Chapter 12
CALEB
The coffee mug sits untouched on my desk, steam curling into the afternoon light filtering through the station windows.
Paperwork spreads before me in neat stacks—incident reports, patrol schedules, the mundane machinery of keeping a town running.
I'm halfway through a budget request when Gregson pokes his head through the doorway.
"Sheriff, got a minute?"
I glance up, noting the slight tension around his eyes. "What is it?"
"That journalist—Carter? She was asking Jim Henley about trail access this morning. Specifically wanted to know about the old logging roads that lead into Ravenwood Hollow."
The words hit like ice water down my spine. My pen stills against the paper, and I force my expression to remain neutral even as every instinct screams danger.
"Trail access?"
"Yeah, seemed real interested in whether any of those back routes are still passable. Jim mentioned she had a map spread out on his counter, circling areas." Gregson shifts his weight. "Thought you'd want to know, considering..."
He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to. Everyone knows those woods hold memories we'd rather leave buried.
"Thanks for the heads-up."
Gregson nods and retreats, leaving me alone with the sudden roar of blood in my ears.
My wolf surges forward like a tide breaking against a seawall—urgent, demanding, absolutely certain that this cannot happen.
The sensation floods my chest with heat, every muscle tensing as if I'm about to launch myself through the window and straight to wherever she is.
Now. Stop her. Protect.
The chair creaks as I grip its arms, knuckles white against the worn leather. I count my breaths—in for four, hold for four, out for four—until the immediate surge subsides enough for rational thought to resurface.
She's not just sitting in the library thumbing through files anymore. She's doing her own investigating.
“Of course she is,” I mutter.
Journalists don’t stop because someone politely suggests they might want to. They stop when the story runs out—or when they hit something sharp.
And Ellie Carter does not strike me as someone who enjoys being told no.
I reach for my radio, thumb hovering over the call button. One word and I could have her intercepted before she takes a step toward those trees. One conversation and I could redirect her attention somewhere safer, somewhere that won't unravel everything we've built here.
But the image of her face during our last encounter stops me—the way she'd straightened her shoulders when I'd deflected her questions, the spark of determination that had replaced disappointment. She'd already decided I was an obstacle. Direct intervention would only confirm her suspicions.
Instead, I dial a different number.
"Rowan? I need quiet eyes on the Hollow perimeter. Starting tonight."
"How quiet?"
"Ghost quiet. She doesn't see you, doesn't sense you. Just... awareness."
A pause. "The journalist?"
"She's getting too close."
"Want me to—"
"No interference. Just watch. Report movement, timing, approach routes. Nothing more."
Another pause, longer this time. "Caleb, if she's heading into those woods alone—"
"I know." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Just... keep her safe from a distance."
I end the call and I tilt my head back, staring at the ceiling tiles as if they hold answers. The wolf paces beneath my skin, dissatisfied with half-measures and silent surveillance when every instinct demands I simply claim what's mine and remove her from danger.
But she's not mine to claim. Not yet. Maybe not ever, if I can't find a way to protect both her and the truth she's hunting.
The radio crackles with routine chatter—traffic stops, noise complaints, the ordinary problems of ordinary people living ordinary lives. None of them know how close their world teeters on the edge of exposure.
The scent hits me first—metallic and wrong, threading through the evening air like spilled copper. I pause mid-stride on the patrol route, nostrils flaring as my wolf surges beneath the surface.
Fresh tracks press into the soft earth near the forest’s edge, too deliberate for wildlife, too purposeful for coincidence. The impressions are deeper at the heel, suggesting weight carried in haste. Or pursuit.
"Shit." The word escapes before I can catch it.
I kneel beside the clearest print, measuring it against my palm. Human, but the gait pattern speaks of something else—something that moves between forms when necessity demands. The spacing tells a story of controlled aggression, of hunting rather than wandering.
My phone buzzes against my ribs. Text from Rowan: Perimeter check complete. All quiet on the eastern boundary.
All quiet. Right.
I thumb back: Copy. Maintain watch.
The lie tastes bitter, but panic serves no one. Not when Ellie's scent still lingers on the wind, mixed with determination and that particular brand of stubbornness that drives reporters toward danger like moths toward flame.
Three more sets of tracks emerge as I follow the trail. They converge near the old logging road, then scatter—a pattern I recognise from hunts that went sideways years ago. Someone's coordinating movement, using the forest like a chessboard.
“Fantastic,” I mutter to myself. “That’s exactly what we need.”
The woods, naturally, offer no commentary.
I’ve broken up bar fights, chased teenagers out of restricted areas, and once spent three hours mediating a dispute over a goat. None of that prepared me for explaining why a journalist wandered into the worst place possible at exactly the wrong time.
My wolf paces behind my ribs, demanding action. Protection. The mate bond pulls tight as a bowstring, every instinct screaming to find her, claim her, keep her safe.
But intervention means exposure. Means questions I can't answer without revealing truths that could shatter more than just pack secrecy. The town council would have my head. The state authorities would follow.
And Ellie…
Ellie would run. Fast and far, taking her brilliant mind and fierce heart somewhere I could never follow.
"Monitoring," I mutter to the gathering darkness. "Just monitoring."
The words feel flimsy as tissue paper.
I pull out my radio, thumb hovering over the channel that would summon backup. Five minutes and I could have a dozen pack members sweeping these woods, eliminating threats before they solidify.
But five minutes might be four too many.
Instead, I clip the radio back to my belt and step into the treeline. If I can't intervene openly, I can at least ensure she's not walking into an ambush alone.
The tracks lead deeper into Ravenwood Hollow, where moonlight struggles against the canopy and shadows pool. Where Ellie's scent grows stronger with each step.
Where something else waits in the darkness, patient and predatory.
The shift hits me like ice water down my spine.
I'm a hundred yards behind Ellie, tracking her progress through the undergrowth with the practiced silence of someone who's spent decades moving through these woods.
The mate bond hums between us, a constant awareness that's both blessing and curse—I know exactly where she is, can feel her determination like a second heartbeat in my chest.
I can also feel the fear she’s trying hard to ignore.
My protective instinct distracts me from noticing something else moving in the darkness ahead of her as quickly as I should.
“Focus,” I snap under my breath.
This isn’t about instincts or bonds or any of the other things I’ve been trying not to name. It’s about a woman in the woods with no idea how bad her timing is.
And I am done pretending I can afford to be careful.
The forest betrays the intruder before my eyes do. Birds fall silent mid-song. The rustle of small creatures fleeing creates a ripple effect that spreads outward like stones dropped in still water. Even the wind seems to hold its breath.
My wolf surges forward, every instinct screaming. The scent reaches me then—unfamiliar, predatory, carrying the metallic tang of intent. Not pack. Not human either, though it walks on two legs.
"Shit." The word escapes through gritted teeth as I break into a run, abandoning any pretense of stealth.
Branches whip past my face, thorns catch at my jacket, but I push harder.
The distance I've maintained—the careful, cautious space I thought would protect both of us—now feels like an ocean between us.
Through the trees ahead, I catch glimpses of Ellie's flashlight beam dancing erratically. She's moving faster now, her breath coming in short puffs that fog in the cold air. Does she sense it too? The wrongness that's settled over Ravenwood Hollow like a shroud?
The other presence closes in on her position. I can feel it converging, can smell its hunger on the wind. My phone buzzes against my ribs—probably Rowan wondering where the hell I am—but I don't slow to check. Every second counts.
"Come on, come on," I mutter, leaping over a fallen log that would have taken precious moments to navigate around. The mate bond pulls tighter, urgency flooding through it like electricity through copper wire. She's scared now—I can feel it bleeding through our connection, sharp and bright.
The beam of her flashlight wavers, stops, then swings wildly to the left. She's heard something. Seen something. The predator smell grows stronger, closer, mixed now with the acrid scent of fear.
My wolf claws at my control, demanding I shift, demanding I claim what's mine and tear apart anything that threatens her. But shifting means questions I can't answer, secrets I can't reveal. Not yet.
The flashlight beam disappears entirely.
"Ellie." Her name tears from my throat, raw and desperate, as I crash through the final barrier of undergrowth between us.