Chapter 005 Arrival at Moonstone
Three days later, Quinn was driving up into the mountains, winding through Moonstone territory on a road that had given up on civilization miles ago. The pavement had surrendered to gravel, and the gravel had eventually deteriorated into packed dirt with delusions of grandeur.
Her rental car—a sensible hybrid the agency had promised was "great for mountain terrain," a statement that was statistically a lie—shuddered over a particularly aggressive pothole. The suspension groaned. Quinn white-knuckled the steering wheel, wincing as her laptop bag bounced ominously in the passenger seat.
"This is fine," she told the empty car. "This is totally fine. This is character building."
The trees had closed in an hour ago. Towering pines blocked out most of the afternoon sun, making the forest feel ancient. Watchful. She wasn't an outdoorsy person—her natural habitat was climate-controlled and illuminated by LEDs—but even she had to admit there was something magnetic about the light filtering through the branches. It dappled the road with shadows that seemed to shift when she wasn't looking directly at them.
Werewolf territory, she reminded herself. The shadows are probably actual werewolves.
The thought should have been alarming. Instead, it was just a data point.
Her GPS had given up the ghost thirty minutes back. The pleasant automated voice had announced "your destination is on the left" while pointing directly at a sheer granite cliff face before falling silent entirely. A digital death. Now she was navigating by the increasingly vague directions Silas had texted her after she’d sent him a panic emoji.
Turn at the big rock that looks like a sleeping bear.
Cross the creek but only at the shallow part.
When you see the carved wolf’s head, you’re almost there.
She had eventually found the rock. It looked nothing like a bear. It looked like a geological mistake. She had navigated the creek, which had no obvious shallow part, requiring her to close her eyes, gun the engine, and pray to the gods of lithium-ion batteries.
Now she was scanning the roadside for a carved wolf’s head with increasing desperation.
"If I die out here," she muttered, swerving around a fallen branch, "I’m haunting Silas’s stock portfolio. I will personally crash his futures."
The dirt track suddenly opened onto an actual paved road. Narrow, but maintained. She nearly wept. A few minutes later, she rolled into a tiny village that looked like it had been preserved in amber. Rustic shops. A general store. And there, on a post next to the store, was the carved wolf’s head.
She sighed, spotting another dirt road across a rickety bridge. Of course.
She took the bridge. The road climbed through more of those magnificent, imposing trees before emerging into a clearing that punched the air right out of her lungs.
The Moonstone pack compound spread out before her. It was a collection of timber and stone buildings arranged around a central lodge that didn't look built so much as grown from the mountain itself. Smoke curled lazily from multiple stone chimneys. Children ran between the structures, their laughter carrying on the crisp air.
And the wolves.
Actual wolves. Enormous. Beautiful. Lethal. A group of them lounged in a patch of sunlight near the main entrance, heads lifting as her car approached.
It was like driving into a fairy tale. A very large, very intimidating fairy tale populated by apex predators who could probably eat her hybrid if they were feeling peckish.
She pulled up in front of the main lodge and killed the engine. Her hands were trembling. Through the windshield, she saw pack members pausing their work to stare.
You’re here for work, she told herself, gripping the steering wheel. Professional. Capable. You’ve rebuilt entire network infrastructures from scratch. You’ve tracked down state-sponsored hackers across three continents. You can handle some dogs.
Wolves. Big wolves.
She grabbed her laptop bag, squared her shoulders, and stepped out of the car.
The scent hit her first. It wasn't just fresh air; it was a physical weight. Pine and wood smoke with an underlying, primal musk that tickled the back of her throat. The silence was profound—not empty, but heavy. No traffic hum. No sirens. Just birdsong and the thud of her own heart.
She clutched her laptop bag like a shield, a rectangle of familiarity in a world of organic chaos, and started toward the lodge entrance.
She made it approximately ten steps before Julian appeared.
He came through the main doors like he’d been waiting for the vibration of her footsteps. Like he’d timed his entrance for maximum impact. He wore a dark green flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to expose forearms that looked capable of snapping pine trees in half. His jeans were faded, worn in the knees, clinging to thick, muscular thighs.
Quinn’s brain supplied a helpful, high-resolution image of those thighs.
She forced her gaze up. Mistake.
His expression was stone, but those golden-brown eyes locked onto her with an intensity that made the air crackle. Static electricity ghosted over her skin. His hair was damp, dark with moisture, as if he’d just showered.
The wind shifted. That scent washed over her—forest-after-rain, ozone, and something uniquely him. It was stronger than it had been in the office hallway. Potent. Dizzying.
"Ms. Bailey."
He said her name the same way he had before. A command. A claim. The syllables vibrated through her skeletal structure.
"You’re late."
She blinked, her brain rebooting. "I’m—what?"
"Silas said you’d arrive by two. It’s nearly four."
The injustice of it snapped her out of her trance. "I didn’t know I was on a deadline," she said, her voice sharper than she intended. "Or that my GPS would commit suicide. Or that I’d need to find a rock that looked nothing like a bear!"
A flicker in his eyes. Suspiciously like amusement. "It looks exactly like a bear. Everyone says so."
"Everyone is wrong. It looks like a rock. A big, rock-shaped rock. It has zero ursine qualities."
"Perhaps your eyes need checking."
"My eyes are—" She stopped.
She was standing in the middle of a werewolf compound, arguing about rock morphology with an Alpha who could crush her skull with one hand.
"Never mind," she muttered. "I’m here now. Where should I set up?"
His gaze swept over her again. Slow. Deliberate. Tactile.
She fought the urge to squirm. She was wearing her standard "coding fugue" uniform—a faded t-shirt for a synth band that had broken up in 2012, ripped black jeans, and combat boots that had seen better days. It had seemed like a perfectly reasonable outfit for a four-hour solo drive. Now, under the weight of his scrutiny, she felt like a child who’d worn a unicorn costume to a board meeting.
Except the way his eyes lingered on the bare slivers of skin at her knees didn't feel judgmental.
It felt proprietary.
"This way," he said abruptly. He turned and stalked back into the lodge without checking to see if she followed.
She hurried to keep up, her boots thumping softly on the wooden porch stairs.
The lodge doors opened into a cavernous entry hall. An enormous antler chandelier hung high above, casting warm, yellow light. To the left, a dining room with a table long enough to seat a platoon. To the right, a living room dominated by a stone fireplace with a hearth big enough to stand inside.
It was warm. Comfortable. And the exact opposite of the sterile, server-cooled environments she usually inhabited.
A group of wolves stood near the fireplace. Five men. All large. All radiating that same kinetic, dangerous energy as Julian. Their low conversation died the instant she stepped across the threshold. Five pairs of eyes snapped to her. Assessing.
Expressions ranged from guarded to openly hostile.
Julian stopped at the entrance to the room. Quinn nearly ran into his back, stopping inches from the green flannel.
"This is Quinn Bailey," Julian announced to the room. His voice carried without effort. "She’s from TalkToMe. She’ll be updating our technology systems."
The silence stretched. Thin. Taut.
A tall, older wolf with a scar cutting through one eyebrow stepped forward. His face was etched with a permanent scowl, his eyes a flat, unfriendly grey. Elder Sterling. She remembered the file Silas had sent, though the photo hadn't captured the sheer disdain radiating off the man.
"Human?" Sterling asked. His voice was a low growl, vibrating in the floorboards. He looked at her like she was something unpleasant he’d scraped off his boot. "You brought a human into our home to play with our technology?"
The hostility was a physical blow. Quinn’s shoulders tightened. Her fingers twitched, itching for her keyboard. That was her domain. Her weapon. In her world, problems were solved with logic, syntax, and firewalls, not by glaring contests with oversized men who looked like they wrestled grizzlies for cardio.
"Her work will benefit the entire pack, Elder Sterling," Julian said. His voice was quiet, but it was infused with a sudden, heavy pressure that even Quinn could feel. Like the air pressure dropping before a storm. "You will treat her with respect."
Sterling’s jaw worked. The tendons in his neck stood out. But he took a small step back, averting his gaze. "Forgive me, Alpha. I was simply expressing concern for our security."
"Your concern is noted."
Julian turned away, dismissing the Elder, and motioned for Quinn to follow him down a hallway toward the back of the house. "My office is—"
"Wait." She stopped walking. "Your office? Why do I need to know where your office is?"
He turned to face her.
In the narrower confines of the hallway, his presence was overwhelming. He consumed the space. She had to crane her neck to meet his eyes, and that earthy, intoxicating scent wrapped around her like smoke.
"Because that’s where you’ll be working."
Her brain stuttered. Buffer overflow. "Excuse me?"
"Silas informed me you’d need a secure location with reliable power and a wired internet connection." His face was utterly neutral. A mask. "My office is the only room in the compound that meets those specifications. You’ll have a desk, access to the existing network infrastructure, and sufficient space for your equipment."
"In your office."
"In my office."
"Where you… also work."
"Where I also work."
Was that a twitch at the corner of his mouth? "Unless you have some objection?"
A thousand objections. A million. Starting with the fact that she could barely string a sentence together when he was in the same zip code. He wanted her to share a room with him? For two months?
"I need privacy," she said. Her voice came out annoyingly high. She cleared her throat. "Cybersecurity work requires concentration. Minimal distractions. I can’t build you a secure network if I’m being interrupted every five minutes."
"There will be no interruptions. My office is soundproofed. The pack knows not to disturb me when the door is closed."
"But you’ll be there."
"Yes."
"Working."
"Yes."
"With me. In the same room."
His eyes darkened, gold flaring in the brown irises. "Is there a problem with that, Ms. Bailey?"
Yes, her logical mind screamed. Yes, there is a massive critical failure with that. You smell like a forest fire and you look like someone carved you out of granite and every time you speak my nervous system short-circuits.
"I need a dedicated, quiet workspace," she managed. She clutched the laptop bag tighter. "Professional boundaries. Somewhere I can focus without…" Without staring at your forearms. "Without outside interference."
"You’ll have it."
"I really think a separate location would be more efficient—"
"Ms. Bailey."
His voice dropped an octave. It took on an edge that made her spine snap straight involuntarily.
"You are a guest in my territory. I have extended hospitality, provided resources, and made accommodations. The arrangements are not up for negotiation."
The tone should have made her angry. Part of her was angry—that familiar spark of defiance she’d nurtured since the foster system. She didn't let people steamroll her. She fought for every scrap of autonomy she had.
But there was something else happening.
Something in the way he looked at her. That intense, golden gaze seemed to bypass her defenses, seeing straight through to the confused, flustered mess underneath. His presence filled the hallway, commanding and absolute.
It made her feel small.
It made her feel safe.
What is wrong with me?
"Fine," she said. She hated how breathless the word sounded. "Your office. But I need ground rules."
His eyebrow rose fractionally. "Ground rules?"
"Yes. First, no hovering. I can’t work with someone breathing down my neck. Second, no commentary on my process. I work the way I work. It might look chaotic, but it’s actually extremely organized. Third, no…" She faltered.
He took a step forward.
The distance between them evaporated. She could feel the heat radiating from his chest.
"No… that. What you’re doing right now."
"I’m standing."
"You’re looming."
"I’m tall. Standing and looming are functionally equivalent for someone my size."
Her traitorous mouth twitched. She bit the inside of her cheek. "Fourth ground rule: no humor. It’s confusing."
"I’ll add it to the list."
His expression remained unreadable, but something in his posture shifted. A microscopic relaxation. Her analytical brain cataloged it, filed it away.
"Anything else?" he asked.
Yes. Stay at least five feet away from me at all times. Don’t look at me with those eyes. And for the love of God, stop smelling like a home I want to get lost in.
"No," she squeaked. "That’s it."
"Excellent."
He turned without another word and led her to a heavy oak door at the end of the hallway. "Your new office. Or perhaps I should say our new office. The main servers are in the service closet behind your desk."
He pushed the door open.
The room was large. Masculine. Expensive. A huge mahogany desk dominated the center, and French doors led out to a stone terrace overlooking the forest.
But Quinn’s eyes were drawn to the corner.
Another large desk had been positioned behind his. Not private, exactly, but… protected. Tucked away. There were two large wall-mounted monitors mounted above it, in addition to the three already on the desk surface.
And there, next to the desk, was a mini-fridge. Through the glass door, she could see rows of her preferred brand of energy drink. The obscure ones with the guarana blend she had to special order.
She stared at it. Then she looked at the chair. It was an Aeron. The exact model she had back at TalkToMe.
"Is this acceptable?" he asked.
She jumped. He was right behind her. Silent as a shadow.
"Yes." She turned to face him. The room suddenly felt too small. Too full of him. "It’s… fine."
He did this. He’d researched her. He’d found the chair. He’d stocked the fridge.
They stood there for a moment, the air between them thick with something she refused to name. She could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her ears like a drum. She wondered if he could hear it too. If werewolf senses were as sharp as the legends claimed, he could probably smell the adrenaline. The confusion. The unwanted, inconvenient desire rolling off her in waves.
"Good." He moved toward the door, breaking the tension. "Communal dinner is at seven. Don’t be late."
She thought about the room full of wolves. All watching the interloper. All judging her pink hair and her ripped jeans and her obvious discomfort with social interaction.
It sounded like a nightmare. It sounded like every high school cafeteria she’d been excluded from, amplified and covered in fur.
"Great," she said weakly. "Looking forward to it."
He left. The door clicked shut.
Quinn sagged against the desk, her legs turning to jelly. She let out a long breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Her gaze fell on the mini-fridge again. A strange warmth bloomed in her chest, distinct from the arousal and the fear. He’d done his best to make her comfortable. No one had bothered to do that since Professor Rhineland gave her the key to the computer lab so she wouldn't have to eat lunch alone.
She shook her head, physically shaking off the sentiment. Work. Focus on the work.
She unpacked her laptop and peripherals. Her movements became sharper, more confident as she fell into the ritual. Cables. Ports. Power. Within an hour, she was surrounded by a fortress of technology. Her screens glowed with cascading lines of code, the low hum of the servers behind her a familiar lullaby.
This was her world. This was binary. Zeros and ones. True or false. Here, she was in control. Here, she belonged.
She dove into the system architecture, her fingers flying across the mechanical keyboard. She mapped the network, probed for vulnerabilities, and lost herself in the flow.
When she finally looked up, the room was dark. The only light came from the cool blue glow of her monitors.
She blinked, her eyes dry, and glanced at the clock in the corner of her screen.
7:05 PM.
"Fuck."
She was late for dinner.