Page 27 of Easy, Tiger

"I'll handle it."

"After patrol. This comes first, Nolan."

He's right, and we both know it. The enclave's safety outweighs everything else, even my mate's protection. But that doesn't make the choice any easier.

"Twenty minutes," I repeat, then end the call.

The house feels empty as I finish gearing up, checking my night-vision scope and loading extra magazines. Outside, the forest that felt peaceful an hour ago now seems full of hidden threats.

Time to hunt the hunter.

Four hours of patrol through the deepest sections of the forest yield nothing but cold air and the distant calls of owls. Owen and I comb through every inch of the area around Hawk's Ridge, following the drag marks until they disappear onto the old logging road where tire tracks in the mud tell us the hunter loaded something into a vehicle and vanished.

"Professional cleanup," Owen mutters, crouching beside the tire impressions. "No shell casings left behind, no blood trail. This bastard knows what he's doing."

Dissecting the tracks with my enhanced night vision, I memorize the tread pattern. "Too well. We're dealing with someone who's hunted our kind before."

"Or someone who's been planning this for a long time."

The thought lands hard, a dull ache spreading through my chest. A hunter with patience and experience poses a threat far beyond anything we've faced. Random poachers can be scared off or redirected. This feels calculated.

"Head back to base," I tell Owen as we reach the boundary between enclave territory and the civilian areas. "I'll check the perimeter near town before calling it a night."

"You mean you'll check on her."

"I mean, I'll patrol the northern boundary like any responsible guardian would."

"Right." His dry chuckle follows me as I disappear into the tree line. "Try not to get shot again while you're being responsible."

The path toward Halsey's cabin winds through sections of forest I know better than my own workshop. Every broken branch and every scent marker registers automatically as I move through the darkness. The enhanced vision that comes with my shifter genetics turns the moonless night into a landscape painted in silver and shadow.

Two hundred yards from her cabin, I freeze.

I catch a fresh human male scent, definitely not from the enclave.

My muscles coil as predatory instincts surge to the surface. Someone has been spying on Halsey's place recently. The scent trail leads to a cluster of boulders that provide perfect concealment while maintaining clear sight lines to her windows.

With the silence that comes from decades of moving through these woods, I approach the hiding spot. Boot prints pressed into the soft earth behind the rocks confirm my worst suspicions. Someone spent considerable time here, long enough to leave deep impressions in the ground.

Three cigarette butts lie there, purposefully field-stripped and left intact enough to identify. The paper and tobacco remnants scatter when I brush them aside, clearing away the evidence of surveillance. A small depression in the leaves marks where someone rested a rifle or scope.

My hands shake with barely contained rage as I eliminate every sign of the watcher's presence. Boot prints get scuffed beyond recognition. Broken branches that would indicate human passage get snapped in different directions to mimic natural damage. The cigarette remains, going into my pocket for later disposal.

Twenty minutes of work transform the surveillance site into nothing more than another rocky outcrop in the forest. But the violation burns in my chest like acid. Someone sat here in the darkness, peeking at Halsey through her windows to chart her routines and learn her vulnerabilities.

A single lamp continues to burn in Halsey's front window, a forgotten light that means she fell asleep with a book in her lap and never got up to switch it off. No movement stirs behind the glass. The hush should bring comfort, but knowing someone else stood right here peering through that same window makes my skin crawl.

Circling the entire property twice more, I check for additional surveillance points or signs of entry. The perimeter remains clean, but that provides little reassurance. Professional hunters adapt their methods when discovered.

The walk back to my own cabin feels longer than usual. Every shadow could hide another watcher. Every sound might mask approaching footsteps. The protective instincts that define my nature rage against leaving Halsey alone and unaware of the danger circling closer.

When I reach my front door, the decision has crystallized, sharp and unshakable. The hunter has escalated from targeting migrating shifters to surveilling the human who saved my life. That makes this personal in ways that go beyond enclave security.

Starting now, Halsey won't spend another night unprotected. She may be unaware, but she'll never be alone in those woods again.

11

HALSEY