He arrived on a Monday.
I knew he was back before I saw him.
That was the thing I was least prepared for, the way my wolf registered his presence on Crimson Ridge territory like a change in atmospheric pressure, a shift so distinct and immediate that I stopped walking in the middle of the east corridor with an armful of folded towels and stood there for a full three seconds trying to understand what had just changed in the air around me.
Nothing visible had changed. The corridor was the same corridor. The towels were the same towels. The grey Monday morning light coming through the window at the far end was doing exactly what grey Monday morning light did in October in the mountains.
But something had shifted.
My wolf was standing at attention in my chest with all four feet planted an
