Chapter 22
Violet
My phone is ringing.
I register the thin, insistent melody, far too loud for how warm and heavy I feel under the blankets. I reach out sleepily, patting the space beside me—patting for Jason.
My hand hits nothing.
Just cold sheets.
I frown and sweep my fingers wider, searching for the dip of his weight, the brush of his arm, anything.
Empty.
There’s still a crease where he’d been, but no body, no breath, no familiar heat.
“Jason?” I murmur, pushing hair away from my face. “Where’d you put my—”
I stop.
The house answers with nothing. No soft footstep. No rustle of him trying not to wake me. Just silence.
Silence thick enough that I feel it pressing against my ears.
Okay. Maybe he had to go to work early. Maybe he’s in the shower. Maybe Dog-Jason is drooling on the rug and Human-Jason is making coffee and…
My phone keeps ringing.
I swing my legs off the bed, my feet touching the cool floor. I stand carefully, listening. No padding paws. No giant bear-dog breathing somewhere nearby. Just that damn ringtone, coming from farther away than the nightstand.
“Jason? Boy?” I call softly. “Where are you?”
Nothing.
A knot tightens low in my stomach.
I trail my fingers along the wall, following the sound to the en-suite bathroom.
My fingers bump the counter, the edge of the sink, a toothbrush cup. Then plastic. Buzzing.
I snatch up the phone on the last ring and swipe.
“H…hello?”
“Hi! This is Tash from Safe Harbour Guide Dog Program.”
“Oh.” I sag with relief, a tiny laugh escaping. “Hi. Sorry, it’s early. I didn’t… uh… expect a call.”
“No worries at all,” she chirps. “We’re just checking in because we never heard back from you about scheduling your follow-up greeting appointment?”
I blink.
“My… what?”
“With the dogs?” she clarifies. “We were supposed to meet, but then you had an incident with a runaway horse. We haven’t heard from you again to reschedule.”
“I, um… thought I already had a dog,” I say slowly. “Jason? Big. Fluffy. Smells like outside and heaven. You sent him with Beau Bergen, really tall guy?”
There’s a pause.
“Sorry,” she says carefully. “What was the dog’s name?”
“Jason.”
Another pause. Longer.
“Ma’am, we don’t have a dog named Jason.”
My lungs forget how to work.
“And we don’t allow clients to name their dogs,” she adds, voice soft and professional, like she’s gently correcting a grieving aunt. “They keep their program names. We also don’t have anyone by the name of Beau Bergen working for us.”
The world tilts a few degrees.
“But he said he was with the program,” I whisper. “You guys did home visits. Cooking classes. ADA remodel consults. And the… builder guy? With the grip mats? And the stove interface? And the safety walk-through.”
“Ma’am,” she interrupts, still gentle, but now with a wary edge, “we don’t offer in-home cooking lessons. All of our training is conducted on-site or in controlled public locations. We also don’t send remodel experts. Our ADA suggestions are referral-based only.”
My fingers tighten around the phone until my knuckles ache.
“And we definitely don’t send trainers directly to clients’ houses without a supervisor present.”
Silence pours into my ear.
I can hear her breathing. I can hear my breathing. I can hear my heart pounding hard enough to rattle my ribs.
“I’m not sure who told you that,” she finishes, “but it wasn’t us.”
Ice slides down my spine in a thin, miserable trickle.
“I…” My tongue feels huge and useless. “I have to go.”
“Ma’am, wait—what about the dog?” Tash asks quickly. “Can we resche—”
I hang up.
The house is too quiet. No shower running. No stupid, pod coffee machine humming. No giant dog sighing in the hallway because breakfast is late.
“Jason?” I whisper.
Nothing.
I put the phone down with shaking fingers and step out into the hall, ears straining for any hint of him. There’s no warm fur-smell by his bowls. No faint snore from his bed. No sense of a massive, comforting presence filling the space.
My house feels… wrong. Empty.
Panic licks up my throat.
Did Human-Jason take him? Did he steal Dog-Jason and bolt? Was any of this real, or did I just let some stranger move into my house and—
The doorbell explodes into frantic, rapid-fire ringing.
I flinch so hard, my shoulder clips the wall.
It doesn’t stop.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Each frantic chime sharper than the last, like whoever’s out there is determined to wear a groove into my nerves.
Every self-preservation instinct screams to get a knife to defend myself with, call the cops, crawl under the bed and stay there forever. But the bell just keeps going.
“Okay, okay!” I rasp, my voice high and thin. “I’m coming!”
I walk down the stairs, following the memory of my own layout—hallway, console table, the slight dip in the rug seam. I find the front door by the place where the draft brushes my ankles.
My hands shake so hard the deadbolt feels like a puzzle box. I manage to unlock it and yank the door open.
“Violet,” he gasps. “Thank God.”
I recognize the voice immediately. “You!” I snap.
Beau, who I was just talking about, who dropped off Dog-Jason weeks ago. He’s breathing like he sprinted here, chest heaving. His scent hits me first: cold air, damp earth, sweat, and something sharp and metallic underneath.
It smells distinctly like fear.
I stumble back, anger slamming into the panic.
“What did you do?” My voice comes out a little wild. “Where is my dog? And why did the real program just tell me they don’t even have a Jason? What, are you running some kind of scam? Did Human-Jason steal my dog? Or were you all just—”
“I didn’t know!” he blurts, voice cracking. “I swear, I didn’t know Froggy was gonna—” He chokes on the name. “Please, I’m not here to hurt you. I’m tryin’ to get you out.”
“Out of what?” My hands curl into fists. “And which Jason are we talking about, exactly? Human-Jason? Dog-Jason? Because right now, I don’t know if there even is a program or if—”
“Jason is Jason!” he almost wails.
That… does not help.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” I snap. “What does that even—”
He takes a shuddering breath, words tumbling out in a rush.
“Violet, please.” His voice breaks on my name. “He turned himself in. To the alphas. He’s… he’s buyin’ you time, yeah? He’s gonna let them kill him so they don’t come here, and I’m not—” His breath snags. “I’m not letting that happen. Not again. There’s only so much you can expect a wolf to take.”
Wolf.
The word skids across my mind and doesn’t stick.
“I don’t understand,” I say, because I don’t. I can’t. “You’re not making sense. Start over. Slowly.”
“I can’t,” he whispers. “We don’t have time for slowly. We’ve got maybe—” His voice cuts off in a strangled cry. “I need you to trust me. Just this once. Please.”
Trust.
Right.
With the fake program, the fake classes, the missing dog, and the very real terror crawling under my skin.
“Give me one good reason,” I say, my voice shaking. “One.”
Something in him crumples. I can hear it in the exhausted sound that leaves him.
Then he reaches for my hands.
I jerk back on instinct. “Don’t you—”
He doesn’t grab. He doesn’t yank. He just takes my hands gently, like he’s handling something fragile, and puts my hands on his shoulders.
His skin is hot.
“Please don’t freak out,” he murmurs.
“Why would I freak—”
Heat explodes under my palms.
Heat and pressure and a slick, wrong dampness, like flesh turning inside out. Bones… move. There’s no other word for it. They roll and twist under my fingers, rearranging themselves with wet, meaty pops. Air rushes around us, a gust that smells wild, like fur and adrenaline.
I scream and rip my hands back.
My heel hits the threshold and I slam into the doorframe, hard enough to see stars—not that that means much anymore. Pain ricochets down my spine. Paws—plural—heavy, clawed paws, scrape against my entryway tile.
Something huge brushes my shin. Warm, solid, and covered in thick fur. Panting fills the space. Too big to be a dog.
I scramble back until my back meets the wall, heart jackhammering, lungs stuttering.
Then the horror-movie wet sounds start again—bones shifting, muscles slithering under skin, a body rearranging itself in real time. It feels like the air is warping.
The panting quiets.
“Werewolf,” I gasp, voice cracking in half.
“Kinda,” Beau hiccups.
“Kinda?” I choke. “How is that a kinda?”
He lets out a broken laugh that sounds way too close to a sob. “Long story. Part wolf, part dumbass, little bit of criminal, yeah?” He sniffs hard. “Look, I know it’s a lot. But I swear, I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here ’cause Jason’s gonna die if we don’t do somethin’.”
My terror falters at the edges, because he sounds wrecked. Not slick. Not triumphant. Wrecked.
“What did you do?” I whisper. “What did he do?”
He sinks to his knees on the mat like his legs can’t hold him anymore.
“Jason’s not a dog,” he says quietly. “He’s a wolf. A shifter. My brother. And he’s out there right now, with scouts from the biggest pack on the continent breathing down his neck, ’cause he gave himself up so they wouldn’t come for you.”
My heart stops, then starts again, too fast, painful.
“You’re lying,” I say, but my voice doesn’t have any teeth.
Because somewhere deep in my bones, I already know he’s not.
Dog-Jason’s size, the way he moved. Human-Jason knowing my house better than he should have.
The scent. It all clicked too easily, like two halves of a puzzle that were never meant to be separate.
“I wish I was,” Beau whispers. “But I’ve already lost too much. I’m not losin’ him, too. Not when he finally found someone who makes him wanna be better.”
“Why me?” I breathe. “Why my house? Why my dog? Why any of this?”
“Because you smelled like somethin’ we never had,” he says simply. “Safety. Home. Like… hope.” His voice cracks on the last word.
It hits me square in the chest.
“Violet,” he says, and the plea in my name almost hurts.
“You’re smart. You’re brave. You survived hell and still make jokes.
You’re the only one he’ll run toward instead of away from.
If we move you now, we break the trail. We buy him time to get free.
We give him a reason not to just… stand there and let ’em kill him. ”
My legs wobble.
“He turned himself in?” I whisper. “For me?”
“Yeah.” Beau’s voice splinters. “’Cause he thought if he ran, they’d come here and grab you instead. So he gave them a better target.”
My stomach flips inside out.
“I need to see you,” I say.
He hesitates, then his knees scuff on the floor as he shuffles closer.
“’Course,” he murmurs. “Do your worst.”
I reach out, hands shaking, and find his face. Stubble scratches my fingertips. His skin is hot and damp with sweat and tears. His jaw trembles under my palm. I trace the line of his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose, the tiny scar on his forehead.
He holds perfectly still.
“Tell me everything,” I say.
And he does.
It comes out in choked, broken bursts—twin alphas, exile, the botched deal, Froggy’s betrayal, the bounty on Jason’s head, last night when Jason slipped out of my bed to run straight toward the wolves who want him dead.
By the time he gets to the part where Jason handed Beau the collar and told him to look after me, my stomach is in full knots.
At some point, Beau’s words drift toward the kitchen. Fridge hinges squeak. A yogurt lid peels back.
“Are you eating?” I demand.
He freezes mid-mouthful.
“Cryin’ makes me hungry,” he says miserably.
“Oh my god.” I lunge toward the sound of the spoon scraping against the plastic of the yogurt tub and snatch it away. “Put the food down.”
He whimpers.
“Shift,” I say.
He swallows. “What?”
“You heard me. Get in your wolf form.”
“Violet, we just established that the wolf thing freaks you right out.”
“Yeah, well, so does my maybe-boyfriend being executed by homicidal werewolves,” I snap. “We’re going to track him, and I’m going to sit on your back if I have to. But we’ll need someone to drive.”
“Drive?” he echoes faintly.
“Obviously.”
“Who’s gonna—”
“Less talk, more shifting.” I demand.
“I can see why he loves you.”
He loves me?
I’m going to get my man… uh…wolf… or whatever.