11. Eliza
ELIZA
Normal is a strange thing to pretend.
A short time ago, my biggest concern was a half-finished article and whether my editor would ever call me back. Now I wake up in a mountain town that technically shouldn’t exist, surrounded by people who can turn into wolves, and somehow the expectation is that I just… adjust.
I sit at the small wooden desk in the corner of the library and stare at the open book in front of me. I haven’t read a single word in ten minutes.
The library itself is quiet—almost unnaturally so.
Sunlight filters through tall windows, catching dust motes in the air.
The scent of old paper and polished wood is comforting.
It reminds me of college, of long nights chasing stories and deadlines and the illusion that the world made sense if you just asked enough questions.
Now I have answers. Or at least pieces of them. And somehow that’s worse.
I shift in my chair, my ribs still protesting just enough to remind me I’m not fully healed. Clara had insisted I take more time, but sitting still has never been my strength.
Neither has ignorance.
I flip the page of the book without really seeing it and glance toward the front desk.
Mrs. Holden runs the library with the kind of quiet authority that suggests she knows everything happening in town whether you tell her or not. She is sorting returned books into neat stacks.
She hasn’t asked many questions about me.
But she watches. Everyone here watches. At first, I thought I was imagining it.
A trick of nerves after everything that happened in the forest. But I’m not imagining it.
When I walk down the street, conversations dip just slightly.
People glance at me, then away too quickly. Not hostile exactly.
But not welcoming either. Aware. Like I’m something unfamiliar that wandered into their territory. Which, I guess, I did.
I close the book with a soft thud and lean back in my chair, exhaling slowly.
“Still not focusing?”
The voice comes from behind me. I don’t jump. I’ve learned not to. Instead, I turn my head just enough to see Cade standing near the end of the aisle, arms crossed, watching me with that same intense, unreadable expression he always seems to wear.
“Define focusing,” I say.
His mouth twitches faintly.
“You’ve been on the same page since I got here.”
I sigh and turn fully in my chair.
“Maybe it’s not a great book.”
“It’s a regional wildlife guide.”
“Exactly.”
That almost earns a smile. Almost. He steps closer, his presence filling the small space between shelves in a way that feels… deliberate. Grounding. Annoying. Both.
“You should be resting,” he says.
I roll my eyes.
“You say that every time I do anything that isn’t lying down.”
“Because your body is still recovering.”
“And because you don’t like not knowing exactly where I am,” I counter.
His expression shifts slightly. Not denial. Not quite. Something tighter.
“I know where you are,” he says evenly. “You’re here.”
“That’s not the point.”
I push myself to my feet, ignoring the faint pull in my side.
“The point is I can’t spend the rest of my life under supervision.”
His gaze sharpens.
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
Silence stretches between us. I cross my arms.
“Because from where I’m standing,” I continue, “it feels a lot like I’m being watched every second of the day.”
“You are being watched,” he says.
I blink.
“Well, that’s comforting.”
“It’s necessary.”
“For who?” I ask. “Me, or you?”
His jaw tightens.
“For both of us.”
I let out a short laugh.
“See, that’s exactly the kind of answer that makes me want to do the opposite of whatever you’re suggesting.”
“I’m not suggesting,” he says. “I’m telling you.”
There it is. That edge. That control. Something in me pushes back immediately.
“I didn’t agree to that.”
His voice drops slightly.
“You didn’t have to. The situation isn’t optional.”
I step closer to him, lowering my voice as well.
“My life is not something you get to manage.”
“And your safety isn’t something you get to ignore,” he fires back.
For a moment, the air between us crackles. Tension. Frustration. Something deeper underneath both. I break eye contact first, exhaling sharply as I turn away.
“This is exactly what I was worried about,” I complain.
“What?”
I shake my head.
“Nothing.”
But it’s not nothing. It’s as if I’m something fragile. Or worse—something that belongs to him. I grab my bag from the table and sling it over my shoulder.
“I’m going for a walk.”
“I’ll come with you.”
I don’t even hesitate.
“No.”
“Eliza—”
“I said no,” I cut in, turning back to face him. “I need five minutes where I’m not being shadowed like I’m about to spontaneously combust.”
His expression hardens.
“That’s not happening.”
I stare at him.
“That’s not your call.”
“It is if it keeps you alive.”
The words land harder than I expect. For a moment, I don’t have a response. Because part of me knows he believes that. Fully. Completely. And that makes it harder to argue. But not impossible.
“I’m not running back into the forest,” I say, my voice quieter now but no less firm. “I’m walking through town. In daylight. I think I can manage that without an escort.”
His eyes search mine, like he’s trying to calculate risk versus… something else. Finally, he exhales.
“Be careful.”
I blink.
“What?”
“I’ll be watching and waiting,” he says. “If I don’t see you when I think I should, I’m coming after you.”
I narrow my eyes.
“That’s not a compromise.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
I consider arguing. Really arguing. But something tells me that would just push him further into whatever protective mode he’s stuck in. So instead, I shake my head and head for the door.
“Fine,” I spit. “Ten minutes.”
I can feel his gaze on me the entire way out.
The air outside is crisp and cool, the kind of mountain air that feels cleaner than anything I’ve breathed in years. I pause on the library steps for a moment, letting it fill my lungs.
This town is beautiful. That’s the frustrating part. If I didn’t know what I know now—if I hadn’t seen what I saw in the forest—it would almost feel peaceful. Normal, even. I start walking. Slowly at first, then a little faster as my body warms up.
The main street of Silver Ridge is small but well-kept—wooden storefronts, clean sidewalks, a few cars parked along the edges. People move through it with quiet purpose. And just like inside the library—
They notice me.
A man standing outside a hardware store pauses mid-conversation as I pass.
A woman carrying groceries glances at me, then quickly looks away.
Two teenagers sitting on a bench go completely silent.
It’s subtle. But it’s there. I stop walking.
Turn slowly. The teenagers immediately pretend to be deeply interested in something across the street.
“Okay,” I murmur to myself. “Not imagining it.”
I start walking again, slower now. More observant. This time, I watch them back.
And what I see isn’t hostility. It’s… caution. Assessment. Like they’re trying to figure out what I am to them. Or what I might become. The thought sends a small chill down my spine. I turn down a quieter side street, away from the main flow of people.
The buildings thin out here, giving way to stretches of open land and tree lines that edge closer to town.
The forest. Even from a distance, I can feel it.
A subtle pull in my chest. Or maybe that’s just memory.
I stop at the road, staring out at the trees.
This is where everything changed. One wrong turn. One bad decision. And now—
Now I’m standing in the middle of something I don’t fully understand, connected to people I barely know, being hunted by something that shouldn’t exist. A branch snaps somewhere in the distance. I freeze. My heart kicks up immediately. But nothing follows.
No movement. No sound. Just the wind shifting through the trees. I force myself to breathe.
“Get it together,” I grouse.
I’m not in the forest. I’m not alone. And—
“You’re past your ten minutes.”
I spin around. Cade stands a few feet behind me, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
I exhale sharply.
“You’re early.”
“No,” he says. “You lost track of time.”
I glance down at my phone. He’s right. Of course he is.
“That’s creepy,” I say. “Do you just appear whenever I hit some invisible time limit?”
“Something like that.”
I shake my head, but the edge of my irritation has dulled slightly.
“People are watching me,” I say.
His gaze sharpens.
“I know.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“It doesn’t surprise me.”
I turn fully toward him.
“They don’t trust me.”
“No.”
The bluntness of it hits harder than I expect.
“Why not?” I ask.
He studies me before answering.
“Because you’re unknown,” he says. “And right now, unknown is dangerous.”
I let that sit for a second.
“Do you trust me?”
The question slips out. His response is immediate.
“Yes.”
No hesitation. No doubt. Something in my chest tightens.
“Why?” I ask quietly.
His gaze doesn’t waver.
“Because my wolf does.”
There’s that word again. Wolf. Still surreal. Still something I’m not sure I’ll ever fully get used to.
“And that’s enough for you?” I ask.
“It has to be.”
I look away, back toward the trees.
“That’s a lot of faith to put in instinct.”
“It’s not just instinct,” he says. “It’s certainty.”
I let out a small, humorless laugh.
“I’ve spent my entire career questioning certainty.”
“I know.”
I glance at him.
“You do?”
“You question everything,” he says. “You look for patterns. Truth. Motive.”
I blink.
“That’s… surprisingly accurate.”
His mouth twitches slightly.
“I pay attention.”
Of course he does. He probably notices everything. The thought is both reassuring and deeply unsettling. I shift my weight, my ribs reminding me again that I’m not fully healed.
“What happens if your certainty is wrong?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, his voice is quieter.
“It’s not.”
I shake my head.
“That’s not an answer. That’s belief.”
“It’s both.”
I study him. This man—this wolf—who fights like something out of a nightmare and watches me like I’m the center of his world. Who insists on protecting me. Controlling me. Trusting me. All at the same time.
“You realize,” I say slowly, “that this is a lot.”
“Yes.”
“And that I’m still trying to catch up to the part where any of this makes sense.”
“I know.”
“And that I don’t like feeling… managed.”
Something in his expression softens slightly.
“I’m not trying to manage you.”
“It feels like it.”
He exhales.
“I’m trying to keep you alive.”
I look at him. Really look. At the tension in his shoulders. The way his eyes keep flicking toward the tree line. The constant awareness. The readiness. This isn’t just control. It’s pressure.
Responsibility. Fear. Not for himself. For me. The realization shifts something, just slightly.
“I don’t want to be a liability,” I say quietly.
“You’re not.”
“I could be,” I press. “If I don’t understand what’s happening.”
His jaw tightens.
“That’s why I’m here.”
“That’s not the same as me understanding it,” I say.
Silence. Then—
“What do you want?” he asks.
The question catches me off guard. I hesitate. Then answer honestly.
“I want to know what I’m dealing with,” I say. “I want to be able to make decisions based on facts, not just… trust.”
He nods once.
“Alright.”
I blink.
“Alright?”
“I’ll tell you what I can,” he says. “When I can.”
“That’s still vague.”
“It’s still more than nothing.”
I consider that. He’s right. Reluctantly.
“Fine,” I say. “We start there.”
He nods again. A small step. But a real one. We stand there for a moment in uneasy silence, the forest stretching out behind me, the town at our backs. Caught between two worlds.
Neither of which I fully belong to. Yet.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Cade says suddenly.
I glance at him.
“What?”
“No one’s sending you away,” he continues. “Not the pack. Not me.”
There’s something firm in his voice. Unyielding. Like a promise. I hold his gaze.
“Good,” I say.
Because despite everything— The fear. The confusion. The watching eyes. A part of me knows one thing for certain. Leaving isn’t an option anymore. Not when the answers I’ve been chasing might be right here. Not when the danger is already following me. And not when—
I glance at Cade again. —walking away might be harder than staying. Even if I don’t fully understand why yet.