Chapter 2 - Dylan #2
The scent hits me before I see her—honeysuckle and antiseptic, an odd combination that's become instantly recognizable. Sera. I consider changing direction, but realize it's too late when she emerges from the path leading from the medical center, medical bag slung over her shoulder.
Our eyes meet, and her steps falter briefly before she continues forward, chin lifting slightly.
The morning light catches in her honey-blonde hair, making it glow.
Despite myself, I notice how the simple blue sweater she wears hugs curves that have filled out since her arrival three months ago. My wolf stirs with unwelcome interest.
"Zaleska," she says, her tone clipped.
"Daley." I keep my voice equally detached.
She shifts the medical bag, eyeing me warily. "Let me guess—another day of defending us from the terrifying threat of bird-watchers?"
"Funny."
"I wasn't joking." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture I've noticed she makes when annoyed. "That man was sixty-five years old with a sprained ankle."
"He was trespassing on pack land with a camera."
"Taking pictures of woodpeckers, not secret werewolf meetings." She rolls her eyes. "He needed medical attention. I provided it."
"Without alerting security first." I step closer, deliberately using my height advantage. "Protocol exists for a reason."
"Oh, please." She doesn't back up an inch. "By the time your security team would've shown up, the poor man could have developed a blood clot."
"He could have been documenting our territory for another attack."
"Right. Because senior citizen bird enthusiasts are the real threat to Silvercreek." Her voice drips with sarcasm. "Not paranoid, trigger-happy wolves who see enemies in every shadow."
I clench my jaw. "You have no idea what humans are capable of."
"And you have no idea what actual threats look like." She glares up at me, color rising in her cheeks. "I spent years watching Matthias separate real dangers from imagined ones. Trust me, Orthopedic Shoes with the binoculars wasn't plotting your demise."
"You don't get to make those calls." My voice lowers, frustration building. "Security decisions aren't up to the medical team."
"Patient care decisions aren't up to security." She matches my tone. "I don't tell you how to patrol the borders, don't tell me how to treat the injured."
"When those injured could endanger the pack—"
"Oh, for fuck’s sake!" She throws up her free hand. "The man collects bird feathers and talks about migration patterns! The biggest danger he posed was boring us to death with fun facts about woodpeckers!"
"You're being ridiculous."
"I'm being ridiculous? You wanted to interrogate him before setting his ankle!"
"Standard procedure."
"There's nothing standard about traumatizing an injured civilian!" Her voice rises. "What was your plan exactly? Scare him into a heart attack? Add another human death to Silvercreek's reputation?"
That hits a nerve. "Watch it, Daley."
"Or what? You'll report me to Alpha Nic?
Go ahead." She steps closer, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her hazel eyes.
"Tell him how the dangerous former Cheslem healer provided medical care to an injured human instead of letting him suffer while your security team took their sweet time responding. "
"This isn't about you being Cheslem."
"Isn't it?" Her eyes narrow. "You've had it out for me since I arrived."
"I've had it out for your reckless disregard for protocol. I’ve had it out for you—” I flail for a moment. “Your—there's a difference."
"Protocol without compassion is just control for control's sake." She adjusts her medical bag strap, knuckles white. "Some of us actually remember what that feels like."
"Some of us remember what happens when security gets lax," I snap back.
She shakes her head, frustration evident in every line of her body. "You’re impossible. You’re the most paranoid person I’ve ever met, and I grew up around the most insane, violent—”
"Better paranoid and alive than dead—”
"Is that what you call this half-life you're living? Alive?" Something flickers in her expression—pity, maybe. It makes my skin crawl.
"You’re acting like a child." I step back, needing distance from her scent, her presence. "Just follow protocol next time, or I'll report it directly to the Alpha."
"Go ahead." She hitches her bag higher on her shoulder. "I'm sure he'll be fascinated to hear how his head of security is wasting time harassing medical staff instead of addressing actual threats."
"You don't know anything about actual threats."
"And you don't know anything about me." She turns to go, then pauses. "By the way, your hand is bleeding."
I glance down, noticing the reopened cuts on my knuckles from hitting the shower wall. "It's nothing."
"A medic might be able to help with that, you know." Her tone drips with sarcasm. "Enjoy your righteous anger, Zaleska. I'm sure it keeps you warm at night."
She walks away before I can respond, her back straight despite the tension I can see in her shoulders. I resist the urge to call after her, to continue the argument that always seems to spiral when we interact. Instead, I watch her go, ignoring the way my wolf strains toward her retreating figure.
Damn woman never knows when to back down. Never seems to understand what's at stake. How quickly safety can shatter, how permanently loss can destroy everything you thought you were.
"You worry too much, Dyl," Ethan said, just weeks before the attack. "Not every shadow hides a monster."
"Better safe than sorry," I replied, checking the locks for the third time that night.
He sighed, sprawled across our couch. "You know, you never did any of those normal twenty-something things. College parties. Road trips. Dating. You were too busy making sure I had a normal life."
"And?"
"And maybe it's time you lived a little, too." He tossed a pillow at my head. "The world won't end if you let your guard down occasionally."
But it did end. For him. Because I wasn't vigilant enough.
Because I let myself believe, for one moment, that we were truly safe.
I reach my cabin, slamming the door behind me hard enough to rattle the windows. Two days off. Two days with nothing but memories and a lottery ceremony that suddenly feels like another form of punishment rather than duty.
Tomorrow, some poor female will have her name linked with mine. For her sake, I hope it's someone tough.
Anyone, really, except Sera Daley with her stubborn righteousness and her infuriating inability to see danger until it's too late.
The wolf inside me—the part that operates on instinct rather than reason—disagrees, stirring with interest at the thought of her. I push it down ruthlessly. My wolf has no say in this. Not anymore. Not since it failed to protect the one person I swore never to let down.
I strip off my shirt and drop to the floor, forcing my body through a punishing set of push-ups. Physical pain is better than thinking. Better than feeling. Better than remembering.
One. Two. Three.
Ethan's body, growing cold in my arms.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
"Did I get any of them?"
Twenty. Twenty-one.
"I'm scared."
Forty-two. Forty-three.
His last breath, soft against my cheek.
Sixty-eight. Sixty-nine. Seventy.
My arms finally give out, and I collapse to the floor, chest heaving, sweat stinging my eyes. Or maybe it's something else. I wouldn't know. I haven't cried since that night. Not once.
Through the window, I can see pack members going about their day—living, as Sera would probably call it. The lottery is tomorrow. Another pack tradition, another step in pretending life goes on as normal.
For everyone else, maybe it does.
For me, the only normal left is vigilance. Protection. Making sure no one else loses what I lost. And if Sera or anyone else thinks that makes me paranoid, so be it.
Better paranoid than broken beyond repair. Again.