Chapter 11 Cassidy #2
I remain crouched near the tracks, staring at the doubled-back pattern until my eyes start filling in movement that is not there. The forest is quiet, like it’s staged, like the animals have already decided not to be present.
Ciaran watches me for a beat longer than he needs to.
“You look like you want to run ahead,” he says.
“I want to solve it,” I reply, lifting my gaze.
His expression softens for half a second, then locks back into control. “That’s how people get killed out here.”
“I’m still alive,” I say.
“Barely,” Tomas mutters, then flushes slightly when Kelsey shoots him a look.
I stand slowly, dusting damp soil off my gloves. The cold seeps into my knees, and the cut on my shoulder pulls under the movement, but I keep my breathing steady. I can feel the pull of anticipation in my chest, sharp and inconvenient, because Alden is on his way.
The last time I saw him, his proximity had felt like heat and warning mixed together.
I tell myself this is about the investigation. I tell myself that twice, because the first time does not stick.
We wait in a tight cluster near the tracks, all of us listening.
A branch snaps somewhere downhill. Then the forest goes quiet again, like it is holding its breath for the Alpha’s arrival. Another branch cracks somewhere downhill.
Every wolf in the patrol goes still at the same time, like someone pulled a wire tight through the group.
Ciaran’s head turns first, eyes narrowing toward the sound. Tomas shifts his stance, weight dropping slightly into the balls of his feet, while Kelsey’s hand drifts closer to the knife at her belt.
Then the forest changes.
It is not louder. It is not visibly different. But the air sharpens, charged in a way my body recognizes before my brain catches up.
Ciaran exhales once. “He’s close.”
The words barely leave his mouth before movement flashes through the trees.
Alden does not emerge so much as appear, stepping over a fallen log with the kind of controlled power that makes the rest of the patrol subtly reposition without being told.
His dark hair is slightly wind-tossed, sleeves pushed to his forearms, eyes already locked on the disturbed ground near the tracks.
He does not look at me. Not even once.
Something small and unexpected twists low in my chest.
“Show me,” he says to Ciaran.
Ciaran steps aside immediately and gestures toward the doubled-back trail. “Fresh. She mapped the misdirection.”
Alden crouches without hesitation, fingers brushing the soil once before he goes very still. His focus is absolute, the rest of the world clearly irrelevant in that moment.
I tell myself the tight feeling in my ribs is irritation. It does not feel like irritation.
Without another word, Alden rises and moves several paces down the trail. Then he shifts.
The change is fast and violent and still somehow controlled.
Bone and muscle realign in a blur of motion, and where the man stood seconds ago, a massive black wolf now dominates the narrow ridge.
His coat catches the thin morning light in dark gloss, shoulders broad and powerful, every movement precise and deliberate.
My breath catches involuntarily.
He is bigger than the rogue tracks suggested. Bigger than he looked in the dim light of my cabin porch light. When he lowers his head to the ground, the line of his spine flexes with smooth, contained strength that pulls my attention in ways that have nothing to do with professional curiosity.
I force myself to swallow and focus on the terrain.
Alden moves forward with quiet certainty, nose low, body flowing over rock and root like the mountain shaped itself around him. He does not hesitate at the ravine edge. He does not second-guess the false loop in the tracks.
He just knows.
The sound of his howl splits the morning.
It rolls down the ravine and echoes back through the trees, deep and sharp and unmistakably purposeful. Every hair along my arms lifts in response.
Ciaran glances at me. “That means he’s on the trail.”
“I figured,” I say, though my voice comes out a little tighter than I intended.
Tomas shifts forward, clearly ready to move. I take a step too, instinct pulling me toward the direction Alden vanished.
Ciaran’s hand snaps out and catches my arm.
“Not you,” he says quietly.
“I can keep up,” I reply.
Before he can answer, a low, warning snarl rumbles from somewhere ahead.
It is not loud. It is not subtle either.
The sound freezes me mid-step.
Ciaran’s grip tightens slightly, not rough, but firm enough to make the point. “That was not a suggestion,” he says.
Annoyance flares hot under my skin. “I am not dead weight.”
“No,” Ciaran agrees. “But you are not chasing a rogue wolf through a ravine either.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. Because arguing with the giant shape-shifting wolf currently tracking a killer feels like a losing strategy.
I fold my arms instead. “Fine.”
Tomas hides a smirk badly.
Kelsey elbows him without looking.
We hold position near the disturbed ground, the forest settling back into uneasy quiet. My pulse is still running faster than it should be, though I cannot decide whether that is leftover adrenaline or something far more inconvenient.
Movement flickers in the treeline to the west.
Jace reacts first, pivoting sharply. Tomas follows immediately, shoulders tensing as if he is about to bolt, or shift. Ciaran’s posture shifts into something far more dangerous, weight dropping and attention snapping toward the shadowed brush.
“There,” Tomas says, already leaning forward.
“Wait,” I say, holding up a hand. The word comes out sharper than I expect.
Ciaran’s head turns slightly toward me. “Explain.”
I step closer to the disturbed ground and point toward the faint break in the underbrush. “Look at the spacing.”
Tomas frowns. “It’s movement.”
“It’s staged movement,” I correct, kneeling to brush my fingers lightly over the soil. “See the scuff pattern. It is shallow and inconsistent.”
Kelsey leans in beside me, eyes narrowing. “Not a full weight transfer.”
“Exactly,” I say. “If the rogue moved through here at speed, the impressions would be deeper and more directional. This is a lure trail.”
Ciaran studies the ground another second, then exhales slowly. “He is trying to pull us off the primary track.”
Jace straightens, tension easing slightly. Tomas’s expression shifts from frustration to reluctant understanding.
“Well,” Tomas mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “That would have been embarrassing.”
I stand and brush dirt from my gloves. “It would have been inefficient.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, then looks at me properly for the first time since we left the estate. “Good catch, Ellis.”
The open approval hits warmer than it should. For some reason, the respect of the people loyal to Alden matters to me.
A minute later, the underbrush parts again.
Alden emerges from the trees in wolf form first, massive shoulders rolling with controlled power as he steps onto the open ground.
His dark coat is dusted with pine needles and streaked faintly with dirt from the ravine walls.
When his gaze sweeps the patrol, it pauses on me for half a heartbeat longer than necessary with his bright wolf eyes.
Heat prickles under my skin before I know what’s happening.
Then he shifts.
The transformation back is just as fast, muscle and bone folding inward until the man stands where the wolf had been. Ciaran is already moving, pulling a pair of dark sweatpants from his pack and tossing them over without comment.
Alden catches them easily.
I absolutely try not to stare. I fail immediately.
He is cut along the outer line of his thigh, a shallow slice from brush or rock, the skin flushed and bright against the cold morning air.
My gaze snags there for half a second too long before I force it away, heat rising into my cheeks like my body has decided humiliation is the appropriate response.
Professional, I remind myself. Be professional.
By the time I look back, the sweatpants are in place and Alden steps toward me.
Up close, his expression is sharper than before, eyes narrowed slightly like he is tracking something beyond the visible world. Without preamble, he holds out a small strip of dark fur.
“From the rogue,” he says.
I take it carefully, pulling a sample bag from my pack. The fur is coarse and dense between my fingers, darker even than Alden’s wolf coat.
“I can run fiber and genetic comparison,” I say. “If he belongs to your… population, I might be able to isolate lineage markers.”
Alden’s gaze stays fixed on the treeline behind me.
“What’s wrong,” I ask quietly.
His eyes flick to mine, then past me again. The tension in his posture is subtle but unmistakable.
“We are being watched,” he says.
Ciaran goes still. “Direction,” he asks.
Alden’s jaw tightens. “Distant. Whoever it is knows how to stay downwind.”
A chill slides down my spine despite the thin morning sun. “Human?” I ask.
“Unclear,” he replies.
The lack of certainty is worse than a clean answer.
I seal the fur sample carefully and slide it into my pack. “Do you want me to pull the team back?”
Alden finally looks directly at me again. The weight of his attention lands hard and steady and sends and unexpected shiver through me.
“I want you to get back to work,” he says.
And just like that, the moment ends.