Chapter 25
Dane
Ibuckle my belt with a sharp click, hands steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through my system.
My skin cools in the forest air, sweat drying on my neck and back.
Nova moves in my peripheral vision, pulling her jeans up over bare hips—the underwear I tore off her lies shredded somewhere in the leaves.
She stuffs the ruined fabric in her pocket without comment, movements quick and efficient.
Her scent is all over me. Magic and sex and something wild that makes my pulse kick hard again. I shut it down, forcing my focus outward where it belongs.
“We should head back,” I say, voice rougher than intended.
She nods once, sharp and businesslike, as if what just happened was a tactical decision, not a fucking avalanche. Her hair’s a mess, tangled where I grabbed it. A red mark blooms on her neck where my teeth scraped skin. She doesn’t try to hide it.
We start walking, falling into step without discussion. I scan our surroundings automatically—calculating sight lines, tracking wind direction, mentally mapping exit routes. Old habits. Necessary ones.
The forest feels wrong. Not dramatically, not in ways others might notice, but in small details that set my teeth on edge. Birds call too infrequently. The wind moves through the trees in patterns that don’t match the season. It’s subtle, but there.
I stretch my senses, listening for movement beyond what belongs. Nothing yet, but that doesn’t mean we’re clear.
“The air pressure’s off,” Nova says, breaking the silence. Not looking at me when she says it.
I nod.
We keep walking, pace quickening without discussion. Nova stays at my right flank, perfectly matched, like we’ve done this a hundred times before. My wolf recognizes the synchronicity, wants to push closer, claim deeper. I keep that shit locked down tight.
The trees thin as we approach the compound perimeter. I can see the wooden fence now, smell the familiar scents of pack territory. Home ground. Safer, but not safe enough with whatever’s brewing.
Nova stops ten yards from the boundary. I halt beside her, automatically checking our six.
“We’re not talking about this,” she says.
“No.” What happened in the woods stays there. Has to.
She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t look wounded. Just nods once, straightens her shoulders, and steps forward again.
I follow, watching the strong line of her back, the confidence in her stride. My wolf paces beneath my skin, unsettled and hungry still. The taste of her lingers on my tongue. The feel of her around me burns in my muscle memory.
I push it all down, locking it away where it can’t interfere with what matters: protecting what’s mine. The pack. The territory.
And now, whether I wanted it or not, her.
Ash Hollow’s main gate comes into view. Two sentries on duty; Marcus and Eli. They clock us immediately, faces carefully blank. Their nostrils flare, reading exactly what happened in those woods. They won’t say a word. Not to my face, anyway.
The price is already adding up.
Nova walks through the gate without hesitation, chin high, eyes forward. I follow, shoulders back, stance wide. Alpha. In control. The lie sits cold in my stomach, but I wear it like armor.
Something’s coming. The wrong feeling in the forest wasn’t just paranoia or magical residue. It was a warning.
And I just complicated everything by crossing a line I can’t uncross.
The compound buzzes with activity, but not the organized kind. Small clusters of packmates stand in tense conversation. Voices rise and fall, sharp and staccato. Wrong rhythm. Wrong energy.
“Alpha,” Wyatt nods as I pass, his tone even but his eyes watchful. He’s one of the good ones. Steady. Reliable. But the tension in his shoulders tells me even he feels what’s building.
Nova keeps stride beside me, not behind. Wolves notice. They always notice.
Callum breaks away from a heated conversation with Reyna and intercepts us, falling into step on my left. “We need to talk,” he says, voice pitched low. “Pack’s getting restless. Marcus’s been asking questions. Making statements.”
I scan the yard ahead, taking inventory.
Three distinct groups have formed—unusual for mid-day when everyone should be at assigned tasks.
Near the storage shed, Derek gestures forcefully while four younger wolves listen, faces grim.
Near the main house, Kari paces like a caged predator, Rafe watching her from ten feet away.
“What kind of statements?” I ask Callum.
His eyes flick briefly to Nova, then back to me. “The kind that question leadership decisions. Specifically about outsiders having too much influence.”
I don’t react visibly, but Callum knows me well enough to read my silence.
“And the magic’s still off,” he continues, keeping pace. “Lyanna says the wards are fluctuating. Ben checked the south perimeter twice this morning. Says it smells wrong.”
Wrong. Just like the forest. Like something followed us back from Silverwood.
We reach the central clearing, and the conversation nearest us—three of my scouts arguing over patrol rotations—cuts off abruptly. They straighten, nodding respectfully, but the tension doesn’t leave their bodies.
“Dane.” Kari’s voice cuts through the yard as she approaches, direct and sharp. She doesn’t acknowledge Nova at all. “We need decisions about Silverwood. Now. Not later.”
It’s nearly insubordination, that tone. Nearly.
“After nightfall,” I reply, keeping my voice level. “Full briefing.”
“After—“ She stops herself, jaw tight. Her eyes flick to Nova, then to me, nostrils flaring slightly. Something changes in her expression. “Fine. But this can’t wait much longer. Eight people missing now—three more since yesterday. And we’re sitting here doing nothing.”
Over by the Lodge, Ben leans against the railing, watching everything. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, just observes. Taking mental notes. His eyes catch mine for a brief moment—neutral, assessing. He clocks the scent on me, on Nova. Files it away without judgment.
Marcus moves to Kari’s side, silent and measured. His senior warrior’s presence carries weight earned through years of service—first at Shadow Peak under Caleb, now here. He’s been watching too, cataloging reactions, weighing loyalties. I can feel him calculating odds.
Wyatt breaks away from his group, approaching with purposeful strides. “Alpha,” he says, the title respectful. “My team is ready to move on Silverwood whenever you give the order.”
“Your team follows orders,” I say calmly. “All of you do.”
The air in the compound feels thick, charged. Wrong. Just like the forest. Birds call inconsistently from the trees, patterns broken, timing off. Even the light seems to bend strangely through the branches.
Marcus shifts his weight, his senior warrior’s authority evident in his posture.
“We’re not questioning your leadership, Alpha.
But the missing wolves—three of our own gone for weeks with no answers—and now these hikers.
Our patrols are stretched thin trying to cover territory we haven’t mapped properly yet. We need resources, not mysteries.”
Derek and Torres move closer, positioning themselves near Marcus. Not threatening. Just ... present. A subtle shift in pack dynamics that doesn’t escape anyone’s notice.
“We follow your lead, Alpha,” Wyatt says firmly, his tone brooking no argument as he meets Marcus’s gaze. “Whatever you decide.”
Quiet murmurs rise from the scattered groups. Agreement. Disagreement. Doesn’t matter which. The fact that they’re reacting at all tells me how far the cracks have spread.
I scan the yard once more, taking in every face, every posture. They’re waiting for me to react, to show weakness or indecision.
“Full pack meeting after dinner,” I announce, voice carrying across the compound. “No exceptions. Until then, maintain positions and protocols.”
I turn and walk toward the lodge, not looking back to see if Nova follows. Control intact.
But barely.
I close my office door behind me, knuckles white around the handle. The pack meeting is in two hours—time to prepare for what could be a bloodbath if I don’t get ahead of it.
Callum’s report sits on my desk, dog-eared and stained with coffee. I don’t need to read it again. Perimeter security logs, scout rotations, supply inventory, all pristine. Perfect even. Too fucking perfect.
I pace the length of my cabin, footsteps heavy on the wooden floor. Four strides, turn, four strides back. Muscle memory from too many nights of strategic planning.
The radio on my desk crackles. “Perimeter check complete. All clear.” Wyatt’s voice—steady, professional. Nothing out of place except the timing. That’s the third check today. He’s never been this thorough before. Or this visible.
I grab my jacket and head outside. The compound is quieter than it should be mid-afternoon. Wolves move with purpose, but their paths are different—avoiding certain areas, clustering in new formations.
Harper emerges from the supply shed with a clipboard, checking items against her list. She spots Kevin near the main house and calls out, “Silverwood run leaves at 0600 tomorrow. You have the kitchen inventory ready?”
“Done this morning,” Kevin calls back. “Added extra flour and salt. We’re running low.”
“Got it.” She makes a note, then turns toward the southern trail where three wolves are gearing up for patrol. “Mateo—before you head out, Ben needs the maintenance report on the north fence line. Something about loose posts near the creek.”
Mateo nods, adjusting his pack. “I’ll radio it in from the perimeter. Should have eyes on it within the hour.”
The pack operates like a machine—each part knowing its function, reporting through proper channels, keeping the whole thing running. When it works, it’s invisible. You only notice the mechanism when something breaks.