all.
As if I didn't know. As if the weight of that failure didn't sit on my chest like a stone every goddamn day.
The café door chimed, and I looked up to see Nate scanning the room, hair mussed from running and that familiar grin lighting up his face when he spotted me.
My wolf perked up immediately, pleased and possessive in equal measure, while my human brain went through its usual cycle of panic and longing.
He slid into the booth across from me without permission, breathless and radiating the warm energy that made everything around him seem brighter.
“Found you,” he said, like we'd been playing hide and seek instead of me trying to find a quiet corner to escape the weight of everyone's expectations. “I was starting to think you'd mastered the art of invisibility.”
I kept my eyes on my sketch, adding unnecessary details to avoid meeting his gaze. A month of this, and he still looked at me like I was a puzzle worth solving instead of a broken thing that couldn't be fixed.
“So,” he continued, settling back against the worn vinyl seat, “I had the most enlightening conversation with Deputy McKay today. Apparently, asking about local wildlife patterns makes you a 'person of interest' in a small town. Who knew?”
My pencil stilled. Nate had been asking about the wolf tracks again, the ones I'd hoped he'd forgotten about after that first day in the forest. The ones that belonged to pack members on their runs, following paths that no human was supposed to notice or question.
“Don't worry,” Nate said quickly, catching my tension. “I didn't mention the specific tracks I found. Just general curiosity about what kind of animals live in the area. Though McKay got really weird when I mentioned how big some of the paw prints were.”
Of course he had. Travis McKay was human, but he'd grown up in Hollow Pines. He knew enough to be nervous when outsiders started paying too much attention to things they shouldn't see.
“Martha's hot chocolate really is as good as advertised,” Nate said, changing the subject. He gestured toward my untouched mug. “Though you might want to drink it before it turns into chocolate-flavored room temperature sadness.”
I almost smiled at that. Almost.
Instead, I flipped to a clean page in my notebook and wrote:
Not thirsty.
Nate read it, then looked at me with those blue-green eyes that saw too much. “We've been doing this dance for a month now, and I still don't know if you have any siblings. Are you an only child, or is there a whole family of mysterious, notebook-wielding Callahans I should know about?”
My pencil hovered over the paper. Such a simple question, but family meant complications in ways he couldn't understand.
Just me and my dad, I wrote finally.
“Ah,” he said, nodding sagely. “So you got all the brooding genes concentrated in one person. That explains a lot.”
I raised an eyebrow at him, and he held up his hands in mock surrender.
“What? I'm just saying, if there were two of you walking around town, the local teenage population wouldn't be able to handle it. Half of them already stare at you like you're some kind of cryptid.”
The laugh escaped before I could stop it, a sharp bark of sound that made Martha look over from behind the counter with raised eyebrows. I clamped my mouth shut immediately, heat flooding my cheeks, but the damage was done.
Nate's eyes went wide. “Holy shit. You can laugh.”
I grabbed my pencil, scribbling furiously:
Sometimes.
“Sometimes,” he repeated, leaning forward like he'd just discovered buried treasure. “What else can you do sometimes?”
What could I do sometimes? Talk to pack members when we were alone and the weight of human expectations wasn't crushing my throat closed.
Howl with my wolf in the deep forest where no one could hear.
Dream about a future where I could be the Alpha my father needed without the broken pieces that made simple conversations feel like walking through broken glass.
Not much, I wrote instead.
Nate studied the words, then set down his coffee cup with deliberate care. “You know what I think?”
I raised an eyebrow, waiting.
“I think you're doing more than you give yourself credit for.” He gestured vaguely around the café, where other students chatted and laughed without a care in the world.
“Most people in this place? They talk constantly but don't actually say anything important. You pick your words carefully. When you do speak, it matters.”
My chest tightened with something that wasn't quite relief but wasn't pain either.
“Besides,” Nate continued, voice getting softer, “there are other ways to communicate, right?
Your sketches say things words can't. The way you listen—really listen—when people talk. How you notice things others miss.” He paused, then added with a small smile, “How you make sure I don't get lost walking back from the forest.”
I looked down at my notebook, not trusting myself to meet his eyes.
“My point is,” he said gently, “maybe the problem isn't that you can't talk. Maybe it's that everyone else expects you to perform conversation instead of just... being yourself.”
The simple acceptance in his voice made my throat burn with emotions I didn't have names for. He wasn't trying to fix me or push me to be someone I wasn't. He was just sitting there, drinking coffee and looking at me like I was enough exactly as I was.
Thank you, I wrote, the words feeling inadequate but necessary.
“Nothing to thank me for,” Nate said, then grinned. “Though I do expect you to keep letting me follow you around like a lost puppy. This friendship is the best thing that's happened to me since moving here.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled. Almost.
The house was dark when I got home, except for the warm glow spilling from Dad's study. I could hear him moving around inside, the rustle of papers and the occasional scratch of pen on documents that kept our pack fed and our secrets hidden.
I should have gone straight to my room, should have avoided the conversation I knew was coming. But something about Nate's promise had left me feeling raw and reckless, like maybe it was time to stop hiding from the hard truths.
I knocked on the doorframe, waiting for Dad's grunt of acknowledgment before stepping inside.
“Hey, Dad.”
Daniel Callahan looked up from his massive oak desk, steel-gray hair catching the lamplight and his weathered hands steady as he signed what looked like lumber mill contracts.
He was still wearing his work clothes, flannel shirt rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and crossed with the scars that came from a lifetime of physical labor.
“Evan.” He set down his pen and gestured to the chair across from his desk. “How was school?”
I settled into the familiar leather chair, letting the day's tension drain from my shoulders. Here, in this room that smelled like pine and old leather, I could breathe. Here, words came easier.
“Same as always,” I said, then hesitated. “Mostly.”
Dad's eyebrows rose at the qualifier, and I saw the exact moment his parental radar kicked in. “Mostly?”
“I had coffee with Nate today. At Martha's place.” The words came out in a rush, like I was confessing to some terrible crime instead of just having hot chocolate with a friend.
“The Harrington boy.” Dad leaned back in his chair, studying me. “That's good, son. You've been spending too much time alone.”
There was something in his voice, though, something careful and measuring that made my wolf prick up his ears in warning.
“What do you know about his family?” Dad asked, settling into the tone he used for pack business. “The Harringtons. They came here from Portland, right?”
“Yeah. His dad works in finance, mom's the new English teacher.” I shifted in my chair, unsure where this was heading. “Why does it matter?”
Dad was quiet for a long moment, and I could practically see him weighing his words.
“Because you matter, Evan. Because someday you'll be Alpha of this pack, and every relationship you form reflects on all of us.” His voice was gentle but implacable, carrying the weight of generations of Callahan responsibility. “I need to know that the people you trust are worthy of that trust.”
“He's not pack,” I said, and hated how defensive I sounded.
“No,” Dad agreed. “He's not. And that makes him a potential liability.”
“He's not dangerous.” The words came out sharper than I'd intended.
“Maybe not intentionally,” Dad said, and there was sympathy in his voice now. “But humans who get too close to our world have a way of asking questions we can't answer. Of seeing things they shouldn't see.”
Like wolf tracks in the forest. Like the way pack members deferred to me without being asked. Like the reasons why certain families had money and influence while others kept their heads down and their mouths shut.
“I'm careful,” I said, but the words felt weak even to me.
“I know you are.” Dad leaned forward, his expression softening into something that looked like the father I remembered from before Mom died. “I'm not saying you can't be friends with the boy, Evan. I'm just saying... be aware of what that friendship might cost. For both of you.”
Getting close to humans was dangerous for reasons that went beyond pack secrecy.
“I understand,” I said finally, because what else could I say?
Dad nodded, but his eyes held the sadness that came from knowing some lessons could only be learned through experience.
“Your mother would have liked him,” he said quietly, and the unexpected words made my chest tighten. “She always said you needed someone who could see past the silence to who you really are.”
I swallowed hard, throat burning with the weight of missing her. “Yeah. She would have.”
“Be careful,” Dad said as I stood to leave. “But don't be afraid to live.”