Chapter 22 - Dylan
The forest breathes around us—six men moving like ghosts between ancient pines, rifles balanced in gloved hands.
Moonlight filters through branches, casting knife-edge shadows across the forest floor.
I keep my breathing shallow, my steps precise, every sense hyper-alert despite the dull throb of whiskey in my veins.
Standard Guardian procedure: liquid courage before the hunt. I'd poured most of mine onto the ground when no one was looking.
"Movement ahead," Mike whispers, dropping to one knee. "Hundred yards, two o'clock."
I follow his gesture, narrowing my eyes. Nothing visible, but—there. A scent carried on the shifting breeze.
Not just wolf, but shifter. Unmistakable to someone like me, though imperceptible to human hunters.
And they're heading straight toward Silvercreek. Leading the hunters with them.
It’s probably a member of the pack’s security detail. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Donovan signals, hand slicing through the air. "Split up. Mike, take Dylan and circle east. Rest of us push forward. Drive it toward the creek bed."
My pulse quickens. East puts me closer to the shifter's path, might give me a chance to intercept before the others close in.
"Copy that," Mike nods, gesturing me forward.
We move in practiced silence, Mike leading, me following just far enough back to maintain sight lines. The forest thickens as we push east, undergrowth tearing at pant legs, branches scraping against rifle barrels. Mike's focus stays forward, hunter's instinct driving him toward prey.
My focus splits—playing the role while plotting interference. One hundred yards. Two hundred. The distance between us and the main group grows.
I catch the shifter's scent again, stronger now. Young. Male. Frightened.
Opportunity presents itself when Mike pauses to check coordinates on his GPS. I deliberately knock against a fallen branch, the crack of wood echoing like a gunshot through silent trees.
"What the hell?" Mike hisses, whipping around.
"Sorry," I whisper, feigning embarrassment. "Didn't see it."
His expression tightens with irritation. "You just alerted everything within a half-mile."
"I'll make it up to you," I offer. "Scout ahead, see if I can pick up the trail again."
He hesitates, then nods. "Stay in radio contact."
I move forward alone, pace quickening once out of sight. The shifter's scent pulls me northwest, toward a rocky outcropping that marks the unofficial boundary of Silvercreek territory. If I can reach him first, warn him back—
A flash of movement ahead freezes me mid-step. I drop into a crouch, rifle raised for appearance's sake, though my finger stays carefully outside the trigger guard.
The shifter emerges from behind a massive oak—in wolf form, he’s unmistakable. It’s Connor, likely on his way back from a patrol. The sight of him both eases something in my chest and ramps up my anxiety tenfold.
We stare at each other across the clearing for a moment, two deer in headlights.
I raise one finger to my lips, then deliberately set my rifle down.
Confusion replaces fear in his eyes. Then, recognition.
"Run," I mouth silently, pointing. “Hunters. Go, now. No time.”
Understanding dawns. Connor nods once, eyes darting past me for signs of others.
I gesture back the way he came, then mime running.
"Five hunters," I whisper, voice barely audible even to shifter ears. "Coming from the south. Tell Nic they're using the old logging roads."
He hesitates. “Are you safe?”
“I’m fine,” I whisper, though I won’t be for long if I’m discovered. “Go!”
He nods, disappearing into the darkness with preternatural speed. The sight of my friend vanishing into the darkness after weeks apart only makes my heart hurt a little. I retrieve my rifle, heart hammering against my ribs as I radio Mike.
"Lost the trail. Doubling back to your position."
Static crackles before his response comes through. "Copy. Stay put. Main group moving toward you."
I start creating my cover story—how the wolf gave me the slip, how I tracked it north before losing the trail—lies constructed with just enough detail to sound convincing.
A twig snaps behind me.
I spin, rifle instinctively rising, to find myself staring into familiar golden-brown eyes.
Sera.
She freezes, hands half-raised in surrender. Her face is flushed, breathing quick and shallow. She's been running.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" I breathe, lowering the rifle instantly.
"I could ask you the same," she whispers back fiercely. "I just saw a shifter tear through these woods like death itself was chasing him."
"It is. Guardian hunting party. You need to get out of here."
Her expression hardens. "I came from the Mitchell house. The attack reports are fake, Dylan. They're manufacturing evidence, forcing people to lie about—"
"Not now." I grab her elbow, steering her toward denser cover as radio chatter increases. "They're converging. We need to move."
"Dylan? You copy?" Mike's voice crackles through my radio.
I respond while pulling Sera deeper into the underbrush. "Copy. Still searching grid four. No visual."
Sera's protests die as flashlight beams cut through trees fifty yards south. We drop into a hollow beneath a fallen cedar, bodies pressed together in the narrow space. My arm wraps around her waist automatically, holding her still against me as boots crunch over forest debris.
"I swear I heard voices," Donovan's distinctive drawl carries through the darkness.
"Could've been our boy," another hunter suggests. "Sometimes they talk to themselves when cornered."
Sera's body tenses against mine. I tighten my hold in silent warning, breath ghosting against her hair. Her heartbeat thunders so loudly I'm certain they'll hear it, though logic tells me human ears aren't that keen.
Flashlight beams sweep across our position, light filtering through branches inches above our heads. One hunter steps close enough that dirt dislodges from his boot, sprinkling onto the log sheltering us.
Seconds stretch into eternities, neither of us daring to breathe.
"Spread out," Donovan finally orders. "Mike, take north quadrant. Johnson, west. Dylan, radio your position."
I ease one hand free to press the transmit button. "Southeast ridge, working back toward the rendezvous point. Nothing here."
"Copy that. Meet at the trucks in twenty. We lost this one."
Relief floods through me as the beams move away, voices fading into the distance. Still, we remain motionless for five full minutes, ensuring they're truly gone.
When I finally release her, Sera exhales shakily. "That was close."
"Too close." Anger replaces fear, hot and sudden. "What were you thinking, coming out here alone? If they'd found you—"
"I was following a lead," she fires back. "And then some Guardian showed up and I had to run—”
"And that justified putting yourself at risk? We’re in the middle of nowhere—”
"Like you're one to talk," she hisses. "Playing Rambo in the woods with people who'd put a bullet in you if they knew what you are."
We glare at each other in the moonlight, frustration crackling between us like static electricity. Her hair has come loose from its practical bun, wild strands framing her face. Dirt smudges one cheek, and a scratch marks her forearm where branches caught her.
"You could have been killed," I say, voice dropping lower.
"So could you." Her eyes flash with something beyond anger. "Is that what you want? To die proving some point about revenge?"
"That's not—"
"Isn't it?" Sera steps closer, jabbing a finger into my chest. "Isn't that exactly what you're doing? Risking everything to hunt the hunters?"
The accusation lands with precision, finding gaps in my armor I didn't know existed. I grab her wrist, stopping another jab, but don't release it.
"I was protecting my packmate," I counter. "Giving him a chance to escape."
"And what about your chance? What about—" She stops abruptly, emotion choking her words. "What about mine?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications neither of us has been willing to face. Her pulse races beneath my fingers, her scent—fear, adrenaline, and something uniquely Sera—overwhelms my senses.
"I didn't mean what I said earlier," I admit, voice rough. "About the lottery being a mistake."
Her eyes widen slightly, lips parting with unspoken words. The forest seems to hold its breath around us, the night suspended in this moment of truth.
"Dylan," she whispers, and my name in her voice breaks something loose inside me.
I don't know who moves first. Only that suddenly her mouth is on mine, hot and desperate, hands fisting in my jacket to pull me closer. My back hits a tree trunk as her body presses against mine, all pretense of distance abandoned in the rush of survival and need.
My hands find her waist, fingers digging into soft flesh as I pull her impossibly closer. The kiss deepens, her tongue sliding against mine, tasting of wild berries and desperation. Heat floods through me, primal and urgent.
"We shouldn't," I rasp against her mouth, even as my body betrays my words.
"Shut up," Sera growls, nipping at my lower lip hard enough to draw blood. The coppery taste mingles between us, triggering something feral in my wolf. "For once in your life, Dylan."
Her hands slide beneath my shirt, nails raking down my chest, leaving trails of fire in their wake. I hiss, the sensation bordering pain and pleasure.
Something snaps in me. In one fluid motion, I twist and reverse our positions, slamming Sera against the tree instead. Her eyes widen, pupils dilating as I pin her, squeezing her breast hard in one hand, the other buried near her sex, gripping her there with punishing strength.
"This what you want?" I growl; my voice barely human.
Her answer is a defiant arch of her body against mine. Her crotch grinds up against my hand. I capture her mouth again, harder this time, claiming rather than asking. Releasing her core, I grab her hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh there.