*Sage*
By the time my nightmares downgraded from “body horror documentary” to “garden-variety anxiety montage,” winter had settled in for real.
Snow lay three inches deep in the clearings, crusted on top from cycles of freezing and thawing. The evergreens wore white caps. The river’s edges had started to sheathe over with ice, leaving a dark ribbon down the middle.
The pack’s rhythms shifted with the season.
Hunts grew longer. Den time shorter. The pups stopped trying to eat snowflakes and started learning to move through drifts without flailing.
And I, somehow, found a…pattern.
Mornings: check-ins with Bozeman, carefully rehearsed with Mara the night before. Kim’s questions grew sharper but not hostile. Sometimes we talked about nothing—weather, football, office gossip. Sometimes I could hear the unsaid hanging between her words: *What aren’t you telling me?*
Afternoons: lessons.
Some days, Edda or Rafe took me into the woods and taught me how to move like a predator instead of a tourist. How to place my feet on the edges of rocks instead of the centers. How to read broken twigs and flattened grass. How to listen with more than my ears.
Other days, I gathered a cluster of pups and teenagers in the longhouse and drew diagrams in the soot on the floor, explaining trophic cascades and keystone species and why killing too many elk could make the wolves go hungry years later.
They listened with varying degrees of attention.
The younger kids were mostly in it for the doodles. The older ones—particularly an intense fourteen-year-old named Liam—asked questions sharp enough to make me sweat.
“You’re saying,” he said one afternoon, frowning at my rough sketch of a food web, “that when humans killed off the wolves, the deer population exploded, and that wrecked the forest. Then they brought the wolves back, and it fixed things.”
“In simplified terms, yes,” I said. “The reality is more complicated, but that’s the gist.”
He scratched his jaw, already shadowed with dark stubble. “So…you need us.”
I hesitated.
“Yes,” I said. “Your…kind. Wolves. Predators. The ecosystem is healthier with you in it.”
“And you,” he pressed. “Do we need you?”
A murmur rippled through the room.
Not hostile. Curious.
Loaded.
My gaze slid to the doorway, where Kieran leaned against the post, arms folded, watching.
He didn’t interrupt.
I took a breath.
“In some ways, no,” I said. “You’ve survived without humans for a long time. You know these mountains better than we ever will. You can hunt, heal, raise your own. You don’t…need us in a survival sense.”
Liam’s chin lifted.
“But,” I continued, “the world around you has changed. Humans are everywhere. Roads, towns, tourists. People with guns and cameras and drones. Whether you like it or not, your lives are…intertwined now. You can’t pretend we don’t exist any more than we can pretend you don’t.”
“So we need you to…translate,” Edda said from the back. She’d slunk in halfway through, pretending she wasn’t listening.
“In a way,” I said. “I can…help you understand how humans think. What scares them. What convinces them. How their rules work. And I can, maybe someday, help some humans see you as…more than monsters.”
Risky word.
I said it anyway.
The room shifted.
Some of the kids flinched. A few bristled.
Kieran’s gaze sharpened.
“You’re not monsters,” I said quietly. “You’re…complicated. Dangerous, sometimes. Like…lions. Or tigers. Or…electricity. Fire. Powerful things. Powerful things scare people. But they also…awe them. Inspire them. Change them.”
“So we’re a…natural disaster,” Rafe drawled from the wall near Kieran. “Romantic.”
“You can be both predator and…symbol,” I said. “The question is, who writes the story. You. Or the people who fear you.”
Edda’s eyes gleamed. “I like her stories better than ours.”
“Flattering,” I muttered.
“Careful,” Rafe told the kids. “She’s trying to radicalize you into the STEM pipeline.”
“God, I wish,” I said. “Do you know how hard it is to get funding for wildlife ecology? I could use a few more allies at grant review.”
Blank stares.
Right. Different world.
Lessons cut both ways.
***
In exchange for my ecology lectures, the pack insisted on giving me…howl lessons.
“It’s not just noise,” Mara said, when she found me one evening kneeling by the river, recording the sound of the pack’s chorus on my little voice recorder like an addict sneaking a hit. “It’s language. Emotion. Lineage.”
“You can tell all that from a howl?” I asked, breath fogging in the cold.
She smiled, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes deepening. “You hear music. We hear…family trees.”
“Teach me,” I blurted.
She studied me. “You sure? Once you start listening that way, it’s hard to go back.”
“I don’t want to go back,” I said. “Not…to how I heard it before.”
She nodded once.
And so it began.
We sat on a rocky outcrop above the valley, wrapped in blankets and steam from a thermos of something that tasted like tea and pine needles. The pack’s howls rolled up from the tree line below, long and complex.
“That’s Kellan,” Mara said, pointing with her chin at a deep, resonant note. “He always starts low. Like a drum.”
I closed my eyes.
Listened.
Sure enough, there was a bass note beneath the others, steady and strong.
“That high, yodeling one is Edda,” she went on. “She likes to show off.”
I smiled, tracking the bright, fluting notes weaving in and out of the pack’s song.
“And that,” Mara said softly, as a rich, layered tone rose above the rest, “is Kieran.”
My breath caught.
His howl wasn’t the highest or the loudest.
But it…carried.
Wrapped around the others. Threaded through every line. A spine of sound.
“Alpha songs hold the shape,” Mara said. “They set…intention. You can tell a lot about a leader by how he sings.”
“What does *his* song say?” I asked, almost afraid to know.
She tilted her head, listening.
“Steady,” she said. “Protective. Tired.” A smile ghosted over her lips. “Lonely.”
My throat tightened.
“I thought you said you weren’t psychic,” I whispered.
“I’m old,” she said. “Same thing.”
“What about…Northridge?” I asked.
Her expression darkened. “Listen,” she said.
She took my hand—her skin cool and dry—and pressed my palm flat against the rock beneath us.
“Feel,” she murmured.
I frowned.
Then—
A faint vibration danced against my skin.
Not from our pack.
Distant.
Sharp.
Ugly.
A howl floated up from somewhere beyond the northern ridge, barely audible.
It was…harsh.
Clipped.
Less song, more statement.
“We are here,” Mara translated. “We are not afraid. We are…hungry.”
A faint shiver ran through me. “You got all that from…tone?”
“I got that from knowing Cassian’s line,” she said. “His father always sang like he was chewing glass. Cass is worse. Less…music. More teeth.”
“Can you…answer?” I asked. “Change the song. Calm it.”
“We can try,” she said. “But some men only hear what they want to.”
Her gaze slid to me.
“Same goes for you,” she added lightly.
I huffed a laugh. “Are you calling me stubborn?”
“I’m calling you…selective,” she said. “You hear Kieran’s voice the way you want to. Not the way he always intends.”
I scowled. “Cryptic much?”
She sipped her tea. “Tell me, Sage. What did you think when he said ‘mine’ in front of Cassian?”
Heat flared under my skin.
I looked away. “I thought he was…staking a claim.”
“In what sense,” she pressed.
“Territorial,” I said. “Strategic. Like…tagging me with a ‘do not touch’ sign.”
“And how did it feel?” she asked.
I hesitated.
“Complicated,” I admitted. “Part of me wanted to…punch him. Part of me wanted to…I don’t know. Curl into it. Like a blanket.”
She hummed. “Mmm.”
“What does *that* mean?” I demanded.
“Nothing,” she said. “Yet.”
“Why do people keep adding ‘yet’ to things around here?” I muttered.
“Because nothing in this valley is…finished,” she said. “Not your story. Not his. Not the space between you.”
I wrapped the blanket tighter around myself.
“Do you have…mates?” I asked her abruptly. “Your people. Is that…a thing? Or is that just a trope my genre-obsessed undergrads wrote papers about.”
She chuckled. “Oh, we have mates,” she said. “Fated, sometimes. Chosen, more often. Sometimes both. Sometimes neither.” Her eyes softened. “I had one. Once.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“He died,” she said simply. “Long ago. Before you were born.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She nodded, accepting the sympathy like an old gift.
“Losing a mate is like…losing a limb,” she said. “You learn to walk again. But you never stop…remembering.”
Her gaze sharpened on my face.
“Sometimes, the bond hums before we’re ready to hear it,” she said. “Like a note under the skin. Soft. Persistent. Waiting for someone to sing to it.”
Goosebumps prickled along my arms.
“I don’t…believe in…” I trailed off.
“In what,” she asked.
“Destiny,” I said. “Soulmates. Cosmic matchmaking. I believe in…chemistry. And compatibility. And putting in the work to keep something alive.”
She smiled. “Good. We need more of that than we need fairy tales.”
“But,” I added reluctantly, “I also…can’t deny…something is happening. Here.” I pressed my hand flat against my own chest.
She nodded. “With him.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” I said, because I was tired of lying to myself.
“Does he know?” she asked.
“I think he…suspects,” I said. “He’s…careful. Too careful. Like he’s afraid if he touches me wrong, I’ll…shatter. Or he will.”
“He’s afraid of…many things,” she said. “Losing control. Hurting you. Losing you. Asking and hearing ‘no.’”
The last one snagged my breath.
“You think he’d…ask?” I whispered.
“If you let him,” she said. “If you…stay.”
My chest ached.
“Do I have a choice?” I asked.
“Always,” she said. “That’s the cruelest part of this world. There is always a choice. Even when both options hurt.”
We sat there in silence, listening to the wolves sing.
My heart beat in time with their howls.
Somewhere below, Kieran’s voice rose again.
Lonely, Mara had said.
I hugged my knees to my chest and pretended the sting in my eyes was the wind.
***
I wasn’t supposed to overhear the prophecy.
I definitely wasn’t supposed to spill hot stew on my own leg because of it.
It happened three days after the Kurt incident, when the tension in the village was thick enough to chew.
I was in the longhouse, carrying a pot of Mara’s venison stew toward the big table. The room buzzed with noise: kids arguing over seating, Rafe and Edda bickering about who owed who a run through the snow, Kellan glowering at a broken chair like he could fix it by glaring.
Mara and Kieran stood near the hearth, talking low.
I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.
But my ears had gotten…sharper.
“…old blood sings,” Mara murmured. “You can’t ignore it.”
“I’m not,” Kieran said. “I’m…avoiding it.”
“You can avoid a river,” she said. “You can’t avoid the sea.”
“That’s poetic,” he muttered. “And unhelpful.”
“Your grandmother saw this,” Mara said. “She spoke of a human with wolf eyes. A woman who’d walk between worlds. Who’d stand beside the Alpha when the valley stormed.”
“That was a story,” he snapped. “A bedtime tale to make pups sleep.”
“She spoke it over your cradle,” Mara said sharply. “Don’t you dare pretend you don’t remember.”
“I remember,” he said through his teeth. “I remember her making you braid sage into my hair and mutter words over it.”
I blinked.
Sage.
“Names have power,” Mara said. “So do herbs.”
“You think she meant *her,*” he demanded. “A human biologist with a concussion and a stubborn streak?”
“I think destiny has a sense of humor,” Mara said dryly.
“How convenient,” he said. “For destiny.”
“Fated doesn’t mean easy,” she said. “It doesn’t mean right, either. It just means…possible.”
“Fate or not, I won’t chain her here,” he said. “Not like—”
He broke off.
Not like who?
My foot caught on a stool.
The stew pot lurched.
Hot liquid sloshed over the rim onto my thigh.
“Shit!” I yelped, jerking back.
The room went silent.
“Sage,” Mara said, exasperated. “When I said ‘keep your head down,’ I didn’t mean literally.”
“I’m fine,” I muttered, setting the pot down and hopping backward, yanking my leggings away from my skin.
Kieran was suddenly there, hands on my arms, eyes scanning for burns.
“Where did it hit,” he asked.
“My pride,” I said. “And my thigh. Mostly my pride.”
He tugged my hand away from the fabric, fingers deftly peeling the wet cloth back to check.
Warm air hit my skin.
So did his gaze.
Heat flared—pain from the stew, yes, but also something…else.
His hand was big and rough and careful on my leg.
My breath stuttered.
“I’m fine,” I said again, voice a little too high.
“Blistering,” Mara said from over his shoulder. “Not bad. Rinse it. Salve. You’ll live.”
“I told you,” I muttered.
“Humans are fragile,” Kellan rumbled.
“Humans are clumsy,” Edda corrected.
My face burned.
Kieran’s thumb brushed my skin as he released my leg.
It left a trail of goosebumps.
His eyes flicked to my face.
For a moment, something raw and exposed crossed his features.
Then his walls slammed back up.
“Be more careful,” he said gruffly. “We don’t have spare scientists lying around.”
“Yes, Alpha,” I said, saluting weakly.
He scowled.
Mara hustled me toward the back room to tend the burn, muttering about “overgrown pups” and “boiling their own food for once.”
But the words I’d overheard stuck in my head like burrs.
*A human with wolf eyes. A woman who’d walk between worlds. Who’d stand beside the Alpha when the valley stormed.*
Prophecy.
Destiny.
Fate.
I’d laughed at those concepts in college. Written snarky margin notes in fantasy novels.
Now they were breathing down my neck, in the same room where I’d just spilled stew.
I sat on the edge of the pallet while Mara dabbed salve on my reddened skin.
“So,” I said casually. “Prophecy, huh.”
She didn’t flinch.
Of course she knew I’d heard.
“Old wolves talk too much,” she said. “Especially to babies.”
“Was she…serious?” I asked. “Your grandmother. About…whatever she saw in Kieran’s future?”
“She was rarely unserious,” Mara said. “Annoying, some might say. But not frivolous.”
“And you think it’s…me,” I said. “The human in her story.”
She spread a thin layer of pale green paste over the burn. It tingled, cool and sharp.
“I think,” she said, “that stories bend to fit the teller. I think we look for patterns where we want them. I think it’s…interesting that you’re here now. And I think Kieran’s brain is tying itself in knots over what that might mean.”
“Mine too,” I muttered.
“Do you want it to be you?” she asked quietly.
I stared at her.
I thought of Kieran’s hand on my neck. His breath against my lips. The way my body had leaned without my consent.
I thought of the tower. My datasets. The life I’d built.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I don’t…know what I want. From him. From this. From…anything.”
“Good,” she said.
I blinked. “Good?”
“Certainty is a dangerous thing,” she said. “It makes people stupid. You’re thinking. Feeling. That’s…safer.”
“Nothing about this feels safe,” I said.
Her smile was sad.
“Welcome to loving a wolf,” she said.
***
That night, I dreamed I was in the tower again.
The valley stretched around me, snow and pines and moonlight. My camera hung from my neck. My notebook was open in my hands.
Wolves moved below—small silver shapes.
I lifted my binoculars.
Looked.
Every wolf I focused on shimmered. Shifted. Became a person. Mara. Rafe. Edda. Kids. Strangers.
When I lowered the glass, they were wolves again.
I turned.
Kieran stood at the base of the ladder, looking up at me.
He lifted a hand.
“Jump,” he called. “I’ll catch you.”
Fear gripped me.
Of the fall.
Of the landing.
Of what it would mean to choose it.
“I can’t,” I called back. “It’s…too far.”
He smiled.
“Trust me,” he said.
Behind him, the forest rippled.
Something dark and huge moved between the trees.
Cassian.
Northridge.
Danger.
The tower swayed.
The ladder’s rungs fell away, one by one, leaving only open air.
I clutched the railing.
The metal cut into my palms.
Below, Kieran spread his arms.
“Mine,” he said.
This time, it didn’t feel like a cage.
It felt like a net.
I let go.
***
I woke with my heart in my throat.
The cabin was dark, lit only by embers.
My skin was damp with sweat, my hands cramped like I’d truly been gripping something.
The bed dipped.
Warmth pressed against my side.
“Kieran?” I whispered.
“No,” a sleepy voice mumbled. “It’s Santa. Go back to sleep.”
I blinked.
“Rafe?” I hissed.
He cracked one eye open, visible in the faint glow. We were on separate pallets, but the distance between them felt…smaller in the dark.
He grinned faintly. “You were whimpering,” he said. “Figured you’d feel better with someone in the room.”
“You could’ve been Mara,” I muttered.
“She kicks,” he said. “Besides, you like my charming company more.”
I huffed. “You’re insufferable.”
“I’m adorable,” he corrected. His smile faded. “You okay?”
“Define okay,” I said.
“No screaming,” he said. “No clawing at your face. That’s an improvement.”
“Low bar,” I muttered. “I dreamed about…falling.”
“Off your tower?” he asked.
“Into him,” I said, before my brain could stop my mouth.
He went still.
“Him, him?” he asked. “Our fearless leader?”
“No, the other him,” I said. “Yes, Kieran. Happy?”
“Delighted,” he said. “So when are you going to tell him?”
“Tell him what,” I asked. “That my subconscious has a crush?”
“That you’re halfway there,” Rafe said. “Might as well admit it while you still have plausible deniability.”
“I’m not halfway anything,” I said. “I’m…confused. Torn. Stuck between worlds.”
“That’s halfway,” he pointed out.
I glared at him.
“You’re not helping,” I said.
“I’m not trying to,” he said. “I’m trying to keep you honest.”
“Why,” I asked. “What do you care?”
His gaze softened.
“Because he’s my pack,” he said. “And you…might be.”
The word hung between us.
Might.
Not are.
Not will be.
Might.
“What if I can’t be?” I whispered. “What if I…don’t know how.”
“Pack isn’t a…species,” he said. “It’s a choice. A pain-in-the-ass choice you make over and over, even when it hurts. You’re already doing it. Lying to your boss. Facing down Cassian. Talking Kurt out of going viral. You’re bleeding for us. That’s…more than some who were born here can say.”
My throat closed.
“Sometimes I hate you,” I said.
He smiled. “Good. Means I’m doing my job.”
“What job,” I asked.
“Pain-in-the-ass best friend,” he said.
“You’re his,” I said. “Best friend.”
He shrugged. “I can multitask.”
Warmth prickled behind my ribs.
“Sleep,” he said. “Tomorrow you can overthink destiny and prophecy and Alpha abs. Tonight, you rest.”
“Alpha…what,” I mumbled, already drifting.
He snickered.
“Goodnight, Doc,” he said.
“Don’t…call me…” I murmured.
Sleep dragged me under.
In the last sliver of consciousness, I thought I felt another presence at the door.
Watching.
Guarding.
Waiting.
***