Chapter 18 - Connor
The eastern border is quiet, and I hate every second of it.
Quiet means my mind has nothing to focus on except the look on Fern’s face this morning. The way she pulled the sheet up to her chest like she needed protection from me. The way she called what happened between us a mistake.
A mistake.
I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but that one cuts deeper than I expected.
Dylan falls into step beside me as I round the curve of the patrol trail. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m serious.” He ducks under a low-hanging branch and keeps pace with my longer stride. “Did you sleep at all last night?”
“Some.”
He shakes his head and lets out a low whistle. “Liar. This is about her, isn’t it? The human.”
“Her name is Fern.”
“I know her name. The whole town knows her name. They also know you’ve been following her around like a lovesick puppy for the past week.” He holds up his hands when I shoot him a glare. “I’m not judging. I’m just saying, whatever’s going on between you two, it’s got you twisted up in knots.”
I don’t answer. There’s nothing to say that won’t make me sound pathetic.
We walk in silence for a while, following the familiar path that marks the boundary of pack territory. The forest is thick here, with the trees pressing close on either side. I check the underbrush out of habit, looking for anything out of place.
“So what happened?” Dylan asks after a few minutes. “You two seemed like you were making progress after you came to her rescue. I saw her face when you were leaving the bar last night. She looked at you like you hung the moon.”
“She also told me this morning that sleeping with me was a mistake.”
Dylan winces. “Ouch.”
“Yeah.”
“Did she say why?”
I kick a loose stone off the path and watch it disappear into the ferns. “Because I’m a werewolf. Because we’re too different. Because she was scared and I was there, and apparently that’s the only reason she let me touch her.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“What I believe doesn’t matter. She made herself pretty clear.”
We round another bend in the trail, and something catches my attention. A flash of color through the trees that doesn’t belong. I hold up a hand to stop Dylan and point toward a small clearing about fifty yards off the main path.
“Is that—”
“The hiker’s camp,” I confirm. “Same one we spotted last week.”
“I figured they’d be long gone by now.”
“Apparently not.”
I move toward the clearing with Dylan close behind. The tent is still there, a small two-person model in dark green that blends with the surrounding foliage. A camping chair sits outside the entrance next to a portable stove and a cooler. Whoever set this up planned to stay a while.
“Should we call it in?” Dylan asks.
“Not yet.” I circle the tent slowly, taking in every detail. “I want to know who we’re dealing with first.”
“Connor, if this is her ex—”
“That’s exactly why I need to know.” I crouch by the tent’s zippered entrance and pull it open. “Keep watch. Let me know if anyone approaches.”
The inside of the tent is neat and organized. A sleeping bag lies rolled up against one wall, and a duffel bag sits in the corner with clothes spilling out of it. A battery-powered lantern hangs from the center pole, and a stack of maps and papers covers most of the floor space.
I pick up the closest map and study it. Someone has marked several locations with red circles—the clinic where Fern works, the Rusty Nail, and the path she takes to walk home in the evenings.
My stomach turns as I realize what I’m looking at.
This isn’t just a hiker passing through. This is surveillance.
A smaller piece of paper pokes out from under the map, and I tug it free.
My blood runs cold.
It’s a photograph of Fern. Not a recent one; she looks younger here, her hair longer and her smile brighter. She’s standing on a beach somewhere with her arm around a man whose face has been scratched out with something hard enough to tear through the paper.
I set the photo aside and keep searching. The duffel bag yields nothing interesting at first—just clothes, toiletries, and a first-aid kit. Then my fingers brush against something soft at the bottom.
Fabric. Lace.
I pull out a pair of underwear and bring them to my nose before I can think better of it. The scent hits me like a punch to the gut.
Fern.
These are hers. He took them from her. Kept them like some kind of trophy.
“Connor?” Dylan’s voice comes through the tent’s thin walls. “Everything okay in there?”
I shove the underwear back into the bag and zip it closed. My hands are shaking with rage, and I have to take several deep breaths before I trust myself to speak.
I crawl out of the tent and stand to face Dylan. “It’s him. Fern’s ex. This is his camp.”
“You’re sure?”
“He has pictures of her. Maps of her daily routine. And—” I stop myself before I mention the underwear. Some things are too personal to share, even with my packmate. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
Dylan’s face darkens. “What do you want to do?”
“Report to Nic. This guy isn’t just some stalker. He’s planning something, and I want to know what before he has a chance to execute it.”
We leave the camp exactly as we found it. No sense tipping him off that we’ve been here. The walk back to town feels longer than usual, and by the time we reach pack headquarters, my jaw aches from clenching it so tight.
Nic is in his office when I knock on the door. Luna sits on the couch by the window, and they both look up as I enter.
Nic leans back in his chair and studies my face. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Connor.”
“Worse.” I close the door behind me and cross to stand in front of his desk. “We went back to the hiker’s camp. The one on the eastern border.”
“And?”
“It’s Fern’s ex. The one who’s been stalking her.”
Luna straightens on the couch. “You’re sure?”
“I found photographs of her. Maps tracking her movements around town. He’s been watching her for weeks, maybe longer.” I plant my palms on Nic’s desk and lean forward. “This guy is dangerous. We need to find him before he makes a move.”
Nic considers this for a moment with his fingers steepled under his chin. “Did you find anything that tells us where he might be now?”
“No. The camp was empty when we arrived. But he’s been using it regularly. The supplies are fresh. He’ll be back.”
“Then we set a watch on the camp.” Nic glances at Luna, who nods in agreement. “Round-the-clock surveillance. The moment he shows his face, I want to know about it.”
“And then what?”
“Then we have a conversation with him about the consequences of threatening pack members. Fern is under our protection now. Anyone who tries to hurt her will answer to the entire pack.”
Some of the knot in my chest loosens at his words. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. We still have to catch him.” Nic rises from his chair and moves around the desk to clap me on the shoulder. “Go home. Get some rest. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.” He steers me toward the door. “Dylan can handle the first watch. I’ll have Thomas and James rotate in after that. You’re no good to anyone if you collapse from exhaustion.”
I want to argue, but he’s right. My entire body aches with tiredness, and my thoughts are sluggish and slow. I need sleep, even if the thought of lying alone in my bed makes me want to punch something.
“Fine.” I pause at the door and turn back. “But I want updates. The second anything changes, I want to know.”
“You’ll be the first call I make.”
I leave the headquarters and start walking toward my cabin on the other side of town.
The streets are quiet at this hour, with most of the pack either at work or settling in for dinner.
A few people wave as I pass, and I return their greetings with nods that probably come across as more curt than I intend.
I don’t mean to take the long way home. I don’t mean to walk down the street that leads past Fern’s cottage. But somehow, that’s exactly where I end up, standing on the sidewalk across from her front door with my hands shoved deep in my pockets.
The porch is dark, but there’s a lamp glowing in the living room window.
She’s home. Probably making dinner or curled up on the couch with one of those medical journals she likes to read.
I picture her there, her legs tucked under her, her brow furrowed in concentration, and the ache in my chest doubles.
I could knock. I could tell her what I found at the camp and watch her face go pale with fear. I could offer to stay with her again, to keep watch through the night, to make sure nothing touches her while she sleeps.
But she doesn’t want that. She made that perfectly clear this morning.
Still, my feet stay rooted to the sidewalk. I stare at her door and will myself to walk away.
It’s harder than it should be. Every instinct screams at me to go to her, to bang on the door until she answers, to make her understand that what happened between us wasn’t a mistake. The mate bond pulls at me like a physical force, demanding that I close the distance between us.
I don’t move.
She asked me to leave, and I left. If she wants me back, she’ll have to be the one to say so. I won’t force myself on her. I won’t show up uninvited again and expect her to welcome me with open arms.
Even if staying away feels like slowly ripping out my own heart.