This shifter community will be a change of pace,she told herself, folding a sweater with military precision.I should try to enjoy it while helping this Lila girl.
But even as she thought it, Harper knew she was lying to herself. She didn't know how to enjoy anything anymore—had forgotten the skill somewhere between building her career and constructing walls so high that even she couldn't see over them.
Tomorrow she'd drive into the mountains with a woman whose eyes changed color, to help a traumatized girl in a community that valued secrecy. It should have felt like adventure, like possibility. Instead, it felt like another assignment, another problem to solve, another way to avoid examining the hollow spaces in her own life.
I'll be busy, just like I prefer. I won't have time to think about how alone I really am.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new people to help, new ways to prove her worth through usefulness rather than simply existing.
It was exactly the life she'd built for herself. Safe, controlled, and utterly, devastatingly empty.
TWO
DORIAN
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the damaged house as Dorian drove another nail into the replacement window frame with more force than necessary. October's chill had settled into the valley but sweat dampened his flannel shirt despite the cooling temperatures.
Should have been here.
The thought had become a constant refrain these past months, wearing grooves in his mind like water over stone. He'd been forty miles away when Ronan's wolves had torn through his territory like a plague, targeting the most vulnerable members of his pack while their Alpha was conveniently absent. The timing hadn't been coincidental—Ronan was too calculating for that. He'd waited until Dorian was locked into a construction contract in the neighboring town, fulfilling obligations that couldn't be abandoned without destroying his company's reputation.
"You're going to split that board if you keep hammering like it owes you money."
Marty's dry observation cut through Dorian's brooding as his Beta approached with another bundle of replacement boards balanced on his shoulder. Even after eighteen years offriendship, Marty remained one of the few people who could challenge him without triggering his wolf's defensive instincts.
"The board can handle it." Dorian positioned another nail, his movements precise despite the violence behind them. "Unlike some things around here."
The house they were repairing belonged to the Kellys—an older couple who'd raised three generations of pack children in these walls. When Ronan's wolves had swept through the territory like a wildfire, they'd targeted homes with symbolic value, places that represented stability and continuity. Mrs. Kelly had been visiting her sister in town that night. Her husband hadn't been so fortunate.
Dorian's jaw clenched as he remembered finding Thomas Kelly's body among the wreckage, torn apart by claws and teeth in his own living room. Another pack member he'd failed to protect. Another name added to the list of people who'd died while their Alpha was playing contractor in some human town.
"Dorian." Marty's voice carried the weight of years and shared grief. "You couldn't have known."
"I should have sensed it coming." The hammer struck again, driving the nail flush with the wood. "Eighteen years of this dance with Ronan, and I walked into his trap like some green Alpha who doesn't know anything."
The Holt-Vex feud had been poisoning these mountains since before Dorian was born, but it had exploded into open warfare the night his parents died. He'd been seventeen when Ronan's father had led a coordinated assault on Holt lands. The attack had been swift and brutal—designed to eliminate his bloodline and claim territory that had belonged to his family for generations.
Dorian touched the scar along his jaw unconsciously, feeling the ridge of tissue that served as a permanent reminder of that night. He'd fought beside his father until the end, had watchedthe light fade from his mother's eyes as she bled out on their kitchen floor. Six-month-old Lila had survived only because their grandmother Evelyn had hidden her in the root cellar, muffling her cries while chaos raged overhead.
That night had ended his childhood and begun his reign as Alpha. Eighteen years later, he was still fighting the same war, still losing people to the same enemy.
"The attack pattern was different this time," Marty said, settling the boards against the porch railing. "More surgical. They knew exactly which houses to hit for maximum psychological impact."
Dorian's wolf prowled restlessly beneath his skin, feeding off his frustration and guilt. The beast wanted blood, wanted to hunt down every wolf that had participated in the attack and tear them apart with teeth and claws. But Ronan was too smart to leave evidence, too careful to give Dorian justification for the kind of retaliation his wolf craved.
When questioned, Ronan had expressed shock and concern over the "rogue attacks" on Holt territory. He'd offered assistance in hunting down the perpetrators, had even suggested joint patrols to prevent future incidents. The performance had been flawless, delivered with just the right amount of sympathy and outrage.
Dorian had wanted to rip his throat out on the spot. But Dorian needed hard proof before he could do that.
"He's escalating while playing mind games," Dorian said, reaching for another board. "Testing me, testing our defenses, seeing how we respond to pressure."
"And how have we responded?"
The question carried layers of meaning that both men understood. Since the attack, Dorian had implemented strict curfews for pack members under twenty-five. Border patrols had tripled. No one traveled alone after dark, and familieswith young children had been relocated to the more defensible houses near the pack center.
The measures were necessary, but they were also exactly what Ronan had wanted—a community living in fear, an Alpha consumed by paranoia, a pack that felt more like a prison than a home.
"Lila still won't shift," Dorian said quietly, the admission scraping against his throat like broken glass.
