Chapter 8
ROZI
The message glowed on my screen like a challenge. Ten minutes—as if I lived my life according to his schedule. My jaw clenched as I typed back the digital equivalent of whatever.
ME (TEXT):
What an asshole. All the years since we parted, and he was acting like I was his subordinate.
Standing up, I checked inside my backpack for my essentials—laptop, tablet, medical kit, notebook—then shoved my cell inside my front pocket.
This morning, I’d dressed in dark wash jeans that hugged my curves, a fitted black T-shirt, and boots that could handle whatever terrain this day might bring.
My cheetah paced beneath my skin, restless and wanting. She’d tasted what she’d craved for years and wasn’t interested in my human rationalizations about why we couldn’t have more.
Too bad, I told her firmly. We’re not doing this again.
Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I headed downstairs.
“Good morning,” Ximena said, standing behind the front desk.
I returned her greeting before heading out of the B the thing swayed like a metronome as he moved through his forms. Another poor soul looked like he was smuggling a cocktail shrimp.
Note to self: Naked tai chi provides excellent comparative anatomy lessons.
He laughed at my carefully controlled expression. “The Ridge believes natural forms are meant to be celebrated, not hidden. It takes some getting used to.”
The early-morning sunlight caught on their skin, pale, dark, everything in between, but what struck me wasn’t the nudity itself.
It was the complete absence of self-consciousness.
These people weren’t performing or rebelling.
They were simply existing in their natural state, finding harmony in movement and breath.
When was the last time I felt that kind of freedom? The thought hit me unexpectedly.
When did I last move through the world without calculating every gesture, every word, every expression for maximum professional impact?
Maybe that’s what these people had that I’d lost somewhere along the way. Permission to just be.
As we continued walking, I spotted a small crowd gathered at the enormous stone fountain that dominated the center of the square. Water cascaded over carved shells, and four massive wolf heads around the pedestal created a spectacular display in the morning light.
But it wasn’t the fountain itself that made me stop short.
Several naked men were yelling and cheering while two others grappled in front of the fountain. Steam rose from the water despite the cool morning air.
“The water is hot?” I asked.
“The fountain contains hot spring water,” Brody said. “That’s why it steams even in cold weather. It’s considered medicinal for our kind.”
My interest was piqued immediately. “Medicinal how?”
“Drinking the hot spring water is known to alleviate hangovers, settle the stomach, clear head fog, and make headaches disappear instantly,” he replied. “My grandmother Una’s tonic recipe that I’ve tried to replicate for Logan’s pre-feral symptoms also uses the Ridge’s hot spring water.”
I filed this information away for later research. If the hot spring water had properties that helped with pre-feral symptoms, it could be a critical component in my treatment formula.
Loud cheers made me focus again on the men. “Why are they fighting?” I asked.
“They’ve worked out a system,” Brody said. “Each morning, both groups pick a representative to fight until someone’s knee hits the ground. The winner’s group gets fountain privileges for the day.”
“Why not swim at that lake I saw driving in?” I asked.
“Bogbeast Lake? That’s selkie and mermen territory,” he answered, his eyes never leaving the fountain battle. “Every shifter group has preferred domains. The otters and penguins have been fighting over this fountain for decades. It’s become tradition instead of actual warfare.”
Outside the fountain’s stone edge, one of the wrestlers managed to force his opponent’s knee to touch the ground. A cheer went up from the penguin supporters, while the otters groaned dramatically.
“Penguins win!” someone called out. “Fountain privileges to the birds!”
“See?” Brody said. “Civilized conflict resolution. Sort of.” We continued walking past shops. Several residents greeted Brody and me as we passed.
“Morning, Dr. Dhahabu!” called an older man with a handlebar mustache and a weathered face. He tipped his cowboy hat with old-fashioned courtesy. “Heard you might be able to help some of our boys with their situation.”
Boys. Not patients or cases or problems to be solved. Boys. Like family members who needed help.
“I hope so,” I replied.
“Much obliged.” He tipped his hat again with a warm smile. “You need anything while you’re here, you just holler.”
A woman with purple hair waved from the library steps. “Welcome to the Ridge! Let me know if you need anything. I’m Pandora.”
When was the last time anyone had welcomed me anywhere? I moved through academic conferences and research facilities like a ghost—respected, feared, but never truly welcomed. Never invited to belong.
These people were treating me like a community member instead of an outsider with a dangerous pharmaceutical legacy. Like someone worth knowing instead of just using for their expertise.
The thought made my chest tight with emotions I didn’t want to examine.
My cheetah paced restlessly beneath my skin, confused by the contradictory signals, threat and welcome, danger and belonging.
She didn’t understand human complexities, only recognizing the pull of potential pack bonds forming where I insisted on maintaining isolation.