Chapter 14 - Dina
Rain is always a mood, and today my entire world is absolutely drowning in it.
I watch it sheet down the glass, blurring the view out of Caleb’s kitchen window.
Alora is in the crook of my left arm, squirming with the kind of restlessness that says she’s either about to have an existential crisis or wants to be fed.
I bounce her, waiting to see which way it’s going to go, and because the alternative is to put her down and listen to her scream, a sound that lately seems to vibrate at a frequency only the truly sleep-deprived can hear.
She’s been like this all morning, off and on, and I suspect that she’s picking up on my own shifting mood.
Babies are sensitive to that, aren’t they?
Body language, hormones, the low-grade electrical storm of anxiety that’s been crackling in me since things have escalated between Caleb and me.
I haven’t been able to shake it, no matter how many times I tell myself to grow the fuck up.
I close my eyes for a second, letting the repetitive sound of the rain fill my head, hoping it’ll drown out the replay.
It never does. I remember the way he looked at me, like he didn’t know what to say, or didn’t know if there was any point saying anything at all.
I remember the way my heart hammered with the urge to stay, and then the way it shrank cold and hard when I thought of what my father would say if he could see me tangled up with a Cheslem wolf, even a reformed one.
The ghosts between us aren’t just mine, but it feels like they’re mine to deal with.
Alora lets out a soft, grumpy sound, and I shift her to my other arm.
She’s getting heavier, growing so well that it’s clear her wolf is going to be strong.
Sometimes she’s so calm it’s unnerving, and sometimes she wails until I’m left in no doubt that she’s going to have a strong personality.
Right now, she settles for staring at me with those wide, dark eyes, as if she’s trying to figure out what my problem is.
It’s a good question. What is my problem?
I have a job, a home, and the relative safety of a pack that seems to want me here.
I even have a baby to look after, who, for all her moods, is objectively adorable.
But I can’t let go of the idea that I’m always one step away from losing it all.
Maybe it’s the news about the Cheslem rogues on the border, or perhaps the situation with Caleb that has me so unsettled.
I set Alora in her bouncer and watch as she kicks her feet, frowning at the dangling toys.
“You and me both, kid,” I mutter, and she gives me a look that feels vaguely accusatory.
I turn back to the window, watching the rivulets on the glass, and think of my father.
He used to say that fear was just a chemical, like caffeine or adrenaline, something you could burn off if you worked at it hard enough.
He never let me see him afraid, even when he should have been, maybe especially then.
I used to think that was his strength, but maybe it was just stubbornness.
I lose track of time watching the rain, only realizing I’ve been staring so long that Alora’s gone quiet.
That’s never a good sign. I snap out of it, guilt prickling under my skin, and check on her.
She’s still there, wide awake, but she’s just staring at me with her brow furrowed like she can read my mind somehow.
I want to tell her it gets easier, but I know she doesn’t understand me, and I’m just spiraling and probably in need of an adult to talk to.
A sudden ray of sunshine splits the clouds, hitting the window so hard my eyes water.
The rain doesn’t stop, not really, but the world looks a lot brighter, and it’s clear that the rain is beginning to slow at least. I blink and realize my cheeks are wet.
It takes a second to piece together that I’m crying, my damn emotions overwhelming me when I’m least expecting it.
My father hated it when I cried, even when I was small.
Not because he didn’t care, but because it broke something in him to see it.
He’d get this lost look, then tell me to run it off, as if misery could be outpaced by running laps around the house until my legs gave out.
Maybe it worked for him, but my wolf is less about flight and more about standing her ground, digging in, refusing to let go of the thing that’s making her suffer, even if it ends up hurting us more in the long run.
I wipe my cheeks and look back at Alora, who’s now flailing in the bouncer with real drama, her face red and her fists flying. I know that mood. I wish I could tell her it’s okay to be angry about things you can’t control.
We have to get out of this house. We need fresh air.
Caleb’s text from this morning sits at the top of my phone, so clearly bossy that I can hear his tone shining through the words.
“Can you keep Alora inside the town lines? Heard more chatter last night.” I bristled so much the first time I read it, because one, I’m not an idiot, and two, I’d never put her in danger.
But I understand the real message: he’s worried, and that only makes me feel more worried.
But I won’t cower in the house all day; Cheslem has taken enough from me.
I sigh, unclip Alora from the bouncer, and wrangle her into the carrier.
She goes stiff for a second, but as soon as she’s upright and pressed to my chest, she burrows in like she’s always belonged there.
She’s heavier than she looks, her body all dense baby muscle, and I love the way she leans her head against my collarbone like she’s giving me an unspoken vote of confidence.
“Let’s go for a walk,” I tell her. She blinks up at me, then lets out a little huff of air. I take that as agreement.
I grab the diaper bag, knowing I could take the truck, but instead, head out along the track toward the town and park by the river. It will take longer on foot, but the sun is out now, and we need this.
I take the path I’ve run a hundred times since moving here; the one that loops around the whole town, skirting the river and the park and eventually doubling back past the little cafe with the patio that always smells inviting.
The path is muddy today, the runoff pooling in the ruts and low spots, so I pick my steps carefully.
Alora’s heat against my body is a reminder to stay upright; the last thing I need is to take us both down face-first into a puddle and have to explain it to her dad.
I wonder if I’ll see Fiona at the cafe, or maybe Fern at the bakery, or Ruby on her lunch break, and the thought isn’t as unwelcome as it would have been a month ago.
I catch myself, surprised. Somewhere between my new role with Alora, the lottery, and the weird, electric nights, I’ve let this place settle into me.
The pack is drawing me in, one gentle intrusion at a time.
I almost text Caleb to let him know where we’re going, but the urge pisses me off.
I want to want space from him, not crave the safety of his attention.
I share my location instead so he’ll know I’m not taking Alora anywhere near the forest, and then immediately regret it, but it’s done now, and I know he deserves to know his daughter is safe at all times.
I’m left to wrestle with the fact that a part of me wants him to know where I am at all times.
Which is maybe the most embarrassing confession of all.
Alora, sensing my mood shift, roots around for my hand and clamps onto my thumb with a startlingly strong grip.
I look down at her and catch the faintest edge of a smile, and the impact is immediate, like a punch to the chest. I stop walking and kiss the top of her head, breathing in the smell of baby shampoo and milk and the faintest trace of shifter.
My wolf, maybe, or Caleb’s, or just the collective scent of Silvercreek.
I don’t care. I want to cry and laugh at once.
“Yeah, you win,” I whisper, and she gurgles, triumphant.
I never meant for any of this to happen.
I was going to do my job, keep a safe distance, and not get attached.
The plan was airtight except for the part where I didn’t anticipate how much this little girl would be impossible not to love, and that some men, no matter how much you wish you could hate them, are even harder to erase from your heart.
I try to lose myself in the rhythm of my steps, but my wolf has other plans.
She’s on high alert, ears pricked to every snap of a branch, every shift in the wind.
There’s a tang in the air that’s not quite right.
It’s not necessarily a threat, but it’s not the usual riverside scents either.
I tell myself it’s just the aftermath of last week’s border drama, the lingering paranoia, but the hairs along my arms disagree.
It’s subtle, the way you know you’re being watched even when there’s nothing to see.
I’m halfway around the loop when I spot movement up ahead; a runner, tall and fast, moving with the kind of purpose that says he’s not here for the scenery.
I don’t recognize the stride or the shape, and that alone is weird; Silvercreek isn’t big enough that strangers can go unnoticed.
Still, there’s nothing overtly dangerous about him.
He’s moving away from me, not toward, and for a moment I try to rationalize the spike of adrenaline in my chest. Maybe it’s just a guest, or a new wolf, or a townie trying to get in shape before the next pack run.
He disappears around a bend, and I tell myself to let it go.
But my wolf is restless, pacing under my skin, and when I round the same curve a minute later, the trail is empty.
No runner. No footprints, even though there should be after all that rain.
My hackles go up, and I shift Alora’s weight on my chest, tucking her tighter under my jacket.
She’s asleep now, limp and heavy, like a weighted reminder of my responsibilities to keep her safe.
I pick up the pace, not running but moving with intent, scanning the trail ahead.
The woods are denser here, and I make the decision to cut back toward the center of town, where the path splits near the old playground.
It’s only just up ahead, so I keep going until I catch a flash of blue through the trees; another shifter, maybe, or the runner doubling back on a shortcut.
As I hit the crossroads, my heart stutters at the sight of a truck parked at the trailhead, idling where no vehicles are supposed to be.
It’s old, battered, the kind of generic pickup that half the men in town drive, but the plates are caked in mud and the windows are dark.
I freeze, and the air suddenly feels thick and heady. The runner is nowhere to be seen.
I consider doubling back, but then I hear the crunch of gravel behind me.
A second figure steps out from the tree line, then a third, both moving with the loose, hungry grace of wolves who know how to hunt.
They’re not pack. I can see it in their eyes, the way they avoid looking past my face, the way their bodies angle to block any escape.
They’re Cheslem, or what’s left of it, and the magic that coats their scent is the same I recognize in all my nightmares.
I pull Alora tight, feeling her head press to my chest. For a second, I debate screaming; someone might hear, but I know it’s unlikely.
Instead, I fish out my phone and hit call, waiting for Caleb’s voice to come through, knowing by the time it does, the Chelsem wolves will have attacked, and I won’t be able to talk, but he’ll hear what’s going on.