Chapter 15
Conner
Garrett calls at five in the morning. I’m already awake.
Haven’t closed my eyes. Every time I try, my body reminds me where my hands were four hours ago—under her shirt, her back arching against the side of my truck, her breath ragged against my ear.
And then the phone. Garrett’s name on the screen.
And the enforcer stepped in where the man wanted to stay.
I chose the job. I always choose the job. But I’ve never hated the choice before.
I’m mid-coffee when his call buzzes.
“Need you at the compound. Now.” Garrett’s voice is clipped. Business.
“What are the details?”
“We’ll go over it when you get here.”
“Is it the family from the Brennan hollow? The Oklahoma group?”
“Different. These are new. Dawes says they’re not clean.”
Not clean. My stomach drops. Not clean means magic-blooded. Means the protocol applies.
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
I drive to the compound. My wolf is quiet. Not settled, just waiting. He knows what’s coming. He’s done this before.
Garrett’s on the porch with Dawes. My brother’s in ranch mode: boots, work shirt, coffee in hand.
His face is set in the expression I know as the alpha processing a problem.
Dawes stands beside him—mid-twenties, built solid through the chest, carrying himself with the coiled readiness of a wolf who runs boundary patrols the way other people breathe.
He’s been on perimeter duty for months, and he’s good at it.
Quiet, thorough, doesn’t miss much. He’s holding a thermos and a folded map.
“Talk to me,” I say, taking the porch steps two at a time.
Dawes opens the map. “Found them yesterday evening. South ravine, about two miles past the creek crossing. A couple, two kids. They’ve set up camp in one of the overhangs.”
“How’d you find them?”
“The kids. The older one was playing in the creek. I picked up his scent on the boundary patrol.” Dawes’s expression is neutral, professional. “The scent’s wrong, Conner. Magic signature. Faint, but it’s there. Both the kids.”
Both kids carry magic. My gut tightens. The Oklahoma family in the Brennan hollow was clean. Simple assessment, simple outcome. This is different.
“The parents?” I ask.
“Father reads clean. Mother’s borderline. Hard to tell without getting close.”
“How old are the kids?”
“Dawes thinks the older one’s about eight,” Garrett says. “Younger one’s maybe three.”
Eight. Three.
“Standard protocol,” Garrett says. He drains his coffee. “Assess, confirm, relocate if necessary. You know the drill.”
“Yeah. I know the drill.” But I don’t like it.
“Take Tate with you. He needs the field experience.”
“I don’t need Tate.”
“It’s not about what you need. The kid’s been on watch duty for three months. He needs to see how an assessment works.” Garrett sets his cup on the porch railing. “Take him. Let him learn.”
I don’t argue. There’s no point arguing with Garrett when he’s in operational mode. He’s already moved on to the next problem. I can see it in his eyes, the way the alpha cycles through priorities like a man sorting mail.
“Sure,” I say, moving to turn away.
“And Conner…”
“Yeah?” I glance back at him.
“How’re you getting along with your outsiders? The women in town.” Garrett’s expression is inscrutable.
“Fine,” I answer. “All good.”
“All good?” He cocks his head. “All good in what way?”
“In the good way,” I deadpan. “Been keeping an eye out, like you asked. She’s been keeping her nose clean.”
“That so?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Drinks coffee, asks about ranching. Not much else.”
“Sure about that?” Garrett’s not letting up.
“I’m sure, Garrett. If I were worried, I’d let you know.” I keep my voice firm. “Now, if you’re done interrogating me, I’ve got people to move.”
“Right,” he says, eyes calculating. “You do that.”
I walk away without further comment, but my senses are prickling. I haven’t been watching her for any of the right reasons. She hasn’t done anything that seems suspicious, but then again, have I really been looking hard enough?
Fuck it. I’ve got more pressing things to worry about right now.
Tate’s waiting by the trucks. He’s dressed for the field: boots, jacket, a knife on his belt that he probably doesn’t need but makes him feel official.
“Morning, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir. Makes me feel old.” I climb into the truck. He takes the passenger seat. “You know what we’re doing?”
“Assessment. Dawes flagged magic signatures in a family on the south border.”
“That’s right. Here’s how this works. I talk. You watch. If the situation stays calm, which it will, you don’t say a word. If it goes sideways, which it won’t, you follow my lead. Clear?”
“Clear.”
We drive south. The ranch road gives way to rough track. The ravine is a natural cut in the terrain, steep-sided, with a creek at the bottom that runs in spring and goes dry by August. Good shelter. Hidden from the main roads. Exactly where you’d camp if you didn’t want to be found.
I park on the ridge above the ravine, and we walk down. Tate is quiet beside me, his wolf close to the surface. I can smell the shift on him, the nervous energy of a young wolf in unfamiliar territory.
The camp is under the overhang, as Dawes said, sheltered from wind and rain. A tent. A tarp stretched between two trees for additional cover. A fire pit with fresh ash. A cooler, a couple of bags, a pile of firewood stacked neatly against the rock wall.
A man rises from where he’s been tending the fire.
Mid-thirties. Brown skin, black hair cropped short, lean in the way people get lean when meals aren’t guaranteed.
His eyes find me immediately, assess me, read the rank in my posture.
He steps in front of the tent. Between me and whatever’s behind him.
“Morning,” I say. “Conner Forrester. This is Forrester territory.”
“Good to meet you, Mr. Forrester.” His voice is controlled. Respectful, but not submissive. A wolf who’s learned that showing weakness gets you treated worse. “We’re passing through. Heading south.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Three days. We needed rest. The kids were—” He stops. Reconsiders. “We needed rest.”
A woman emerges from the tent. She’s small, dark-haired, with the alert stillness of a wolf who’s been running for a long time.
There’s a small child hiding behind her legs.
Dark curls, big brown eyes, a thumb in his mouth.
He stares at me with the frank, unblinking assessment of a toddler who hasn’t learned to look away from things that scare him.
An older kid appears behind his mother. Eight, give or take, like Dawes estimated.
Same dark hair as his father. He’s trying to stand tall, trying to look like he’s not afraid, and failing at both.
His eyes are locked on Tate and me—two ranked wolves standing in his camp—and his body is vibrating with the effort of not bolting.
My wolf makes a sound in my chest. Low. Not a growl. Something closer to anxiety. The animal doesn’t like this. He’s looking at these kids, and his hackles want to rise, not in threat but in protest, and I have to consciously push him down.
“Routine check,” I say, keeping my voice unthreatening. Talking to the father, but aware of the eight-year-old’s eyes on me. “We get drifters through here sometimes. I need to ask a few questions.”
“Go ahead.”
“Where are you from?”
“Louisiana. Originally.”
“Pack affiliation?”
“None. Independent.”
“How long have you been traveling?”
“Seven months.” The number comes out tired. Seven months on the road with two small children. I try not to think about what that looks like: the motels, the gas stations, the camps in ravines, hoping nobody finds you.
“And I need to ask about bloodline.”
The mother’s arms tighten around the toddler. The eight-year-old goes rigid. The father’s face doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes closes, a door slamming shut on whatever hope he was carrying that this would go differently.
“The kids carry,” he says. Quiet. Factual. Like he knows there’s no point in lying about it. “Magic. Both of them. Low-level. They can’t do anything with it; the older one barely manifests. The little one doesn’t know he has it.”
“And you?”
“Clean. Both of us. It’s a recessive line. Skipped us, hit the kids.”
The mother is looking at me now. Her eyes are steady and dry and old in a way that has nothing to do with her age. She knows what the question means, and she knows what comes next. One hand goes to the toddler; the other reaches behind her and finds the eight-year-old’s shoulder, pulling him close.
The kid looks up at me. Straight at me. Dark eyes, skinny face, too old for his age. He’s scared, and he’s trying so goddamn hard not to show it that something in my chest cracks.
Not my wolf. Me.
“The protocol,” Tate says quietly beside me.
I know the protocol. I’ve executed it a dozen times. Magic-blooded wolves on Forrester territory are relocated. Escorted to the handoff point on the county road, transferred to the contact who takes them south. It’s clean. It’s efficient. It’s what we do.
“We’ll need to move you along,” I say, professional, calm, the enforcer delivering a decision that isn’t personal.
“Forrester territory doesn’t accommodate magic bloodlines.
It’s a safety issue. We’ll escort you to a transfer point where you’ll be connected with people who can place you in a community that’s better suited to your situation. ”
The father nods. He expected this. It’s no secret that Forrester territory is purist. He shouldn’t have stopped here in the first place.
His body sags with the resignation of a man who’s heard this line before.
Different words, different territories, the same outcome.
Keep moving. You don’t belong here. Someone else will take you.
“When?” he asks.
“Today. I can give you an hour to pack up. Then we’ll take you to the transfer point.”
“Where are we going? The transfer point… where does it lead?”