Alliance of Shadows, Book 3: HUNTER

Memory's Echo

Making my way to the Werewolf territory, I was met at the gate by a camouflage wolf working with the border patrol. Not realizing who it was, I was momentarily stunned when Paul shifted into his human form. Another Wolf nudged his leg, growling low in warning.

"No, he's a friend, Gavin," Paul said, his tone easy but firm.

The other Werewolves took off to finish their run, their movements fluid and disciplined, while Paul stepped aside to retrieve a weatherproofed bag hidden in one of the nearby bushes. He turned back to me, a small smirk playing at his lips. "Logan told me that you're heading to Maria's house, so I figured I'd run the patrol with my two older brothers while I waited. He wanted me to make sure no one got in your way or turned on you while you're on Shadow Storm land."

I nodded, absorbing the layered meaning in his words. Logan wasn’t just ensuring my protection—he was anticipating resistance. “You have my thanks.”

“Nah, it’s cool,” he replied, dressing in nothing but a pair of shorts.

"I’ve got a question about that older packhouse on the other side of the forest," I mentioned casually, watching his reaction.

Paul raised a brow, adjusting the strap of his bag before meeting my gaze. "Yeah, we took it over after Logan finally gave into the Grand Alpha’s pestering, and yeah, it's been there for a really long time." He paused slightly, his expression thoughtful. "Honestly, Grand Alpha Henry had the current packhouse built after he lost his first Luna and his father to a brutal attack that diminished Shadow Storm’s numbers. That was almost thirty years ago now."

His words hung between us, heavy with unspoken history. The weight of past losses lingered in the air, a quiet but undeniable presence.

"I had no idea," I mumbled, absorbing the weight of what Paul had just shared.

"Not something that gets talked about a whole lot," he admitted. "Alpha Neil lost his mother in that house, and Alpha Henry decided not to force his son to grow up there."

It was further proof that Logan's adoptive father was a good man. He didn’t let his children suffer, refusing to bind them to the pain of the past.

"Sounds as though he thinks collectively of the pack as his children. And it was given to the lot of you?" I asked, glancing over at Paul as we continued walking.

He nodded, stepping over the uneven terrain that marked the entrance to the pack’s land. "Yeah, there’s somewhere upwards of five acres, including the area where the Howler packhouse is now. While we're still teenagers, it only made sense that we stay with our elders until we reach legal age. A vote was held, and we all agreed we would move in as we each turned eighteen. The nine of us chose the top floor as our living quarters, though." He smirked slightly, the memory clearly carrying some pride. "We created the pack, and Logan’s always seen us as equals rather than subordinates."

I listened, letting his words settle in. Their pack wasn’t just a hierarchy—it was built on trust, choice, and something stronger than duty alone.

"What about the house your mother gave your group?" I wondered out loud.

He scowled, frustration tightening his features. "Logan and I tried to change her mind, but my sister, Quartz, threatened to beat us to death. She told me that Mom didn't want to live in that house anymore. It reminded her of everything she lost once my dad died. It reminds us, too, but it hit Mom way harder."

The fading twilight painted the sky in deepening hues, slipping behind the trees as the last traces of sunlight surrendered to the encroaching night. The air cooled, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and pine, the promise of darkness stretching across the landscape. Distant howls echoed from beyond the pack’s borders, blending with the rustling of nocturnal creatures stirring in the underbrush.

I absorbed his words, understanding the depth of their grief. Logan’s father had done everything possible to shield his children from suffering, but some wounds ran too deep to avoid.

"That makes sense," I said as we continued walking, keeping my tone even. "She was his Mate, so her memories were more intimate. I can hardly see someone as strong as your mother being mentally able to face the pain of never having him hold her again for the rest of her life. It would eventually break her."

He stopped abruptly, tilting his head to the side as he considered my words. The silver glow of the rising moon barely touched his features, leaving his expression shadowed, unreadable. "You know, that's the most relatable explanation I've heard since she handed over the keys." His voice was quieter now, more introspective. "You're probably right, too. I mean, I know some pretty strong people who survived the worst the world had to offer, and I watched them nearly break. Logan was like that after Aunt Mari passed away."

The night settled around us, thick and weighty, an unspoken understanding lingering in the space between our words.

"You were there with him?"

"All eight of us were. We stuck by him regardless of what other people thought. It's why Mom took so much strength from his speech the night of the funeral. She was friends with Mariana, and so was my Dad."

I lowered my eyes to the ground, my thoughts heavy with the depth of what Paul had just revealed. The air had cooled, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine, the weight of the night pressing in around us. The distant hoot of an owl and the rustling of unseen creatures moving through the underbrush filled the space between words.

"Would it be too much trouble to ask things from your point of view?"

"Not at all." He let out a slow breath, his gaze drifting to the sky where the faintest traces of twilight had been swallowed by the moonless night. "I took my job as Logan's Beta seriously, even as a child. Jake and I were his first friends. We were the first kids who wanted to meet him when he got here. We'd never met a redheaded Werewolf before, so we were curious at first, but I noticed the things he tried to hide. I saw his fear, how his father forced him to stay quiet, the way he would move like he was trying to stay out of sight."

Paul’s voice softened slightly, edged with something unspoken. Something akin to guilt, maybe, or quiet regret for how long Logan had endured those things alone. A breeze stirred the trees overhead, a fleeting whisper of movement before the stillness settled again.

He took a breath, his posture shifting as if recalling something significant. "Maria was the third of our crew to meet him and the first girl to ever talk to him. When I told him my idea to make a pretend pack, it was his idea to put her in the Gamma position. We got mocked for it by the older kids, but she rocks the role."

The distant howl of a wolf echoed through the territory, carried on the crisp night air, mingling with the rustle of leaves as the wind skimmed across the treetops. The conversation hung between us, weighty with unspoken truths, settling like the darkness stretching endlessly across the land.

I bit back the cuss words I wanted to say as he described what life was like from an outsider's point of view for my cousins. I'd known Mariana to be a sweet girl with a penchant for cooking and the voice of an angel. Now she watched over her son from the Goddess’s Garden while he did what it took to survive.

So many times I’d watched her slip into my lab back in Mexico. Her movements were never fearful, never nervous as she would sit on a stool to quietly watch me with her grey-blue eyes that seemed to notice every nuanced action. No words passed between us, marking her silent curiosity as something else her child inherited from her.

Mariana had always embodied elegance, even in the most casual moments. As the daughter of a well-respected Werewolf family, she carried herself with effortless grace, adorned in the finest fabrics crafted for both beauty and practicality. During formal gatherings, she wore deep crimson and midnight blue dresses embroidered with intricate gold thread, the designs mirroring ancient symbols of strength and unity among our kind. When she moved, the silk and velvet of her attire whispered around her, complementing the quiet confidence she exuded. Even outside the high-class events, she favored tailored trousers and flowing blouses that allowed for swift movement—a subtle nod to both her lineage and her independence.

Her brilliant red hair was always immaculate, carefully arranged to reflect the occasion. Sometimes she wove it into thick, glossy braids, each strand interwoven with delicate gold clips or decorative pins gifted to her by her family. Other times, she let it flow freely, cascading in soft waves down her back, framing the sharp yet welcoming features that made her both striking and approachable.

My brothers had always adored her, drawn in by her quiet strength and sharp wit. She had a way of making even the most stubborn among us listen, though not by force—rather, by offering insights that none of us could ignore. I often caught my younger brothers hanging around the kitchens when she was cooking, pretending they had business elsewhere while sneaking bites of whatever she made. Mariana never called them out directly, but the amused glance she would shoot my way always confirmed that she knew exactly what was happening.

Her memory was vivid, threading itself through my thoughts like a whisper—soft but unshakable.