Chapter 3
925 Words
By dusk, Amara’s nerves felt like wire.
The whole day had buzzed with Blackridge. Extra food deliveries, elders scrubbing guest rooms, warriors polishing boots and weapons they barely used. Everywhere she went, someone was muttering “Rowan Hale” like a weather warning.
She hid in the patrol shed, updating route charts and checking radios.
“Frost,” Jace said from the doorway, shoulder propped against the frame. “You’re going to take the paint off those things.”
She snapped a battery compartment closed. “I’d hate for our important guests to think we’re amateurs.”
“They’re wolves, not visiting royalty.”
“Some would argue there’s not much difference.”
He huffed. “I’m on west ridge tonight. You want it? You’ve been staring at that side of the map all day.”
Temptation flickered. West ridge was hers. But the new escort schedule was already posted; tonight she was officially off until midnight.
“Nah,” she said. “Enjoy my trees. Don’t get lost.”
“If I trip over a brooding Alpha in the dark, I’ll text you,” he shot back, then was gone.
When the shed emptied, the hum of the fluorescent light felt too loud. Amara switched it off and stepped outside. The sky above the pines had gone purple-blue, first stars pricking through. Crickets had started up. The air was cool and clean.
She should have gone inside. Eaten. Tried to sleep.
Her feet carried her west instead.
The pack house noise faded behind her—voices, clatter, a burst of laughter—until there was only forest. Familiar scents wrapped around her: pine sap, damp earth, old wolf-mark on trunks. This was where her mind went quiet, usually.
Not tonight.
At marker twelve she stopped.
The metal post sat where it always had, half-swallowed by roots and moss. On one side: Silverpine. On the other: the slope down toward the valley and, beyond, Blackridge.
Her wolf edged forward. Amara inhaled slowly.
Pine. Old fox. A faint ribbon of Jace’s scent.
And under that, thinner than smoke—
Her pulse kicked.
Dominance. Not sharp, not hostile. Just… heavy. Clean, with a cool metallic edge that made her think of cold iron and winter air.
Not Silverpine. Not rogue-wild.
Her fingers tightened on her jacket. “You smell that?” she whispered.
Her wolf answered with a low, electric hum.
She crouched at the line, scanning the ground. No clear prints—if anyone had passed, time and wind had blurred the traces. The undergrowth looked parted in a way only a trained eye would notice, branches eased aside instead of broken.
Her radio stayed on her belt.
“Hello?” she said quietly, hating herself for it as soon as the word left her mouth.
The forest breathed. No answer. No crack of a twig.
Still, the hairs on her neck rose. Years of patrols had taught her the difference between empty woods and woods with eyes in them.
She stayed still, forcing slow breaths. Her wolf wanted to pace, to turn, to show all angles, to find the source of that pressure sitting just beyond the tree line.
A breeze slid through the pines, carrying a stronger wave of the scent. It rolled over her like a touch.
Blackridge, her wolf whispered again, certain this time.
“Then you’re early,” Amara muttered.
Silence. Then—barely there—the soft, deliberate shift of weight on leaves. Not approaching. Not retreating. Just confirming: yes, I am here.
Her heart thudded. She couldn’t see anything beyond dark trunks and shadow. Whoever it was knew how to vanish in plain sight.
Her wolf leaned into the feeling, a traitorous, instinctive wanting she refused to examine.
Enough.
She straightened, made herself step backward over the marker. The instant her boot crossed onto Silverpine’s side, the pressure eased. The unseen presence didn’t follow.
Disciplined. Border‑respecting. Watching them up close before the official arrival.
“If you wanted a tour,” she muttered, “you could’ve called ahead.”
Her phone buzzed, sharp in the quiet. She fumbled it out.
Jace: West ridge clear. Stop pacing my route, control freak.
A sharp breath escaped her, half laugh. She typed with steadier fingers than she felt.
Amara: Your trees missed me.
On impulse she added: And you’re not looking hard enough.
She pocketed the phone and took one last, long inhale. The dominant scent was already thinning, slipping back into the mix of the woods, but her wolf still paced under her skin, restless and unsatisfied.
By the time the pack house lights came into view again, she’d rehearsed what she would and wouldn’t say.
Unusual scent carries on the west border, she’d report in the morning. Likely Blackridge scouts staying on their side of the line. No trespass. No threat.
She would not say that the air itself had felt like it bowed for a moment. Or that some part of her had wanted to bow with it.
Inside, warmth and noise crashed over her—music, voices, pups shrieking with laughter. Her mother waved a spoon from the kitchen doorway. “Mara! Eat something before you fall over.”
Amara forced a smile and stepped into the light.
Tomorrow, Blackridge cars would roll into their yard and the visiting Alpha would have a name and a face instead of a scent on the wind.
Tonight, all she knew was that he’d already come close enough to taste her world—and stayed just out of sight.
- Writer
