The scent of dry pine and incoming winter always made the pack restless, but tonight, the air carried something far more volatile.
Dorian stood on the rocky outcrop overlooking the valley of Lowell’s Bend. His broad chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, his senses drinking in the mountain air. Even in his human form, his vision was sharp enough to pierce the thick gloom of the forest below. He could see the faint, yellow lights of the human houses, scattered like dropped embers along the dark ribbon of the river.
Most of those lights were out now. The humans knew when to hide. They didn't understand why, of course; they had built a fragile wall of excuses around their lives—bears, wolves, bad weather—but their ancient instincts still told them to lock their doors when the moon neared its peak.
"She’s still in the office," a voice said from the shadows behind him.
Dorian didn't turn around. He didn't need to. He recognized the dry, gravelly scent of Cole, his beta and oldest friend, before the man even reached the clearing.
"I know," Dorian said. His voice was a low rumble, rough from the cold and the beast simmering just beneath his skin. "I can smell her from here."
And he could. It was a curse, or perhaps something worse. Among the scents of damp earth, pine sap, and the wild, musky odor of his pack, Margot Miller’s scent was a sharp, clear line of heat. She smelled of old paper, lavender soap, and a sweet, metallic warmth that made his canine teeth ache to lengthen. It was a clean scent, completely devoid of the heavy, dark musk of the pack, but it drew him like a moth to a flame.
"One of the yearlings got too close tonight," Cole said, stepping up to stand beside Dorian on the ledge. Cole was a large man, built like a draft horse, with a face lined by years of territory disputes and the harsh mountain winters. He adjusted the collar of his shearling jacket. "The young Caleb. He’s still struggling with the change, Dorian. He went down into the town. Ended up on her porch."
Dorian’s jaw clenched, his silver-grey eyes flashing with a sudden, dangerous light in the darkness. "Did he touch her?"
"No," Cole said quickly, sensing the sudden spike of the alpha’s temper. "I whistled him back before he could do more than rattle the door. But he left a mess. Gouged the timber pretty good. She was inside. She heard him."
Dorian closed his eyes, taking a deep, calming breath to control the surge of protective anger that flared in his chest. His beast wanted to tear down the mountain, to find the young wolf who had dared to threaten her, and then to lock Margot away where no one—wolf or human—could ever look at her.
But he couldn't do that.
Margot was a human. As far as she knew, he was just Dorian Thorne, the reclusive landowner who inherited the timber tracts and the old estate on the mountain. She didn't know he was the alpha of the Ridgeback pack, the man who held the fragile peace of this valley together with teeth and claws. She didn't know that the mountains she walked were his territory, or that every wolf in the valley bowed to his will.
And he wanted to keep it that way. The human world was safe, orderly, and entirely separate from the bloody, violent politics of the packs.
"She didn't call the sheriff," Cole noted, his voice thoughtful. "She’s still down there. I watched her through the trees. She’s... well, she’s doing it again."
Dorian opened his eyes, a faint, bitter smile touching his lips. "Denial."
"Iron-clad," Cole agreed. "I’ve never seen a human with a shield that thick. Most of them would have packed their bags and been halfway to Seattle by sunrise if they saw what she saw tonight. But her? She’s just... pretending it’s a big dog."
"She has to," Dorian said softly. "Her mother was the same way. Clara spent twenty years in this valley pretending we didn't exist, even when she was trading herbs with my mother on the boundary line. It's how they survive. If they admit the truth, the fear eats them alive."
He looked back down at the town. The moon was high now, casting a brilliant, silver light over the valley. The forest was alive with the movement of his pack, their silver and grey forms moving like ghosts through the underbrush, hunting, running, burning off the wild energy of the moon. They were safe tonight. The borders were secure.
But the peace was fragile.
"We have rogues on the northern ridge," Dorian said, his tone shifting from quiet contemplation to the hard, unyielding voice of the alpha. "The scent is old, but it’s there. Vane is testing the boundaries again."
Cole’s expression darkened. Vane was a namesaked plague on the territory—a ruthless, vicious alpha who led a fractured pack of rogues on the other side of the pass. Vane didn't care about the ancient treaties. He didn't care about keeping the secret from the humans. He wanted territory, he wanted blood, and he wanted Dorian’s pack broken.
"They won't cross the river," Cole said, his hand dropping to the heavy knife at his belt. "Not with the water this high."
"They will if they get hungry enough," Dorian countered. "Or if they find a reason. Keep the patrols doubled on the north bend. I don't want any surprises."
"Understood," Cole said. He lingered for a moment, his eyes scanning Dorian’s profile. "And the girl? She’s going to notice those marks on her door tomorrow, Dorian. You can't patch over everything."
"I’ll handle it," Dorian said.
Cole nodded, knowing better than to push his alpha when his voice carried that flat, dangerous edge. With a respectful incline of his head, the beta turned and melted back into the shadows of the pine trees, his footsteps completely silent.
Dorian stood alone on the rock for a long time.
The wind shifted, bringing her scent to him again. It was stronger now, moving up the canyon. He closed his eyes and let the warmth of it wash over him.
He didn't want to care. He had a pack to lead, a territory to protect, and a brewing war with Vane to worry about. A human female—especially one as stubborn and blind as Margot Miller—was a distraction he couldn't afford.
But he couldn't stop himself.
With a low grunt, Dorian stepped off the ledge. He didn't shift into his wolf form; he wanted his human legs to carry him down the steep, rocky trail. He needed the physical exertion to quiet the wild, hungry beast in his chest.
By the time he reached the edge of the town, the sky was beginning to turn a pale, frosty grey. Dawn was coming, the silver light of the moon fading into the cold blue of morning.
He walked down the main street of Lowell’s Bend, his heavy work boots making no sound on the gravel. The town was still asleep, the houses dark and silent.
He stopped across the street from the municipal building, blending into the deep shadow of the old, abandoned grain silo. He leaned against the rusted iron wall, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his silver eyes fixed on the front door of the office.
He waited.
Twenty minutes later, the door opened.
Margot stepped out. She looked exhausted. Her dark, curly hair was slipping from the messy bun she had pinned it into, a few soft tendrils framing her pale face. There were dark circles under her hazel-gold eyes, and her mouth was set in a tight, determined line. She was wearing her heavy flannel shirt and her work boots, her canvas satchel slung over her shoulder.
She didn't look like a fragile beauty from the city. She looked sturdy, grounded, and fiercely stubborn.
She stepped onto the porch and stopped.
Dorian watched her, his breath catching in his throat.
She was looking at the door.
From where he stood, Dorian could see the damage Caleb had done. The thick pine of the door was deeply gouged, three long, jagged tracks ripped into the wood near the brass handle. The splinters were fresh, pale yellow against the weathered brown paint.
Margot stood there for a long time, her hand hovering over the marks.
Dorian’s heart thudded. Go on, he thought, a dark, dangerous curiosity rising in him. Look at them. See how deep they are. See what kind of teeth and claws live in your backyard.
But Margot didn't scream. She didn't call the sheriff.
Instead, she let out a long, heavy sigh that he could hear even from across the street. She reached into her canvas satchel and pulled out a small, plastic tub of wood putty, a metal putty knife, and a small can of brown paint.
Dorian’s jaw dropped slightly. He almost laughed.
She knelt down on the cold fir planks of the porch, opened the tub of putty, and began scraping the thick, grey paste into the deep claw marks. Her movements were brisk, efficient, and entirely deliberate.
"Stray dogs," she muttered to herself, her voice carrying clearly in the quiet morning air. "Just some big, feral stray looking for food. Or a raccoon. A really big raccoon."
She scraped the putty flat, her hand steady, though Dorian could see the slight tremor in her shoulders. She was forcing herself to do this. She was building her wall of lies, block by block, right in front of him.
"Cheap pine," she continued, her voice rising as if she were trying to convince the trees themselves. "The wood is rotting. It splinters if you look at it wrong. I need to tell Arthur we need a new door. A metal one."
She closed the putty tub, opened the paint can, and began brushing the brown paint over the wet gray paste. She did it with a focused intensity, as if she could erase the memory of the night before by simply covering it in a fresh coat of latex paint.
Dorian stepped forward, out of the deepest shadow of the silo, though he remained hidden behind the rusted support beams.
He watched the way her dark hair caught the first, pale gold rays of the rising sun. He watched the curve of her back, the strength in her shoulders as she worked. She was so close. If he walked across the road, he could be standing beside her in three strides. He could take the putty knife from her hand, force her to look at him, and tell her exactly what had made those marks.
He’s a wolf, Margot. He’s eight feet tall when he stands, and he wanted to eat you. And I’m his alpha.
But the terror in her eyes would destroy him. He knew that. Humans looked at his kind with nothing but horror, and he couldn't bear the thought of those warm, gold-flecked eyes looking at him with fear.
So, he stayed in the shadows.
Margot finished her work. She stood up, admiring her handiwork. The paint didn't match perfectly—it was too bright, a shiny new brown patch on the weathered wood—but the gouges were gone. The evidence of the beast was buried.
She packed her tools back into her satchel, wiped her hands on her jeans, and turned to walk down the porch steps.
As she did, the wind shifted.
A sudden gust blew down the street, carrying Dorian’s scent straight to her.
Margot stopped dead at the bottom of the steps.
She gasped, her hand flying to her chest, her fingers instantly locking around the brass locket she wore. She spun around, her eyes scanning the empty street, her gaze sweeping past the diner, the hardware store, and finally landing on the old grain silo.
Dorian froze, pulling himself back behind the iron beam, but he knew it was too late.
She had felt it. Not the scent, perhaps—humans didn't have the nose for that—but the sudden, electric shift in the air. The invisible bond that linked his beast to her.
"Is someone there?" she called out, her voice brave, but carrying a distinct, sharp edge of panic.
Dorian didn't answer. He held his breath, his heart roaring in his ears like a freight train.
Margot took a step toward the silo, her boots crunching on the gravel. Her hazel eyes were wide, staring into the darkness where he stood. "Hello? Arthur? Is that you?"
She was ten yards away. Nine.
If she came any closer, she would see him. She would see his eyes, which were still glowing with the faint, silver light of his wolf, a residual effect of the full moon that hadn't entirely faded.
Suddenly, a loud car engine roared to life at the end of the street.
The ancient, battered green truck of Sheriff Thomas rumbled around the corner, its exhaust backfiring with a loud bang that made Margot jump.
She spun around, her attention instantly diverted by the arrival of the law.
Dorian took the opportunity. He stepped back, slipping into the narrow alleyway behind the silo, and vanished into the dense underbrush of the forest before the sheriff's truck even came to a halt.
As he ran back up the mountain, the cold air rushing through his hair, his mind was spinning.
She was stubborn. She was blind. She was entirely human.
And he was completely, utterly obsessed with her.
* * *