11. Liam #2
“You’re enjoying this,” she accused.
“I’m enjoying you.”
Her mouth parted slightly, the irritation in her eyes softening.
Markie shouted, “NO THANK YOU.”
Zoey threw her head back. “I’m going to rehome him.”
I snorted. “You won’t.”
“No,” she admitted. “I won’t.”
The quiet returned, thinner now but still charged. She looked up at me, cheeks flushed, hair slightly disheveled. Her stubborn streak showed in her eyes, and I imagined she was fighting the same feeling I was.
I wanted to close the distance again.
I didn’t. Couldn’t.
“I’ll see you at eight,” I said.
She stared at me for a second longer, then sighed. “See you at eight.”
In the other room, Markie clicked in approval. Neither of us acknowledged it. I flashed Zoey a smile, then left.
When I stepped outside, the Adirondack night wrapped around me. I could smell pine and cold water, the distant wood smoke from someone’s stove a few streets over.
I stayed on the front step longer than I needed to, keys in my hand.
This part of town sat just off the main road that led to the lake, then out toward Pine Hollow. The old mill houses had been converted into apartments with narrow porches and gravel driveways tucked between buildings. Beyond the last row of roofs, the mountains rose against the sky.
With my enhanced hearing, I picked up on all the sounds of the night. Pipes. A footstep above. A truck rumbling toward Route 9N. Somewhere farther off, a dog barked once and then stopped.
Upstairs, Zoey was alone.
She had passed the concussion window. Her phone was charging on her nightstand, and she had water on hand. Doors locked. Windows secured.
I had checked them all more than once.
I walked down the steps. The sidewalk held the day’s leftover warmth, but the temperature had already started to drop. Even in summer, the Adirondacks reminded you that the mountains ran the schedule.
I should have kept going.
Instead, I turned slowly and scanned the street again. Porch lights glowed soft yellow. Pickup trucks parked nose-to-nose. A canoe strapped to the roof of a car that probably hadn’t moved since the previous weekend. No movement where there shouldn’t be any.
It was a safe neighborhood. Tourists didn’t come this far into town. Locals locked their doors and minded their business.
That knowledge did nothing to quiet the tension simmering under my skin.
Something in me had been activated, and I hadn’t felt so focused and directed in years. It had started the night at the B&B. I had tried to tell myself it was just attraction and that it would settle when she left Pine Hollow.
It hadn’t settled. It had sharpened.
I moved down the sidewalk and checked the side alley. Gate latched. Dumpster lids closed. Shadows undisturbed. I tested the gate anyway. The metal gave slightly under pressure, then held.
My body had already made a decision before my thoughts caught up.
The routine of the last few days had rooted itself in me quickly. Wake Zoey. Check her pupils. Ask her orientation questions. Make food. Carry her when she let me. Step back when she needed it.
I’d liked the responsibility and the closeness. I’d even liked the way she fought it.
I liked Markie, and even Bobbi’s relentless questions—she accepted my answers without suspicion.
Being here had made me feel like I belonged.
Shaking that off, I stepped off the curb and shifted.
The change was smooth, familiar, my body settling into its other form with precision.
As my paws hit the ground, every scent intensified. Pine sap. Damp earth. A faint trace of lake water drifting in from the east. The metallic tang of a nearby snowplow parked early in preparation for a forecast that would probably miss us anyway.
I ran the perimeter of her building once, then again. Past the narrow strip of grass. Along the back fence. Between the maples that lined the property and dropped leaves thick enough to muffle sound. A deer had crossed through here earlier. Fresh tracks. No threat.
This was unnecessary. There were no rival packs circling this block. No territory disputes. No boundary threats.
Still, I ran to make sure all was well.
When I was younger, the pack and my parents had drilled this into me. Alpha blood meant responsibility. Responsibility meant enforcement.
My father believed enforcement was love.
He believed pain built strength. He believed correction created loyalty. When I failed to meet his expectations, he corrected me.
Publicly.
My mother stood by and told me later that he pushed me because I had potential, and he was preparing me for leadership.
They believed they were protecting me.
They were wrong.
I slowed near the back entrance of Zoey’s building, ears pricked for any sounds that didn’t belong.
One night, a younger wolf had misjudged a boundary. Minor damage. No injury. My father ordered me to discipline him.
I refused, told him it didn’t warrant punishment.
So, I received it instead. I still carried the scars along my ribs, across my back, and one on my collarbone.
I left soon after that. Left the land. Left the title they expected me to inherit. Left the version of leadership that required fear.
I didn’t want the instincts that came with it. I wanted a carefree, untethered life, to be a lone wolf with only myself to be responsible for.
But now those instincts were back.
For her.
I slowed at the front entrance again. The porch light cast a steady glow across the concrete. A mosquito buzzed near the bulb, then drifted off toward the trees. She was inside. Hopefully resting. Likely annoyed that I’d infiltrated so much of her home.
She had told me I was unnecessary, but had still agreed to let me come by in the morning.
I knew I should go home, but instead, I turned and ran around the block one more time.