Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
Hunter Cruz had been watching the house for three days, and his body was starting to file formal complaints.
Now, at forty-five, his body reminded him that even shifter healing had limits.
The house remained dark, aluminum foil pressed against every window to block both light and prying eyes.
Dr. Thomas Brennan was smart enough to know that thermal imaging could track heat signatures through glass, and he was paranoid enough to take countermeasures.
Three years ago, the man had been publishing groundbreaking research in chemical engineering at Bright Institute.
Now he was suspected of cooking meth for the Sinaloa cartel’s Pacific Northwest operation.
Brennan had been on Steel Protection’s bounty list for three months now, ever since he’d skipped out on a court date for possession of precursor chemicals. The bail bondsman was offering good money, but Hunter would have tracked him for free just to get another meth cook off the streets.
Hunter lifted his binoculars, scanning the property through the growing gray light.
Dead lawn, frost-covered and brown. Garbage bins that hadn’t been moved to the curb in weeks.
All the hallmarks of someone who’d stopped caring about keeping up appearances, focused only on the chemistry happening in whatever makeshift lab he’d built inside.
The first kitchen light flickered on three houses down.
0547. Mrs. Mathers, right on schedule. After three days of surveillance on Brennan, Hunter had cataloged the entire street’s morning patterns.
Mr. Gupta would leave for his hospital shifts at 0615.
The school bus would rumble through at 0645, picking up the Robertson kids.
Hunter’s phone buzzed from the passenger seat. He grabbed it, thumb sliding deftly across the screen despite the cold stiffness in his joints.
A text from Dominic Steel. Steel Protection’s alpha had sent a photo at 0523.
The image showed his young mate Valeria in their kitchen, one hand on her enormous belly, the other holding up tiny camo overalls.
“Six weeks to go. Kid’s already practicing night raids on his mom’s bladder. Definitely taking after his old man.”
Hunter’s mouth quirked in a half smile. Dom deserved this.
After everything the pack had been through, the false accusations and the fight to clear their name, their alpha had found his mate and was building something real.
The pack needed that stability. Strong families meant operators who fought harder, had more to protect, more to come home to.
He scrolled through other updates. Case files, bail jumpers flagged in the system, a reminder from Axel that paperwork was due. Standard operational noise. He opened his news app to check overnight updates when a banner ad flashed across the top of the screen.
“Find Your Fated Mate - . All species welcome. True fated mates guaranteed!”
The image showed a happy couple laughing at something. The woman’s hand was on the man’s chest in casual intimacy. They looked comfortable. Complete.
Hunter sighed, staring at the ad longer than he would have liked. Dom had found Valeria through . So had several other shifters he’d known over the years. He glanced at the dark house. Still no movement. Brennan rarely stirred before 0700. Hunter had time.
The decision was tactical, not emotional.
That’s what he told himself as he tapped the ad.
The homepage loaded with testimonials and statistics.
Scientific algorithms, personality matching, pheromone compatibility analysis for shifters.
All very logical. Hunter appreciated logic.
He created an account with the same efficiency he used for any mission brief.
Username: He stared at the field. Other users probably chose something clever or meaningful. After a moment, he typed “Hunter Wolf.” Basic. Accurate.
Age: 45. Species: Wolf shifter.
The photo requirement gave him pause. He scrolled through his phone’s gallery. He had mostly crime scene photos, surveillance shots, and images of suspects. Finally, he found the professional headshot from his Nevada bounty hunter license renewal. It would do.
The personality questionnaire was multiple choice, which made it faster. Favorite color? He selected gray. Dream vacation? He scrolled through options—beach resort, mountain cabin, European tour, adventure camping—and clicked mountain cabin.
Then came the ridiculous questions. “If you were a vegetable, what would you be?”
He chose onion. Layers. Versatile. Essential to many recipes but rarely the star.
The final section asked for a personal statement. Hunter considered leaving it blank, then typed with characteristic bluntness: “Bounty hunter. Former military. Looking for someone who can handle the life.”
Because that was the reality. His life meant odd hours, dangerous situations, and the possibility that one day he might not come home. Anyone who couldn’t accept that would be a liability.
He hit submit at 0645.
The screen changed to a loading animation. “Analyzing your profile...” A progress bar crept forward. 15%. 23%. 41%.
Hunter set the phone on the dashboard and picked up his binoculars again. The algorithm would do its work. Either there was someone compatible out there or there wasn’t. Simple binary outcome. He’d survived forty-five years without a mate. He could survive…
Light.
The garage door at Brennan’s house was rising.
Hunter’s exhaustion evaporated as his wolf surged to alertness. He grabbed the phone and powered it off in one smooth motion, tossing it onto the passenger seat. The hunt was on.
Brennan’s Honda reversed out of the garage, exhaust visible in the cold morning air. The chemist was a shadow behind the wheel, baseball cap pulled low. Hunter waited, counting slowly. Three seconds. Five. Ten.
The Honda turned left at the corner, heading northeast.
Hunter turned his key, the Ram’s engine rumbling to life. He pulled out smoothly. The pursuit led through Fate Mountain’s waking streets.
Brennan drove carefully, obeying every traffic law. Smart. Nothing to draw attention. They approached the elementary school zone. Hunter maintained three cars’ distance. Brennan passed the crosswalk.
A crossing guard stepped into the street in front of Hunter, holding up her stop sign. A line of kids with backpacks started crossing, parents walking them to the early drop-off. Hunter stopped, watching the Honda continue down the street.
More kids appeared. Then a second group. The guard chatted with a parent in the crosswalk, no urgency in her movements.
“Come on,” Hunter muttered, fingers drumming the steering wheel.
By the time the crossing guard finally waved him through, the Honda was gone. Hunter accelerated, checking each side street, but there were too many options. Brennan could have turned anywhere.
He pulled into a strip mall parking lot and slammed his palm against the steering wheel. Days of surveillance blown by an elementary school crossing. He’d have to report the lost surveillance to Dom. His wolf growled in frustration. The hunt would continue, but not today.