Chapter 26 - Dylan
Blood.
The first thing I find after I track her scent into the woods is blood—dark droplets scattered across pine needles like morbid breadcrumbs.
Sera's blood, unmistakable to my heightened senses.
The metallic scent of it fires every protective instinct in my body, my wolf clawing for release, for vengeance.
I force it down, channeling the rage into focus. Tracking, not tearing. Finding, not destroying.
The abandoned Guardian outpost sits empty when I arrive, front door hanging open like a slack-jawed mouth.
Inside, more blood—a larger pool on the floor of a back room outfitted as a makeshift medical space.
Restraints dangle from an overturned chair.
A broken radio. An unconscious Diane. Signs of struggle.
But no Sera.
I press my palm to the blood smear—still tacky. Recent.
"Sera," I whisper to the empty room, as if her name alone might conjure her. The silence that answers is deafening.
Outside again, I circle the cabin like a predator, searching for trail signs. There, at the northern edge of the clearing, trampled undergrowth and the faintest hint of her scent mixed with fear-sweat and blood. She ran this way.
I follow, moving faster now that I have direction. The forest thickens, branches slapping against my face, but I barely feel them. Every sense is tuned to a single frequency—find Sera. The rest—my own injuries, the danger, the exposed nature of my search—none of it matters.
Her trail leads into a labyrinth of deadfall and thick brush. Smart—she's using dense cover to mask her movements. Even injured, she thinks tactically. Pride flares briefly before worry smothers it again.
The blood trail grows sparser, but I find other signs—broken twigs at shoulder height, a scrap of fabric caught on thorns, a partial footprint in mud. She's moving south, toward Silvercreek.
Toward home.
I follow for nearly a mile before the trail suddenly veers east—sharp, unplanned, as if she changed direction in a hurry. Pursuit. The thought sends fresh adrenaline coursing through me. I move faster, caution abandoned for speed.
The ground drops away into a ravine, steep sides cutting through the forest like an ancient scar.
More blood here—she fell. The image of her tumbling down this slope, already injured, sends my wolf surging against its restraints again.
I slide down the embankment, half-running, half-falling in my haste.
At the bottom, a stream cuts through stone, gurgling quietly in the darkness. Her scent is stronger here, fresher. I'm gaining ground.
"Sera!" I risk calling, voice low but carrying. Nothing answers, but the whispering leaves overhead.
The creek bends sharply west, and her trail follows it. Smart again—water masks scent, confuses trackers, provides direction. Every tactical choice she makes only increases my admiration, my fear, my—
Love.
The word rises unbidden, unavoidable. I love her. Not despite our differences but because of them—her stubbornness, her compassion, her infuriating belief in peace when all I've known is war. She balances me in ways I never knew I needed.
And now she's hurt, hunted, because of me.
The revelation drives me forward with renewed determination. The stream widens, spilling into a small clearing where fallen trees create a natural fortress. There—a flash of movement near the base of a massive oak.
"Sera?" I call again, softer now.
A shadow detaches from the darkness.
"Dylan?" Her voice is ragged, disbelieving.
Relief floods through me so powerfully that my knees nearly buckle. Three long strides and I reach her, gathering her into my arms with desperate urgency. She clings to me just as fiercely, her body trembling against mine.
"I thought they killed you," she whispers against my chest, fingers digging into my shoulders as if afraid I might vanish. "Diane said—they said—"
"I'm here," I murmur into her hair, breathing in her scent beneath the blood and fear. "I'm okay."
I pull back slightly, needing to see her face.
What I find wrenches a growl from deep in my chest. Blood matts her hair on the right side, trailing down her temple.
Her left cheek is bruised, swelling around her eye.
But her eyes—those golden-brown eyes that have challenged me from the first moment—remain clear and fierce despite the pain.
"You're hurt," I say, voice rough with emotion. My fingers hover near the head wound, afraid to touch, to cause more pain. I can tell there’s something else, too, perhaps an injury I can’t see. She’s swaying. She looks awful, pallid and half-dead under the moon.
"So are you," she counters, eyes tracking to the bloodstain on my side where the bullet grazed me. Always the healer, even now.
We stand there for a heartbeat, drinking in each other's presence, the reality of survival sweeter than any fantasy.
"I thought I lost you," I admit, the words tearing free from somewhere deep and vulnerable. "When I found the cottage empty, your blood—"
"I knew you'd find me," she says simply, with a certainty that staggers me. "I just had to stay alive long enough."
Something breaks inside me—the last wall, the final resistance. I cup her face in my hands, mindful of her injuries, and press my forehead to hers.
"Sera," I whisper, her name a prayer and confession. "I need to tell you—"
"I know," she interrupts, eyes locked with mine. "Me too."
And then we're kissing, desperate and tender all at once.
Her lips are chapped, tasting of blood and forest and life.
I try to be gentle, mindful of her wounds, but she pulls me closer, fingers tangling in my hair, demanding more.
I give it, pouring weeks of denial, want, and fear into the connection.
When we finally break apart, I'm stunned to find wetness on my cheeks—tears I didn't realize I'd shed mingling with hers.
"The lottery wasn't a mistake," I tell her, voice raw. "I was wrong. So wrong about everything."
She smiles despite her split lip, the sight more beautiful than anything I've ever seen.
"Not everything," she whispers. "You found me. And I knew you would.”
A branch snaps in the distance—perhaps a hundred yards away. We both freeze, the moment shattered by reality's harsh intrusion.
"They're still searching," Sera whispers, body tensing. "I lost them at the ravine, but—"
"We need to move," I agree, shifting instantly back to tactical mode. "Can you walk?"
She nods, though I see the pain it costs her. "We have to warn the pack. The operation—"
"Two days," I confirm, helping her to her feet. "Full moon. They've mapped every running path, every gathering place."
"How did they—"
"Doesn't matter now. We need to reach Silvercreek by tomorrow."
I assess our situation quickly. We're approximately twelve miles from pack territory. Under normal circumstances, an easy run. With Sera injured, in the dark, with pursuers...
"We head southwest," I decide. "There's an old ranger station five miles from here. We can rest there until dawn, then push for the territory line."
Sera sways slightly, and I catch her elbow to steady her. "I'll slow you down," she says, frustration evident. "My head—everything's spinning."
"We go together or not at all," I tell her firmly. "I'm not leaving you again."
The conviction in my voice surprises even me. Two weeks ago, I might have considered the mission more important than any individual. Now, I know better. There is no mission without her.
She searches my face, finding whatever confirmation she needs. "Together, then."
I slip an arm around her waist, supporting her weight. "I've got you."
We move into the darkness, following the stream's path southwest. Her body leans heavily against mine, head occasionally resting on my shoulder when dizziness overwhelms her. I adjust my pace to hers, senses stretched to their limits for any sign of pursuit.
"Dylan?" she murmurs after we've covered nearly a mile.
"Hmm?"
"If we make it through this—when we make it through this—I want to try. Really try. Not because of the lottery, but because I choose you."
The words fill a hollow space inside me I hadn't realized existed until this moment. I pull her closer, pressing a kiss to her temple, tasting salt and copper and hope.
"I choose you, too," I whisper into the darkness. "I think I have since that first argument in the medical center, when you stood your ground while I was being an absolute ass."
Her soft laugh is the most beautiful sound I've ever heard. "You're still an ass sometimes."
"But I'm yours now," I reply, the lightness in my chest unfamiliar after so much darkness.
"Yes," she agrees, voice suddenly serious. "You are."
Behind us, voices call through the trees, distant but determined.
Ahead lies uncertainty, danger, the impossible task of warning our pack in time.
But between us now exists something neither Silvercreek's lottery nor Guardian bullets can touch—a choice freely made, a beginning rather than an obligation.
We walk on, bound by fate and choice and the promise of a future neither of us had imagined possible.