Chapter 1 - Bryan
The border marker looks exactly the same as it did ten years ago.
I stand at the edge of Silvercreek territory, staring at the old carved stone half-buried in the underbrush.
Someone’s cleared the weeds away from it recently, and the pack symbol on its face is still visible despite a decade of weather.
My wolf paces beneath my skin, recognizing the scents that drift across the invisible line.
Pine. Cedar. The faint musk of wolves who’ve patrolled this stretch of forest a thousand times. Home, my wolf insists. We’re home.
I’m not sure I agree.
Ten years is a long time. Long enough to become someone else altogether.
Long enough to do things that can’t be undone, see things that can’t be unseen.
The boy who left Silvercreek in the middle of the night doesn’t exist anymore.
I killed him off piece by piece during my years with the Black Ops, buried him under mission reports and body counts until there was nothing left but the wolf and the work.
Now the work is done, and I’m not sure what’s left of me underneath all that wreckage.
I take a breath and step across the border.
The forest closes around me like an old blanket, familiar and suffocating at the same time.
Every tree, every rock, every twist in the overgrown path triggers memories I’ve spent a decade trying to suppress.
The swimming hole where I held my breath underwater while my father counted from the bank.
The clearing where he taught me to track deer.
The ridge where I kissed Skylar for the first time when we were sixteen and terrified and thrilled.
Her lips tasted like the strawberries we stole from Mrs. Lingman’s garden.
I shut that memory down hard. Some doors need to stay closed.
The walk to town takes twenty minutes, and I use every second to prepare myself. Silvercreek will have changed. I have no right to expect anything from anyone here, not after the way I left without a goodbye or an explanation.
That was the point, of course. I needed a clean break with no loose ends. Nothing to tie me to a place that had become a graveyard of everyone I loved.
Except I left someone behind who was very much alive, and that’s the part I’ve never been able to justify, no matter how many times I’ve tried.
Main Street looks mostly the same, which catches me off guard.
I expected more change, somehow. The hardware store is still on the corner, though the sign is new and the window displays feature power tools.
The diner has a fresh coat of paint, cheerful yellow instead of the faded green I remember, and different curtains hang in the windows.
Ruby’s bookshop has a display of autumn decorations crowding the window, even though it’s barely September.
A few people glance my way as I walk toward the pack house.
Some look confused, like they’re trying to place my face against some half-forgotten memory.
Others recognize me right away, and their reactions run the gamut from surprised to suspicious.
One older woman actually stops in her tracks and stares with her mouth falling open. I think she was friends with my mother.
I keep my head up and my pace steady. I didn’t come back to make friends or seek absolution. I came back because I had nowhere else to go.
The pack house sits at the end of Main Street.
The front steps have been rebuilt since I left, with sturdy granite replacing the old, crumbling concrete.
Someone’s planted flowers along the walkway—marigolds and chrysanthemums in oranges and yellows, offering cheerful bursts of color against the gray stone.
My mother used to grow marigolds. She said they kept the pests away from her vegetable garden.
I climb the steps and push through the front door before that thought can take root.
The main hall is busier than I expected for mid-afternoon.
A woman I don’t recognize sits at what used to be an unmanned desk, typing something into a laptop.
She looks up when I enter, and her eyebrows climb toward her hairline as she takes in my appearance.
I probably look like hell. A few days of driving will do that.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see the Alpha.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.” I pause, considering how to explain myself. “Tell him Bryan Dinac is back.”
Her eyes widen, and recognition moves across her face even though I’m certain we’ve never met. So my name still means something around here. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.
She reaches for a phone. “One moment, please.”
As I wait, I eye the changes to the space while she murmurs into the receiver.
New furniture arranged in conversation clusters.
Fresh paint on the walls, a warm cream instead of the institutional beige I remember.
Photos hang in neat rows—pack gatherings, mating ceremonies, and pups being welcomed into the community.
Happy moments frozen in time, proof that life went on just fine without me in it.
Silvercreek has been busy building while I was off destroying. The irony isn’t lost on me.
“He’ll see you now.” The woman gestures toward the hallway. “Second door on the left.”
Nic wasn’t Alpha when I left. His father was still running things, with Nic as heir apparent and years away from taking over. The transition must have happened sometime in the past decade, though I’ve only heard bits and pieces of the details. Another thing I missed while I was gone.
He looks up when I enter, and for a moment, neither of us speaks.
Nic Blackwood has grown into his role. The lanky young wolf I remember has filled out considerably, and his dark hair is shorter than he used to wear it. There’s a steadiness about him that speaks of hard-won experience. This is a man who’s made difficult decisions and lived with the consequences.
I can respect that. I’ve done the same.
He rises from his chair but doesn’t offer his hand. “Bryan. I wasn’t sure you’d actually come.”
“Got your message.” I stop a few feet from his desk, maintaining distance out of habit. “Figured it was time.”
“It’s been ten years. A lot has changed.”
“I noticed.”
Nic’s eyes move over my face like he’s taking stock of the differences. New scars. Harder edges. Whatever he sees, it doesn’t seem to surprise him. Maybe he’s heard enough about my work to know what kind of man I’ve become.
“Sit down,” he prompts, gesturing to one of the leather chairs across from his desk. “We have a lot to discuss.”
As I sit, my body automatically checks the room for exits and potential threats. Old habits.
Nic settles back into his own chair before he states, “The pack has grown significantly since you left. We’ve absorbed members from other territories and integrated wolves who didn’t have anywhere else to go. Silvercreek isn’t the same insular community it was when we were kids.”
“I’ve heard rumors.”
“Have you heard about the Cheslem situation?”
“I’ve done more than hear about it.”
“Right,” Nic replies with a curt nod. “Your work with the agency. I received a few redacted reports over the years. Enough to know you were involved in some of the cleanup.”
I snort and reply, “Cleanup is one word for it.”
“What word would you use?”
“Extermination.”
The bluntness settles between us like smoke. Nic doesn’t flinch, which tells me he already knew more than he was letting on. Good. I’m not in the mood to explain myself or justify the things I’ve done.
“The Cheslem threat has been largely neutralized,” he explains after a pause.
“We had a major confrontation a few years back. Lost some good wolves, including Elder Victoria, but we broke their power structure. Most of the survivors have been cleansed and integrated into various packs, including ours.”
“I know. I was part of the reason their leadership fell apart in the first place.”
Nic’s eyebrow rises. “That explains a few things I’ve been wondering about.”
I don’t ask what things. I don’t want to know how much of my work has filtered back to Silvercreek or how many of my kills have been tallied and discussed in this very office. What’s done is done. I can’t take any of it back, and I wouldn’t if I could.
“So.” Nic leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “Why now? You could have come back anytime in the past decade. Why today?”
“The agency dissolved my unit three months ago. Budget cuts, officially. Unofficially, we’d accomplished what we set out to do. The major supernatural threats in our region have been eliminated or contained.” I spread my hands. “They don’t need assassins when there’s no one left to kill.”
“And you decided to come home.”
“Silvercreek seemed as good a place as any to figure out what comes next.”
Nic sighs as he rubs a hand over his face in a gesture that makes him look younger, more like the friend I used to know.
“Look, I’m not going to pretend the past decade didn’t happen.
You left without a word to anyone except—” He stops himself, but we both know whose name he almost said.
“You left. People were hurt. People are still hurt. But this pack takes care of its own, and whether you like it or not, you’re still one of ours. ”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing.
“The lottery is tonight,” Nic continues with his tone shifting to something more businesslike. “You should attend.”
The mating lottery. I haven’t thought about that tradition in years.
Every so often, the pack gathers, and the elders draw names—one male, one female—and ancient magic supposedly guides the selection toward compatible pairs.
The matched couple is bound together, expected to complete the mating bond and strengthen the pack’s unity.
My parents used to talk about how their parents were matched that way, back when the tradition was taken more seriously.
“I thought those were only held every ten years,” I muse.