Flawed Fate (Wildheart Pack #4)

Declan

Tension hangs in the air, thick enough to cut with a knife, so thick it damn near chokes me. I’ve never been good at waiting. Patience may be a virtue, but it isn’t one of mine. Especially not when there’s so much hanging in the balance.

I can’t remember the last time so much hung in the balance. Not only for my family, not only for my pack, but for all shifters.

The forest around us is still. It’s the kind of quiet that settles in when every living thing with half a brain has cleared out.

There’s no owls calling. No rustling in the underbrush.

Even the wind has died down to nothing, leaving the pines standing tall and motionless.

That should unsettle me, but it doesn’t.

There’s something fitting about it, as if the woods themselves are holding their breath right along with us. Waiting for whatever comes next.

We’ve been here for hours. Long enough for my jaw to ache from clenching it.

I keep catching myself doing it and forcing the muscles to relax, only to find my teeth locked together again five minutes later.

A dull throb has settled at the base of my skull, and I know it’s not from the cold that’s crept in.

It’s been there for days. Weeks. I’ve stopped keeping track.

There are bigger fish to fry. Something Dad used to say.

“There’s a lot of guards on duty.” Cole’s breath fogs around him when he states the obvious. The weather has turned cool, not that any of us feel it. We tend to run warm.

“They’re guarding an awful lot of secrets,” I mutter. Disgust drips from my voice when I imagine exactly how many secrets are being covered up behind those towering fences. It sickens me, and I know I’m not alone.

It also worries the hell out of me, though that’s not something I would admit out loud. Being the former alpha’s oldest son, it was always assumed I would one day take his place. But no one could have foreseen me taking on this much responsibility so soon.

Dad should still be here. The thought catches me off guard the way it always does, and it brings a sharp pang along with it.

He would’ve known exactly how to handle this, with a plan in place weeks ago.

He would’ve briefed the pack with that steady, unhurried authority that made everyone around him feel like things were going to be fine.

Even when they weren’t. Even when he was worried as hell, which I guess happened more often than he ever let us see.

I’m starting to understand the degree of performance that comes with the title. The weight of it hangs on my shoulders, pulling on me all the time. Meaning I’m not sure what’s safe to share and what I need to keep to myself.

All I know is I wouldn’t want to hear my alpha admitting he was worried, so I keep my mouth shut and my eyes trained on the sprawling compound a few hundred yards from the hills where my brothers and I observe, along with a handful of bears from the neighboring clan.

They have a vested interest in this, too.

A year ago, we didn’t even know these facilities existed. Now I can’t stop seeing them in every windowless building set too far back from the road, in every unmarked van that lingers a beat too long near pack territory. Paranoia, maybe. Or I’m just paying attention for the first time.

From this vantage point, crouched among the thick trunks of old-growth pine with damp earth under my boots, I can make out the full layout.

Three long, low concrete buildings arranged around a central courtyard, connected by covered walkways.

Industrial. Sterile. The kind of architecture designed to be forgettable, except for the details that give it away.

Floodlights mounted at even intervals, their beams carving sharp white lines across the pavement until there isn’t a shred of darkness to hide in.

Chain-link fencing topped with razor wire, doubled up on the east side where the tree line creeps closest. Guard towers at the north and south corners, as if this were a prison and not the research facility their paperwork claims.

Because that’s what they call it. Research. The things they’re doing behind those walls isn’t anything close to science. As if sticking needles into kids like Addison, who was eight years old when they took her, qualifies as progress.

My brother Zeke growls as if he’s thinking about the torture his mate suffered for ten years. The sound reverberates until I feel it in my chest. “And we’re sure about the recon that’s been done?” he asks. “We know for a fact this is their main location?”

I hear the real question underneath his words. Are we wasting our time here? If we blow this place up like we blew up the last facility, will we only find out there’s more work being done elsewhere?

It’s a fair question. After we leveled that first building—the one where they’d kept Addison for ten years—we thought we’d cut the head off the snake. We were wrong. The note that showed up days later made that painfully clear, telling us we might have won the battle but not the war.

As threats go, it was effective. Not because we were afraid, though I’d be lying if I said it didn’t put the pack on edge.

It was effective because it was true. We didn’t understand.

We still don’t, not fully. How long has this been going on?

How many facilities are there? How deep does this go?

Every answer we’ve uncovered has only led to more questions, and the picture they’re painting is uglier than anything I could’ve imagined.

“This is the place,” Kyran confirms. “The main hub. Where the leader of this damn cult does all his work.”

Cult. I’m not sure that’s the right word. There’s too much I’m unsure of. Nobody is in the mood to have their choice of words corrected, so I don’t bother. I know better.

It’s definitely much bigger than the facility we blew up. Better guarded, too. That could be a direct result of the damage we already caused. They’re more alert than ever, in case we plan on striking again.

So there they are, making sure we know we didn’t stop them.

Going on with their torture. Their tests.

I can’t help but remember the condition Addison was in when we found her: naked, wounded, traumatized.

How many more of our kind are behind those fences with the razor wire and the thick walls to silence the screams?

Every minute we stand here, hidden by the trees on a moonless night, is another minute they’re suffering.

Do they know what happened at the other location? Does word travel like that?

Are they waiting for us? Hoping we’ll rescue them?

I roll the tension out of my shoulders, but it doesn’t do much good.

My wolf paces beneath the surface, restless, agitated, tugging at every thread of anger I’m trying to keep contained.

Right now, he wants to charge in there. Tear down the fences, rip through the guards, burn the whole thing to the ground.

And part of me wants to let him. While the human part of me knows better. Rushing in is how people die. Our people. The ones trapped inside. I’ve already lost enough. We all have.

Cole’s posture changes, and I hear the engine before he speaks. “Someone’s coming.” Sure enough, a black truck with tinted windows is approaching the front gate, high beams on, bright LED lights fanning out in front of it.

And that’s not all.

No one else seems to notice what is so obvious to me. A new scent hanging in the air. Light, sweet, somehow familiar. I breathe deep, but it’s not enough. I can’t pull it deep enough into my lungs to satisfy me.

Cole looks my way over his shoulder. He’s frowning. “What’s wrong?”

I am, apparently. I shake it off, shrugging, looking one more time in the direction the car went in. “Nothing. Just… something on the air.”

Cole sniffs, then shrugs like I did. “I don’t smell anything strange.”

“Wait.” Kyran lowers his binoculars, then hands them to me. “That truck. That’s his truck, isn’t it? The plates are the same.”

Raising the binoculars to my eyes, I locate the vehicle, slowing down now as the driver waits for the guards to slide the gate open. Because, sure, all medical research facilities need armed guards at the gate, right? Does anyone think there is anything remotely normal about this?

What am I saying? They don’t care. I’m sure any passing driver would dismiss it, if they noticed it at all. There’s a reason the people who built this place chose this location. It’s peaceful, surrounded by thick forest.

“You’re right,” I confirm.

“I told you. Every night. The information was solid.” Kyran sounds pretty damn full of himself, but I’m willing to let it go because his contacts were correct in their reporting.

Dr. Elton Moore is predictable. And for some reason, instead of working during the day, he comes in at night.

Whatever he’s doing, something compels him to wait until dark.

Spotting him marks the next phase of our plan coming into motion. We’ll wait for him to do whatever it is he does there, then we’ll follow him home.

The next step comes after that.

A grim smile begins to spread while I watch the truck roll through the open gate. I hope he has a good night at work. If all goes the way we’ve planned, it will be his last shift.