Chapter 6
CADE
Her chest heaves against mine, and I can feel every tremor, every ragged breath. I press my forehead lightly to hers, just enough to feel the warmth radiate, the pulse racing under her skin. My wolf thrums beneath me, impatient and raw, like it knows the thread between us has snapped taut.
“Tell me,” I murmur, voice almost a whisper. “What were you thinking, going out there alone?”
Her lips press together, and she meets my eyes, defiance mingling with the panic still lingering in her gaze.
“I told you—I needed to know. I needed to see the forest. I couldn’t just… hide in a cabin and pretend everything was safe. I couldn’t stand it. I tried. But I couldn’t.”
I growl softly, low in my throat, half-warning, half-frustration.
“You don’t understand what’s out there. And you didn’t have to prove anything. You could have died.”
She swallows hard, gaze dropping to the ground for just a moment before rising again.
“Then you should have stopped me sooner,” she shoots back, voice trembling but sharp. “Instead, you watched. And now…” Her words falter, but the intent is clear. “…now I’m supposed to trust you.”
She isn’t hurt badly—just a few scratches and bruises—but the fear hasn’t left her. Neither has the adrenaline. I shift my stance, holding her firmly, my hands tracing the tension along her shoulders without meaning to, while my wolf rumbles low in my chest, whispering, insisting.
“Easy,” I murmur, not trusting my voice to remain calm.
The words feel inadequate. Nothing feels adequate. My wolf surges, hungry and insistent, pressing against the edges of my control. She smells like fire and earth, like rain-soaked leaves and something I can’t name but know is mine.
Her head lifts slightly, and I catch the sharp intake of breath as she realizes I’m looking at her. Her eyes, wide and hazel-bright, meet mine, and now she doesn’t look terrified—just confused. Confused, and angry.
“You could have told me… something,” she says, voice quivering but firm. “I had no idea what was out there. I didn’t even know how to protect myself.”
I squeeze her shoulder, hard enough to anchor her but not to hurt.
“I told you not to go into the forest. That’s all I could do.”
My tone is sharp, controlled—but my wolf snorts, impatient with the restraint. She doesn’t get it. Not yet.
“I know,” she snaps, “but I couldn’t. I couldn’t just… sit in town while something out there hunts me. I had to understand. I had to know what I was dealing with.”
Her voice rises slightly, and I feel the pull in my chest tighten. Dangerous, protective, claiming. My wolf growls softly.
“Understand?” I repeat, low and measured. “You almost died because you didn’t.”
I want to yell it, to make her hear it in every cell of her body. My claws itch to mark, to warn. My wolf rumbles, frustrated, and I grit my teeth. Not here. Not yet.
Her hands twitch at her sides, brushing against my arms.
“And yet, here I am.”
Her voice softens. Almost teasing. But the undercurrent is defiance. I hate that I like it. Hate that I can feel it pulling me closer, making my wolf frenzied.
Her eyes scan my face, searching for something—an explanation, a reason, an anchor—and I feel my wolf tense against me.
“Do you always watch everyone like this?” she asks, a hint of exasperation threading through her fear.
“Only when they’re in danger,” I reply, voice clipped, though my chest tightens at the thrum of possessiveness.
My wolf growls softly, annoyed at my restraint. She smells like danger now, like fire and earth and something utterly irresistible.
“Danger,” she repeats, lips curling slightly, a wry edge entering her tone. “So… I’m officially dangerous now?”
My jaw tightens.
“You clearly still don’t realize the kind of danger you’ve walked into,” I warn, the words low but firm. “Not everything in these woods is human… and you’ve been marked—whether you know it or not.”
I groan, running my fingers through my hair.
“You’re not like other humans,” I say, finally letting a fragment of thought escape.
Not fully conscious of the words. They’re raw, but they taste like truth. My wolf growls, warning, possessive, and I force myself to inhale, to exhale, to push some control back into my human mind.
She frowns.
“What does that mean?”
I hesitate. I want to explain. I want to tell her everything—the pack, the territory, the rules—but I can’t. Not yet. She wouldn’t understand. She would panic. Or worse, she’d fight. And I… I can’t lose control. Not now, not ever.
“You’ll find out,” I reply finally. My voice is rough, clipped, a shield. “But for now, you stay close. You don’t go anywhere without me.”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t argue. Not yet. I can feel the stubborn energy that got her this far, and my wolf hums, impatient and wild. She’s mine. I don’t know how, or when, or why, but my wolf knows it, and it’s beginning to seep into my human mind in ways I can’t ignore.
“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” she asks suddenly, voice softer, quieter.
The question lances through me, a direct hit to the growing heat coiling in my chest. My wolf snarls. My throat tightens.
“I’m making sure you don’t get yourself killed,” I lie, tone clipped, but the lie tastes metallic in my mouth.
My wolf growls at the weakness in that statement. We both know there’s more. Always more.
She stares at me, wide-eyed and unafraid.
“Even after everything… you’re still… watching me?”
There’s disbelief in her tone, mixed with something else—something dangerous and sticky that makes my wolf twitch with hunger.
“Yes,” I admit, voice low. Too low. She leans back just a fraction, startled by the sudden rawness, and my wolf snarls, furious at her pulling away. “Because you matter. And you clearly can’t be trusted to listen to reason. And I can’t… let anything happen to you.”
“Even if I want to,” she says, and there’s a tremor in her lips, a flicker of humor hiding beneath the fear. “Even if I want to run back into the woods, you’d stop me.”
I swallow. I want to argue. I want to tell her she has no idea what she’s talking about. But I can’t. Not without admitting how deeply, completely, unreasonably my wolf has claimed her. And if I say it aloud, if I speak that truth, there is no going back.
“Exactly,” I reply instead, letting the weight of my gaze do the work.
She shivers, and my wolf rumbles, deep, possessive, and it is all I can do to maintain the illusion of calm.
She blinks, then tilts her head.
“I don’t even know your name,” she says, almost teasingly, though her voice is tight with tension. “I should at least know who’s keeping me from dying in the woods.”
I want to smile. I want to tell her she can call me whatever she wants, she can know me entirely, but I bite down on the words.
“Cade,” I answer finally. One word. Solid, grounding. “Remember it.”
“I will,” she says, voice soft, almost reverent, and it hits me like a punch.
My wolf bellows silently, clawing at the edges of my restraint. She doesn’t know what that means, what it should mean, and I don’t correct her. Not yet.
We move through the forest, slower now, careful.
I keep her close, hand on her back, guiding, steering, blocking, warning.
Every snap of twig, every rustle of leaves, makes my muscles tighten, my senses flare.
The creatures aren’t gone. They never will be.
But for now, they’ve retreated, beaten back, humiliated.
“I have to ask,” she murmurs after a long stretch of silence, voice hesitant. “Why didn’t you just… kill them all?”
I pause, thumb brushing along her shoulder, forcing calm.
“Because I can’t,” I say finally. “Not yet. They’re organized. There’s more than what you saw tonight. And they won’t stop coming for you.”
Her face pales.
“For me?”
“Yes,” I say, low and deliberate. My wolf thrums beneath my skin, fierce, claiming, threatening. Every instinct I have wants to tell her the truth, to tell her that she is mine in ways that no human law, no pack law, could ever dispute. But I resist. “For you.”
She swallows, trying to steady herself.
I glance down at her, noting the way she braces against a tree, trembling slightly, and I feel the wolf surging in my chest, restless and raw.
“And you wonder why I don’t let you out of my sight?” I mutter, not fully aware that the words carry more claim than caution.
She tilts her head, eyes narrowed, a flicker of stubbornness flaring.
“Maybe because you think I can’t handle myself?” Her voice is teasing, but beneath it there’s steel. “I’ve gotten this far, haven’t I?”
“This far?” I echo, tone sharp, warning. “Barely alive, shaken to your core, running from things you don’t even understand yet. And you call this ‘getting this far’?”
She meets my gaze unflinchingly.
“I didn’t ask to be safe,” she says quietly. “I wanted to see what’s real. I wanted to know.”
My wolf snarls deep in my chest.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I reply, each word a struggle against the raw instinct clawing inside me.
“Besides, what do you know now that you didn’t before you embarked on this ridiculous suicide mission?
Do you know what’s hunting you? Why? Why you have this mental impairment that keeps you sending yourself into the woods when there’s a high chance you’ll be killed? ”
And still, I can’t look away from her.
“I—I didn’t even know why I kept going. I should have listened.”
Her voice cracks slightly, and my wolf growls softly, deep and approving. She is stubborn. She is alive. And she refuses to bow to fear.
“You wouldn’t have listened anyway,” I say quietly, almost to myself. “And that’s why you’re still here.”
Her brow furrows.
“Still here?”
I don’t answer immediately. The words would be dangerous. My wolf surges, eager to claim her, to declare her, and I fight it, focusing on the path, on every step, on keeping her safe.
“Just… stay with me. You’ll understand soon enough.”
She nods, and I can see the questions bubbling beneath the surface. Her curiosity, her bravery, her defiance—they’re part of what makes her… dangerous. For me. My wolf growls again, low and satisfied. Yes. That’s exactly what makes her mine.
The forest thins ahead, the first faint lights of Silver Ridge flickering between the trees. I relax slightly, but only slightly. My wolf whines softly, reminding me that this is only the beginning. That her presence here, in our territory, is a threat to everything we’ve guarded for generations.
I tighten my grip on her hand, guiding her toward the edge of town.
“Almost there,” I murmur. “Safe… for now.”
She leans into me slightly, trust and exhaustion mingling, and my wolf hums, deep and insistent. I can feel it threading through me, claiming, insistent, ancient. I resist. Not yet. But the pull is inevitable, and I know—no, I feel—that once it snaps, there will be no going back.
And I’m not sure I want to go back. Because she is mine. Or she will be.
I adjust my hold on her hand, reluctant to let it slip even for a second. Her pulse hammers beneath my fingers, her warmth threading into mine, and it feels… wrong. And perfect. And inevitable all at once.
“Cade,” she murmurs softly, voice almost lost under the forest canopy. “What happens now?”
I glance down at her, wolf and human in violent harmony, heart hammering, instincts screaming.
“Now… we survive,” I say carefully, deliberately vague, though every fiber of me wants to say more. “Now… we stay together. And we figure out the rest.”
She nods, faint and uncertain, but I feel the thread tauten between us, the subtle hum of the bond trying to claim more space, more of us, in ways we can’t yet control.
My wolf growls low, satisfied, impatient, insistent.
And I—Cade Mercer, pack enforcer, predator, protector—feel the first real pull of what it means to lose control willingly.