Chapter 3
ELIZA
The sunlight filters through the library windows in gold streaks, dust motes floating lazily in the air, but I can’t focus on that.
My mind is still buzzing from the walk into town last night, the way Cade Mercer appeared like some silent guardian from the forest itself.
There’s something about him, something in the way he watches that makes my pulse tighten.
My journalist instincts tell me I should interview him, get a story, maybe even a profile piece—but another voice, smaller and insistent, whispers that I might be in over my head.
Helen Holden is perched at her desk, cataloging the day’s donations with the methodical patience of someone who has done this job for decades. She glances up at me and smiles, the kind of gentle reassurance that makes her seem solid in a town full of secrets.
“Good morning, Eliza,” she says. Her voice has that faint warmth that makes you trust her instantly. “Settling in okay?”
I nod, adjusting the strap of my shoulder bag.
“Yes, thank you. The cabin is fine. Small, but cozy. And quiet,” I add, the last word more a comment than a complaint.
Silence is something I’ve grown accustomed to, but the kind of silence here carries an edge, like the mountains themselves are listening.
Helen tilts her head slightly, her eyes sharpening.
“Quiet is good in these parts. The forest has ears, you know.”
I chuckle, but there’s an undercurrent of unease in her tone. I can’t tell if she’s teasing or warning. Maybe both.
“Ears?” I ask, leaning against the desk. “You mean the wildlife?”
“Wilder things than that,” she says cryptically, then returns to her work.
I shake my head and sit at the table, opening a folder marked Silver Ridge Records: Historical Incidents.
Helen gave me a stack of files last night, the first batch of decades-old records I’ll be cataloging for the town.
I flip through them quickly, scanning headings: “Property Disputes,” “Town Council Minutes,” “Predator Attacks.”
The last one catches my attention immediately.
A report from the 1970s details livestock found mauled beyond recognition, the descriptions vaguely familiar but strange enough to be almost mythical.
Footprints too large for any known predator, some accounts mentioning “hunched figures with eyes that glowed in the dark.” My pulse quickens, half with the thrill of a potential story, half with a creeping sense of dread.
I trace my finger over the typed lines. There’s a pattern, stretching over decades, and most of it has been dismissed as folklore—or accidents. But my instincts scream that there’s more beneath the surface.
I need a break. My shoulders ache from hunching over the table.
I grab my camera, deciding to take a walk and photograph the nearby trails for my article idea about local folklore and hiking.
The mountain air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth.
I inhale deeply, trying to shake the lingering unease from last night’s encounter with Cade, though it’s not exactly fear—it’s more curiosity mixed with something I can’t quite identify.
He seemed to materialize out of nowhere. Out of the dark. He seemed angry that I was outside, but it’s not as if I was in the forest. I was on the sidewalk. Under a streetlight. He barely spoke before looking me over and disappearing again.
Small-town people are just weird.
The trails are familiar on the map but look entirely different in person. Moss carpets the ground, and shadows from towering pines stretch long in the afternoon sun. Birds call out, but the sound seems muted, as though the forest is holding its breath.
I follow the path deeper into the woods, camera snapping occasionally, noting points of interest, the curve of a stream, the angle of sunlight through the canopy. Every so often, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye—a small animal, probably a deer. But then I pause. Something feels off.
The air is too still. I hear a snap of a twig, distant but deliberate, and I stop, turning slowly. Nothing. My pulse spikes, hands tightening around the camera. I tell myself it’s nothing—forest noises, imagination—but the prickling along my spine says otherwise.
I continue, but slower this time. Every step feels measured, cautious. My journalist brain kicks in. If there’s something here, I need to observe, record, maybe even understand it. But another part of me—smaller, sharper—is whispering, go back. Go back now.
I round a bend, and the feeling intensifies. Something is moving in the underbrush. I freeze, holding my breath, straining to see through the dense foliage. Shadows shift unnaturally. Leaves rustle as if something—or things—are watching me, calculating, waiting.
A subtle smell reaches me then: iron, sharp, like blood, mingled with something wild, almost musky. My stomach knots. My wolf instincts, if I were a shifter, would be screaming. Instead, I swallow hard and tell myself this is just the forest. Just wildlife.
I take another step, snapping a photo, and the rustling grows louder. This time, I see it: a figure, massive, crouched low, moving between the trees. Its shape is wrong. Too tall, too angular, limbs too long. It doesn’t move like a human or an animal I’ve ever seen.
My breath catches.
I back up slightly, careful not to make noise, eyes fixed on the shadow. The camera feels heavy in my hands, suddenly useless. I weigh my options: run or try to see more. Curiosity battles with terror, and curiosity wins for just a moment.
Then a low, guttural sound reaches me, just at the edge of hearing. A growl? Or a warning? My skin crawls. The shadow steps closer, and instinct takes over.
I turn and sprint down the trail, branches clawing at my jacket, roots tangling my feet. Panic makes me faster than I’ve ever run in my life. My lungs burn, my legs ache, but I can’t stop. Something is chasing me, and I don’t want to see what it is.
I hear movement behind me—coordinated, deliberate. There’s more than one. Multiple figures, moving in unison, stalking rather than merely following. My heart pounds in my ears.
Branches whip my face. I stumble over a root, twisting my ankle slightly. Pain shoots up my leg, but I can’t slow down. I push through, scrambling over a small incline, my breath ragged.
And then it happens. I hear a screech, a snarl, close enough that I can feel the heat of it on my skin, smell the wild scent of it. I can’t see clearly, the shadows between trees obscuring everything, but I know they’re closing in. My camera falls from my hands, forgotten.
I scream, the sound sharp and raw, echoing through the forest. My voice carries, bouncing off the trees, and suddenly I hear another presence.
A shadow bursts from the treeline ahead, faster than anything I’ve ever seen. Muscles ripple, movement precise and controlled. A man. A giant of a man, tall, broad, powerful, moving through the forest like he belongs here. Cade.
He charges, hands and arms lashing, striking the creatures with something beyond human strength. The snarling figures leap at him, and in seconds, it’s chaos: limbs flailing, shadows collapsing, the smell of ozone and raw aggression in the air.
I stumble back, terror rooted in my chest. My wolf would be howling, my instincts screaming, if I had one. But I am human, and human is barely enough to comprehend what I’m witnessing.
Cade moves like a predator himself, but controlled, deliberate, cutting down the hybrids with precision. My stomach drops. His eyes meet mine briefly, and something passes in that gaze—intense, unsettling, protective.
I want to speak, to thank him, to ask what he is—but fear and awe tie my tongue.
Then he’s beside me, grasping my arm, lifting me effortlessly, and the world tilts.
My feet leave the forest floor. He carries me away from the chaos, his scent—pine, sweat, something warmer—filling my senses.
My heart thunders, a wild rhythm that mirrors the panic I feel and… something else I don’t understand.
I cling to him, not sure if I’m scared or if the pounding of my pulse at his proximity is something deeper.
Finally, we break into the clearing near the town edge, the remaining shadows of the predators retreating into the forest. He sets me down, eyes scanning me, scanning the woods, and then back to me.
“You shouldn’t have come here alone,” he says, voice low, quiet, but heavy with something I can’t name.
“I—I didn’t know,” I manage to stammer, still catching my breath.
“You should have,” he says, and there’s no anger in his tone, only warning.
His eyes linger on mine a second too long, and a shiver runs through me. Something about the way he looks at me is… intimate, almost possessive, though I know better than to say it aloud.
He turns back toward the forest, scanning, listening, before finally speaking again.
“Stay in town. Avoid the trails.”
I nod, words failing me, and he moves away with the same fluid, controlled power that seemed unnatural in the woods but somehow reassuring now.
I watch him go, a mix of awe and confusion knotting in my chest. My pulse hasn’t slowed. My thoughts spin.
What just happened? What are those things? And what exactly is Cade Mercer?
I gather my camera, dust off my jacket, and make my way back toward town, feeling the weight of something far larger than myself pressing against the edges of this quiet mountain life.
By the time I reach the library, the sun has dipped behind the peaks, casting long shadows across Silver Ridge. Helen glances up at me as I step inside, concern flickering in her eyes.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she says softly.
I manage a small, humorless smile.
“Something like that,” I murmur, and set my camera down on the table.
The images will tell me part of the story, but only part. And I know this is just the beginning. It feels like something in these mountains knows I’m here. And I don’t think it’s going to let me go easily.